It is, as my friend Michael suggests, “plot gravy.”  With lumps, no less.  I could string a further series of cliches together and still not clarify the situation.  Murkiness prevails.  It practically rules.

There are so many mystery ingredients in the mix that it goes way beyond pot luck.  I’m dealing with master manipulators here.  There is no immediate respite, although the goose is almost cooked.

Till then, it simmers – bubbling slowly on life’s stove, threatening to explode.

Tuber or not tuber, that is the question.
The answer: I yam what I yam, and no, I am NOT a sweet potato!
Sorry folks, this is the result of one too many late night at work. The giddiness is setting in and absconding with my weary synapses.
My kingdom for a neurotransmitter!

My misplaced faith in Georgetown caused my bracket to be hosed like a skunked dog….

…AND I picked Kentucky to win it all.  Ah, the ficklness of the single elimination format.  The bookies in Vegas will long sing the praises of the NAACA.  Words to live by for everyone else: “Delusions R Us.” 

The only saving grace was that no one in my office pool chose Duke as national champion.  We were all completely mystified @ the final four. I got to lord it over the Jayhawk-loving, Kansas backing contingent for exactly one week.

On a positive note, I was pleased to see Cornell (my step sis’ alma mater) make it past the opening round.  It was fun to see the Ivy league represented among all of the, ahem, less scholastically inclined intsitutions of higher education.

In the end, Cinderella skipped the ball, because her gown was too expensive and didn’t fit.  She’ll have to grow a few inches or save enough dough to hire a better tailor.

Had Butler won, or better yet, St. Mary’s, this might have been the craziest March of all.