A little march madness

How do you spell upset? B-U-F-F-A-L-O. Second only to New York City in population, the Don Swayze of the Empire State, if you will. Like a stampeding herd of sun-stroked large prairie mammals, this blue collar town ran rough shot over the hopes and dreams of a couple NCAA teams and their faithfuls. for the first two rounds of the tournament, this city had the nation’s attention. A truly American traditional, American as apple pie, capitalism and offshore outsourcing. The Road to the Final Four had a pit stop in Buffalo, New York, where four plucky Canadians were on hand to witness two heart-pounding second round matches. Feel the madness, be the madness.

On the morn of March 17, under a light dust of snow, four groggy Spartans set out to war. Did someone say 24 hour roadtrip?! Each warrior kissed their kin and left the comforts of home to embark towards the battlefield. Mind you, the battlefield was exotic downtown Buffalo, and the foursome will only act as observers and the maximum energy exertion would consist of fighting off other urinal users during halftime. But make no mistake blood will be shed and lives are at stake.

With courage in our hearts, Tim Horton’s in our guts, and passports on our persons, the party of four rolled out onto to 401 (the King’s Highway) on a collision course with Buffalo (the Queen City). As if it was written in the stars, it seems Destiny had Google-mapped this course. Time of impact, 2:30 pm. Two hours before the first tip-off, enough time to acquaint ourselves with our surroundings, find the seats we paid for, and subsequently find better available seats that we can squat and occupy. Unrelenting in our determination, we ebbed closer and closer, battling a late blast from Old Man Winter. Not even the siren call of an outlet mall en route could divert us from our path.

Once the destination was reached, the electricity in the air was palatable. Our chariot was filled with the giddy laughter not unlike that of high-school girls. Today, Mecca was the HSBC Center, home of the Buffalo Sabres. I had always considered myself a sports fans, and an even greater basketball fan. But our American counterparts put us to shame. Like everything else in the U.S. of A., they go big. Man, woman, child, nanna, all of them breathed college hoops. This love affair was a family heirloom passed between the generations. This was proven by the three generations of Pittsburgh fans cheering in front of us. Grandmother, mother and child. The entire clan was dressed in their full war attire, replete with ‘Pitt’ sweater, hats, scarves and foam fingers.

When the dust clouds settled, we finally finagled our seats (after being politely asked twice to vacate our current position by the rightful owners). Game one of the double-header involved (No.4) Maryland vs. (No.5) Butler. A close affair, the two teams were neck and neck throughout the game. The Butler Bulldogs eeked out a 62 - 59 victory over the Maryland Terrapins. A mild upset in the tournament, but a big win for such a small school. You got to love seeing the little guys come out on top. Good game, a perfect prelude for the main event. Today our bladders will be tested.

This was the second day of the 64 team tournament, and thus far only one major upset occurred. VCU ranked 11 beat Number 6 Duke. For college hoop fans, there’s 2 camps…you either love or hate Duke. We all fall into the latter category. And everyone loves an underdog. We were here to witness VCU try to extend its Cinderella story against Pittsburgh. Us, players in this modern athletic storybook tale. Rams versus Panthers. After a brief intermission, the game we drove 7 hours for was set to commence. Luckily we were in the predominant VCU section, but unfortunately Pitt took an early lead and held it for a majority of the game. The faithfuls were losing faith, so four foreigners from up north had to rally the forces. We clapped, we cheered, we hissed at the refs, one of us took a cat-nap in anticipation for the post-game drive home — we use everything in our fan arsenal. Although we can’t take all the credit, with 10 minutes left in the game, the Rams seem rejuvenated by our enthusiasm and mounted a counter attack. They fought back from a 19-point deficit, a ungodly sum of points. Their comeback culminated into a tied game! Holy. Shit. Ladies and gentlemen, we have overtime. Overtime games during March Madness, are akin to an albino baby Koala bear — rare, to be pulled close to the heart and cherished forever.

We high-fived and hug complete strangers, but the warm-fuzzies didn’t last long. Quickly into the overtime, Pittsburgh regained the lead, and the kids of VCU ran out of steam. Panthers 84 – Rams 79, make it a final. There were tears abound, from players, band members and fans alike. I am man enough to admit that my lower lip did a quiver or two. Those scrappy kids from Virginia Commonwealth did themselves proud and in the process gained four big kids from Canada as lifelong fans. You will always have a special place in our hearts.

Battle-weary, hungry and little heart-broken, we started our trip home. Total travel time was 14 hours for 6 heart pounding hours of vitality. Say what you will about our American cousins, but they sure know how to throw a party. In regards of a billion dollar industry in the guise of amateur athletics, no one does it better. No one.

I know every suspect spouts out endlessly of their innocence whenever they are accused of a crime, but it wasn’t my fault! Not directly anyways, let it be know that I subscribe to neither the spiritual or the literal interpretation of the law. I got a very good defence, Johnnie Cochrane-like even, may God rest his soul.

We are creatures of habit, and I am no different. Between 9:30 - 10:30 am, I need to clear my bowels. There, it’s out there. I’m not shy about it. It’s pretty much the only thing you can count on, I’m quite proud of this routine. It says, I exercise proper bodily functions. I care for my intestinal health. Rarely, am I cranky due to constipation. It’s true.

Today, that pride, that routine was shattered by an evil-doer. As always, accompanied by my trusty wad of newspaper, I went about my business. Upon arrival I noticed a yellowish shine within the bowl, and visual confirmation of turd was made. This sadly, was not a shocker, evidently I work with circus animals masquerading as bureaucrats. If I had a penny for every time I had to pre-flush the bowl before I begin my process, I can build my own personal lavatory right in my cubicle. Not the most pleasant of events to experience this early in the morning, but I have resolved it to the fact this was due to the Public Service’s low hiring standards. In a perfect world, the interview process could include the following scenario:

“Well, everything looks great, you have the experience and your references are stellar. I think you are perfect for this role. Let me just take a quick look at the personal hygiene questionnaire you filled out when you applied for this position. Okay, uh-huh…yep…yeah this looks great…Oh fuck, wait. You answered that you never flush the toilet after a shit. Ummm..yeah that’s nasty. I’m sorry but, we can not offer you the position of VP of Marketing. GET OUT! GET OUTTA HERE YOU ANIMAL!!”

Alas, our world is far from perfect and atrocities like these are common place in the public sector. So like any other day, when I see turd in bowl. I don’t cry or lament how the world has done me wrong. I just use my left foot to flush the offensive matter. But today, the water moved in a irregular way, it started rising, taking turd and whatever else with it. As soon as it neared the rim of the bowl, I bolted. Cowardly? maybe but I panicked. Sue me. I glanced quickly back and the floor was flooded. Damn it! But, here is the kicker. When I entered, there was this ass-captain quickly drying his hands and he shot me an odd look. Only later did I deduced that it was a look of guilt mingled with shame. He reaked of it. He was the culprit. But get this, as I made my mad dash to higher ground, I almost knocked down another guy as he was coming in. I know for a fact that he blamed me for this fiasco. Me! the victim. Double crap. How’s that for injustice. Did he recognize me? Will he? Am I subject to whispered gossip of, “Oh man, there’s that guy I told you guys about. The guy that flooded the bathroom with his turds.” But you know what? I know the truth. And his judging eyes won’t change that.

Finally the second instalment of the critically ignored, rarely viewed graphic narrative that has gripped the comedic heartbeat of Latin America. Join us today, as we follow the mundane happenings of Señor Barry y Señor Bowler. Two zany gángsteres corporativos just trying to do work.

Please note: Currently only available in gringo-speak.

It has been 36 minutes since a gauntlet was thrown, and a challenge was accepted. Those with a supernatural fear of fish-borne intestinal maladies watched with anticipated glee. What idiotic gall, what disregard for basic health they cried. Surely man, you must be mad in the head. Back down, back down now, they pleaded. A price will be paid by this defiant gastronomical act of gumption.

A meal has turned into sport. Noon hour bravado that the lunchroom regulars hasn’t seen since last week meatloaf surprise. A lunchtime respite from a typical boorish finale of the public servant work week.

Ring. The. Bell.

These two combatants has squared off multiple times before. Both has shaken off the remnants of previous victories and losses. As soon as the sun dawned at 6:27 in the AM, today became and remained a new day. Playing the part of MAN, is a charming 31 year old male immigrant. Tuna fish salad sandwich will once again don the sash of FISH. (Odd Note: ‘Tuna fish’ is quite redundant as a description and or category. They are currently no known occurrences of Tuna beef, or Tuna chicken. May be region specific term.)

Here’s the back story for both sides, which may or may not influence the outcome.

Man: As noted above, 31 year old gentleman of known origin. Subject garnered years of superlative ingestion and digestion of a cornucopia of international foodstuffs. Coinciding with eating prowess is a periodically debilitating irritation of the lower bowels. Also referred to an acute upset tummy or ache of the ass (due in large part to refugee-like devotion to saving money and complete disdain of food wastage).

Fish: Week old dolphin-safe Tuna salad sandwich, made with a generous dollop of generic mayonnaise, chopped green onions, julienned carrots, a sprinkling of secret homemade concoction of spices finally sealed by two toasted multi grain slices of whole wheat. Noted to be delicious when first made and tasted. Stored in a container in a fridge with the exact temperature setting of ‘cold’.

No medical professionals were in attendance.

The confrontation started out without much fanfare. But a small crowd began to form and yells of support hurled toward both combatants. Man’s initial exuberance was slightly speedbumped by a grainy memory of a weekend marathon dumping session, loosely attributed to Man vs. Fish XII - Sushi Slaughters Man. With a metaphoric brush of the shoulders, the battle raged from this point. Emotionless, calculating as always, Fish sits and waits. Waiting for the fight to brought to its doorstep.

Fish baits man. Man bites. And bites again, and again.

A collective gasp followed by anxious silence. Dry, dead silence. All eyes on Man, searching for signs of the beast. Watery eyes, profuse sweating, uncontrolled bleeding from various orifices. The front line soldiers for the army of Diarrhea were held at bay. For those who came to the spectacle envisioning a display of bodily spasms and convulsions were sent home disappointed. As soon as it began, so it was done. Ten minutes has lapsed since the final morsel was masticated and swallowed, and still no signs of pain and Man maintains up right posture. There were no mad scrambles for nearest available lavatory or any potential excrement containing devices.

Today, Man triumphs over Fish, and his bacterial cohorts. This outcome sends a shock wave of fear for all inhabitants of cold storage. Your days are numbered. Toady, Man looked into a the beady eyes of the somewhat questionable edible, and with a quick sniff, boldly stated, “I will eat you today. I will risk a weekend of projectile vomiting to avoid wasting food.”

For another day, all is right in the world.

D: Dude, what are you doing here? Your illustration talents are wasted in this joint.

G: Hey, man this gig pays the bills. Pays it real well.

D: I know, I know. But I can feel my creative soul being slowly smothered by the ass of monotony.

G: Haha. It’s funny cause it’s true. Ha…ha…he…whimper.

D: We should do something like a online zine or something.

G: For sure. Let’s do this.

D: Guy, let’s meet after work and get this mother off the ground.

6 months later. 6 agonizing months later.

D: Ok, dude. Let’s finally get going on this web comic idea. We need to channel our creative ninja skillus before they dry up and fall off. You in still?

G: Yeah man.

D: Nice. I sketched out some rough scripts for a few strips. Pick one and do your magic.

G: Haha, these are not bad just ‘Leave it with me…‘