Billion Dollar Bracket

I shopped online this morning.  Looked at watches, cars, and vacation properties.  One Billon Dollars!  That’s what I stand to win should (should?  no, when)  I fill out the perfect NCAA March Madness Bracket.  That’s how much of Warren Buffet’s money is going to go from his account into mine.  So that by this time next month I’ll have One Billion two hundred and fifty six dollars in my bank account, and a contract on a new condo in Miami.  Taxes will eat up some winnings, of course, but that’s okay.  I can survive on half a Billion Dollars so long as the government puts my hard-won money to good use, which they most certainly will because now I’m an optimist (one Billions Dollars will do that to a man).

Like Madonna, I’m going to sleep on this.  Right before going to bed I’m going to study the bracket and have it mostly memorized.  I’m going to keep it on the nightstand with a pen, click off the lamp, and, again like Madonna, sleep in the nude (this simplifies the act of sex, the odds of which are about the same as winning).

But I’m an optimist now, remember, so yeah, after a wicked lay the winners will come to me a dream.   (By wicked I’m talking sixty, no, fifty seconds of sweet sweet love, and fifty, no, forty seconds later of even sweeter dreams.)  The clouds will part and the angels will sing.  Moses will come forth, and instead of the Ten Commandments he’ll be carrying the perfect bracket.  Hallelujah and Amen!

That’s right, bitches, I’m gonna be rich, and I’m not going to be no asshole, neither.  Hell no.  I’m gonna be one the nice rich guys with an easy-going attitude, and not no big shot with one hundred dollar tips for the bell hop or barber just to prove how rich I am and how rich they aren’t.  No, I’m going to be graceful, and donate anonymously to worthy organizations like The Bunny Ranch, The Meth Institute of America, and Rock-‘N-Roll University!  What?  There isn’t a RockU?  Well, there’s going to be when yours truly has one Billion Dollars, or about half after taxes.  Our mascot is going to be Gene Simmons of KISS, in full regalia.  Instead of basketball we’ll have competitions to see who can roll the meanest and fattest doobies.  Ten years from now the brackets won’t be about basketball but about beer bongs, with the number one seed being from where else but RockU.  We’ll sanction extreme sports and our students will major in Fun, with a minor in sex ed!  Boom!  Instead of the geek dorm or the athlete’s dorm we’ll have the Kush dorm and the naked dorm.  We’ll have awards for those with the worst attendance, the most pathetic grades, and in another five or ten years we’ll see those individuals in the White House and congress.  Another boom!  Wanna come?  Sure you do.  Just take that stick out of your ass and let’s start the paperwork.  Tuition is free, ’cause I’m stinking rich.  And if you’re thinking abut going all Twenty-One Jumpstreet on my ass and coming undercover, bring it.  You think the law can keep down a Billionaire?  Pah!  You don’t America.

Okay.  Let’s see.  Number 1 Florida vs. number 16 ALBY?  Jesus, how simple.  Suck it, Moses.  Who needs ya?

All right.  Number 8 Colo vs. number 9 Pitt.  Shit.  Okay.  Maybe I’ll sleep on this one. That thing I said about sucking it, Moses?  Please disregard, because remember: I ain’t gonna be no asshole Billionaire with one hundred dollar tips or making it rain all up in the club, no sir.

So, number 5 VCU vs. number 12 SFA.  Ha.  Easy.  That’s right, suck it Moses, I’m gonna be a freaking Billionaire.   

Naked Men

Okay.  I just looked at myself in the mirror, and I’m not that far gone … yet!  I was standing there naked, my hair wet (at both ends, boom!) because I had just stepped out of the shower.  Pecs aren’t bad, gut’s not offensive, and I’m relatively well proportioned (wink wink).

So why am I not comfortable being naked?

I went to the YMCA today in Boise, Idaho.  Did a little cardio and lifted some weights.  All of which was great.

The downtown Y here is well equipped, happy people coming and going.  But there’s an entire other world inside the men’s locker room.

A naked world.

Of naked men.

And it’s not a pretty sight.

Recently, I read an article on the benefits of a dry sauna (it’s good for you skin and liver, among other things), and it just so happens that the Boise Y has one inside of the men’s locker room.  So what the hell, right, why not give it a try?

I stripped down to my shorts, grabbed a towel, and entered.

Four elderly men were sitting there naked.  Two with their legs spread unnaturally wide.  One guy had his knees hiked up to his chin.  Another was sitting crisscross apple sauce, and what was I supposed to do?  Turn around and leave?  I certainly should have, but damn if those health benefits didn’t sound appealing.

I sat as far away from the spectacle as space allowed.

Naked men came and went, one after another, young and old, and I’m telling myself not to look.  For the love of God, don’t do it.  But then boom, there’s a thin and shriveled penis sauntering in without a care in the world.  And I ask myself why?  Why doesn’t he have any shame or sense of decency?  Am I the only modest man left in this world?

They wanted to know how I was doing, and I hadn’t the nerve to tell them that I was doing poorly, uncomfortable having a conversation with a man whose hairy, limp penis is resting between his pasty, meaty thighs on the sweaty wooden bench.

“So, how about them Boise State Broncos?  That was quite the game the other night.”

“How about putting some shorts on?  Or covering yourself with a towel?  At the very least, how about hacking some of the rain forest away, I mean Jesus, just look at that mess.”

I didn’t say that, of course.  Simply agreed that the Broncos might have a good team this year as hairy penises and even hairier balls paraded before me.

There’s a market out there for manscaping, and perhaps I should get on the cutting edge, so to speak.  Not the grooming, per say, as I hardly groom myself; perhaps own a shop, employ attractive women with sharp blades, write a jingle to stir up business.  Bieber cut or shiny, clean cut man or slimy, come on in, we’ll try not to grin, even if you’re tiny.   No good?  How about this:  We don’t care if you got the drip, come on in and we’ll give you a clip.  Still no good?  Okay, here: Standing tall or feeling limp, girl’s don’t want no hairy chimp!  Now get your ass in here, and we’ll shave your balls!

And we’ll have coupons, two for the price of one.

You don’t like the blades, we’ll give you wax!  You don’t like the wax, we’ll give you the laser.  You don’t like to sag, we’ll give you a lift.  You’re balls are too small for the sac, we’ll give you replacements.  A ball job, kind of like a boob job, only sexier.

Imagine the locker room conversations then, everyone so clipped up and neat, sophisticated, uptight scrotums.  Instead of underbrush, we’d have fashion statements, our initials shaved above our genitals so that our loved ones won’t forget our names, not that they would be able to say our names at the time … am I right, or am I right?

At Junk Clips Unlimited ,our mission is to make the world a better place, one dick at at time.