Before everyone flips out, yes Obama’s health care bill passed. That does not mean that the second coming of Christ nor the spawn of Satan has come for us in the form of a U.S. President. You know what it means? Some people get more health care, some people pay more money for it, and a lot of fucking people will still get screwed by the system. That’s the long and short of it.

Then again, maybe I’m being a bit short sighted in reining in my anger. Yelling at people I don’t even know does seem like a lot of fun (I do live in NY after all). If you yell at people on the street, at best you’re just asshole and at worst a drunken lunatic. Politics, on the other hand, is a socially acceptable conduit to channel all that rage (it’s delivered daily to your door in NYC).

What side to pick, though? Do I answer the call of 20-something’s nationwide whose idea of budgeting is buying either a 12 pack of condoms or a 12 pack of beer (getting fucked or getting fucked up, as it were), or do I ally myself with the greedy sons of bitches in the pocket of the health care industry? As with all my tough decisions, I weighed my pros and cons based on pure conjecture rather than reading up on the subject:

Pro: The greater populace is being educated in safe sex in order to keep unwanted pregnancies and the transmission of STD’s down.
Con: These “educational courses” are little more than plastering pictures of meatspin, 2 girls/1 cup, and lemon party across the net to drown out any last remaining sexual desires one might have.

Pro: We have a system to placate all the Commie liberals who complain about the tortured captives in Guantanamo
Con: After waiting 17 hours in an emergency room because you have a pipe through your forehead, waterboarding will feel like a day at Splish Splash.

Seeing red while going ‘rouge’

Pro: A focal point of the health care bill is the fight against the obesity epidemic, the single greatest health risk in America today.
Con: Since we’re now a Communist nation, the “plan” is working everyone to death on communes between starving them as they wait on bread lines.

Pro: Part of the bill constitutes “Operation Fire Extinguisher”, a multi-step reconstruction program that eliminates the “Ginger threat” once and for all, including such subtleties as tanning and dye jobs to courses in social diction that would make Henry Higgins look like a Jersey Shore reject.
Con: Medical science has not yet advanced to the point of giving redheads souls.

Pro: Speech therapy is included, which should help Lady Gaga pronounce her P’s without stuttering.
Con: Doesn’t cover dropping F-bombs like it was going out of style (bad news both for me and Joe Biden).

Pro: Full lobotomies for Glenn Beck fans (not that theres much to remove).
Con: There’s still no asshole-lectomy to get rid of Glenn Beck

Pro: I can now get a 10ft penis enhancement that makes the “wah-wah-wah-wah” noise like a Transformer. I shall name it Optimus Prime.
Con: Though more appropriate (as he transforms into a gun), Megatron was not one of the options

Pro: Tiger Woods can get the help he desperately deserves for his sex addiction.
Con: The the only cure for being rich, famous and the desire of women across the nation is crystal meth and lots of it (just ask Corey Haim) .

Pro: You can now see a medical specialist in the fields of linguistics, viruses, and and fitness medicine.
Con: The only physicians available are Dr. Seuss, Dr. Mario, and Dr. J.

Pro: Zombism is covered as a necrotic flesh eating disease and mental handicap. Also, as the recently undead have no tangible way of paying, there is no co-payment, but refraining from gnawing on your examiner’s noggin is a welcomed tip.
Con: This is the plot to every zombie movie ever. Since money is being diverted to cover health care from national defense, we’re all pretty much fucked.

The only thing that made us love basketball more than Skee-Lo in the 90′s, NBA Jam, is back. One aspect the game is fondly remembered for is the hidden characters that players can unlock. Here are the ones we’d like to see included in the latest edition:

JCVD. It’s long been our dream to see the master of the roundhouse playing roundball (we’d get a real kick out of it). The “muscles from Brussels” would power his way into the paint, where he’d command a Double Team (preferably without Dennis Rodman this time).

Obama. Sure, he can run the country, but let’s see him run a team. The noted hoops enthusiast would be the second President to appear on screen (Bill Clinton was in the original. He was a ball hog who would only make passes at a female partner.). Just like in office, he’ll force up long shots and somehow get them to go through. If the shot clock is about to expire, he’ll bail you out. To honor the Commander-in-Chief, the game’s popular catchphrase will be changed to “Boombarackalaka!”

Tiger Woods. His character will always cheat, but he’ll be nearly unstoppable at scoring. Oh my, he’s on fire…another herpes flare-up!

Jack Nicholson. We’re betting it’s on The Bucket List of the long-time and highly-visible Lakers fan to suit up alongside Kobe, in a pairing of pricks only possible in L.A. A dirty defender, Jack will hack opponents. Possibly with a hatchet, The Shining-style (red rim, red rim!)

Nicole “Snooki” Polizzi. Who better to don a jersey than a Jersey girl (she can’t be much worse than any of the Nets)? A trash (and trashed) talker, but reluctant to take shots — unless they contain alcohol.

She'll only go near the rim if it has salt on it.

Robert Downey Jr. He rebounds easily, gets a ton of second-chances and has superior stamina, as an Iron Man.

Michael Jackson. Forget Gary Payton, Jackson was the true glove. Basketball was child’s play to him (so was playing with children). Injuries are a probably, since he pulls his groin constantly. Good thing traveling isn’t called, because he tends to shuffle his feet. Moonwalkalka!

Dick Cheney. The former Vice President’s a deadly shooter, especially from close range. Can block balls as well as bills. He can, however, disappear for long stretches. He’s also on the slow side, so, just like when he was in office, you’ll have to keep your finger on the button — the turbo button.

Snoop Dogg. We’re not sure if he can light up a scoreboard as effortlessly as he can a joint, but we’ve got high hopes. Superb at stealing and gaining possession.

Eric Massa. Based on the Congressman’s history, we’re confident he can tickle the twine. Works well with Larry Craig, who has great footwork.

Conan O’Brien. He has a height advantage most late night show hosts can’t compete with (wherefore art thou, Craig Kilborn?) and if can slam a basketball half as well as he slammed NBC, he’ll be an asset. Just because it’s not time for a show doesn’t mean it can’t be showtime. Put him with Max Weinberg for maximum rimshots.

Ron Jeremy. A physical player, he’s eager to get inside and bang bodies. Plus, he can really stroke it.

John McCain and Sarah Palin. The catch is they’re only playable as Mavericks.

Jack Black. He looks out of shape, but boasts a reputation for playing Tenacious D (it’s actually partner Kyle who runs out of Gass).

It’s mid march, so you know what that means: Murder anyone named Caesar on the 15th, sweat your impending bankruptcy after your audit in a month, and question why green beer still comes out yellow on St. Patty’s Day. To get your mind off things, though, there’s always March Madness.

Of course, having gone to Wake Forest, this time of the year is also like the sweet death knell as the executioner’s axe falls swiftly overhead, the reaper’s cold embrace stretching over your shoulder as you pray for that precious release from this mortal coil. You know, we choke harder than Mama Cass wolfing down a ham sandwich.

My one consolation is building a bracket, where I still have hope that in this deserted wasteland of NCAA basketball glory I can find some small sliver of hope to hang on to. Pulling out the stops this year, I decided I need to do everything in my power to secure my good fortune and good picks, most notably:

Yesterday being St. Patty’s day, I managed to catch a leprechaun, not for it’s ability to grant wishes or pot of gold to invest in gambling, though. If you’re going to be up all night working on your bracket, you’re going to need some power food to snack on. Downside is that, much like Notre Dame in the Tournament, the Irish have a notorious habit of going through you in less than a day.

Cthulhu thinks this may be Kentucky’s year.

Poured over several H.P. Lovecraft tomes. I’m so lost without them, I’d be sacrificing goats and chickens to the wrong elder gods without their infinite knowledge.

Hooked up my two desktop computers to a Barbie doll and scanned in the latest Maxim magazines in an attempt to recreate Lisa from Weird Science. Unfortunately, she more closely resembled Tila Tequila and her vacuous nature was so powerful she created a black hole that disrupted the space-time continuum for a brief period of time.

Conducted a seance to call forth the spirit of Jimmy V for inspiration. The best advice I could get from him was “Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up”. Later on I realized he was only referring to trying to score with Erin Andrews from ESPN.

Hacked into NORAD in an attempt to use their supercomputers for crunching the best odds, but all it kept asking was “Would you like to play a game?”. Tic-Tac-Toe my ass.

Spent a week in Vegas to see how the bookmakers thought the games might fall. Wound up marrying an Elvis impersonator, a white tiger, and 2 strippers instead. Also ran into Zach Galifianakis who kept claiming he was “The Wolf Pack”, but NC State isn’t even seeded this year.

Saw a man down in Chinatown who claimed he had a chimpanzee who could predict college games. Disappointed to find all he did was fling poo at Wake Forest. That display will still be a prettier sight than their first round match up with Texas.

Created a Coach K voodoo doll pin cushion, burned several effigies of his likeness and danced around in chicken blood as I repeated his name backwards 7 times. I don’t believe it jinxes Duke in any way, but it does serve to release some stress over their absurdly soft region via the NCAA selection committee.

To honor the passing of Boner from Growing Pains (yes, characters had ridiculous names before reality shows existed), here’s a sampling of some of our most memorable mistakes:

We thought LinkedIn was a social networking site for The Legend of Zelda lovers* (Nintend’oh!).

*In an attempt to fill this void, we’re developing Hyrule Hook Ups.

We apologize for redirecting all queries on Wikipedia to Bo Jackson’s email address. Turns out Bo doesn’t know everything (he got stumped on the difference between stalactites and stalagmites).

We thought The Hurt Locker was a documentary on grade school bullying (The Blind Side doesn’t discuss driver’s ed and Inglorious Basterds didn’t chronicle the last Bush cabinet).

We tried to increase our leaping ability by drinking Vault (swigging Sprite similarly failed to turn us into pixies and Slice didn’t improve our topspin shot in either tennis or golf — no wonder they took it off the market).

We were confident starting porn websites for the undead would be lucrative, especially Mummies Unwrapped, Zomboners, and Vamp Tramps (for $29.99 a month, they’ll suck more than just your blood).

We misunderstood global warming as a party you throw when a new planet moves into your neighborhood (of course Sno-Caps are melting — they’re made of chocolate).

We should’ve copyrighted our sci-fi/comedy script, Sauna Teleportation Device, and its sequel, Shower Stall Wormhole (starring Joan Cusack and Nate Corddry). We made the same error a few years ago with Buddy, What Happened to Your Bike?

If you can't get enough of pepperoni and Pepperdine, you have March Madness.

We’re sorry for suggesting Star Wars continue to outwhore itself by partnering with General Mills to create the breakfast cereals Jedi Mind Trix and C3PO’s (and forget our plans for the fattening smoothie chain, Jabba Juice, and Chewbacco — Chewbacca chewing tobacco).

We believed the best way to speculate successfully was to wear two pairs of jeans: Lucky + Guess (no Lee-way allowed).

We thought March Madness was a mental illness that caused the infected person to watch basketball games between schools they’ve never heard of in states they’ve never visited (or intend to) for hours on end. Now we also know the disease forces the sick to order enough pizza to feed an entire Central American nation for three months* (a Panama-normous pie) or Rush Limbaugh for a few hours if he makes good on his vow to move to Costa Rica. This begs the question: Would Pizza Hut deliver to actual huts?

*Note: Those afflicted with March Madness don’t care about these countries. They’re too busy watching Wake Forest to give a damn about the rain forest.

We were wrong for shouting when schoolkids on field trips  walked by the woolly mammoth exhibit at the Museum of Natural History, “That’s what you get when you doesn’t pay up, Snuffleupagus!” And for telling them Big Bird is the illegitimate, estranged son of Larry Bird (why do you think he’s so tall?).

When Fox aired Andy Richter Controls the Universe, we took the title to be true. Until that show was canceled. And the next half-dozen or so also featuring him (Andy works in mysterious ways — and sporadically).

We believed our lives to be pathetic and meaningless* until we learned that Ryan Seacrest has a stalker (he’s male, naturally).

*And don’t doubt for a minute that they aren’t. We spent last Saturday night scarfing down sliders while watching a marathon of Sliders, then practiced the slide whistle for two hours. Besides, with our busy schedule (see: previous sentence), we only have time to stalk one Hollywood news show host (Mary Hart, you have our heart).

When director Kevin Smith was kicked off a flight due to his obesity, we were certain he was creating a new character, Silent Blob (is he working on Chubby Chasing Amy ?).

We expected, when our college girlfriend asked us if we wanted cake for our birthday, a baked good with icing. Instead, we got a burned cd with a guy talking over trumpets (we were even more disappointed when we learned what she meant by “going the distance”).

Mea culpa, for pitching a white trash version of Voltron set in a mobile home park, where the robot would do battle with debt collectors, meth addicts and packs of rabid possums. “Trailertron” would’ve been voiced by none other than Kid Rock himself.

Reader, this is a memorable day. I’ve finally done it. I’ve attained Kriss Kross status. Let me explain: I’m a Mac daddy. No, I haven’t sired a scrappy young pugilist who will one day challenge Mike Tyson in the ring. Let me explain further: I now own a computer synonymous with a certain fruit, after my hard drive crashed faster than Tiger Woods leaving his house. Also, like Tiger, I neglected to backup properly. Then why the “daddy” title, you ask? Ease up with the questions, Morley Safer. For starters, it cost as much as a child, its small and portable, and it came from China, where many people go to get a little bundle of sweet and sour baby these days (available in pint and quart sizes). The way I understand it, the unwanted tots are just stacked all along the Great Wall and Americans are welcome to stuff as many as they’d like into their fanny packs and you pay for them at customs when you leave the country (girls are buy one, get one free). Now that’s what I call a Wailing Wall (eat it, Jerusalem)!

Kriss Kross had no trouble turning their clothes around. Their careers? That's another story.

Sadly, I wasn’t inspired enough by the Winter Olympics to do this with my old laptop. Heck, I’m still so upset about the hockey loss that I’m boycotting maple syrup, Canadian bacon and Molson. Breakfast has been ruined for me. Still, the thought of turning my Toshiba into a snowshiba is tempting.

So, how can I justify owning a product by a company that I’ve made fun of numerous times on this site? I had no say in the matter, really. You see, I’m married. My wife, who loves Macs to the point she should be classified as a “manimac,” suggested we purchase one. I sternly said “No.” While I was putting my foot down, she was whipping the credit card out. One week later, I was Shanghaied. Secondly, you learn a lot when you run a website, like that you can’t compete with porn and no one wants to buy your mint-condition back issues of Ranger Rick. I’ve also discovered you always mock the ones you love the most. And vice-versa. (Oh, and I’m a raging hypocrite).

What does that mean? We ridicule our reality. It means I wish Hammer  never stopped dancing, that I take my cue from Tiger and use Gatorade as an aphrodisiac. It means Will has molded a 10-foot-tall statue of Jean Claude Van Damme out of gelatin, which he displays in his living room (he calls it “Jello Claude”). It means I have a Strawberry Shortcake ankle tattoo.It means this post is as random as Ellen Page being the spokesperson for Cisco (honest to blog, she is).

With my theory from two paragraphs ago in mind, there’s something I need to say. It comes from the mouth of a man much older, wiser and fictitious than I. Will, you’re dumb as a mule and twice as ugly. If a strange man offers you a ride, I say take it.

And once again, The Simpsons bails me out when I can’t think of a conclusion. I thought Macs were supposed to make you more creative (maybe more creative with your budget after you blow your savings on one…hmm…instead of turning on the heat I could start a tire fire in the living room as soon as a swipe some tires from my neighbors. Thanks, Mac-enhanced brain!). Where’s that receipt and my bus pass? I’m headed to Chinatown to see if I can exchange this for a knockoff “Mackbuk,” a couple bootleg DVDs and 700 egg rolls.

After the recent 8.8 earthquake hit Chili on Saturday, leader of the 700 club Pat Robertson is the one left shaken, baffled at how God can allow such misery to happen. “I just don’t understand”, the televangelist said. “I believe in a just and righteous Lord to strike down the wicked. I just got through blaming the Haitians for their earthquake and now THIS happens to me. Who’s left to attack at a time like this!? This just isn’t fair.”

The real victim here is Pat Robertson.

“We might need to come up with some new ones. How about Eskimos? Those blubber chewing igloo jockeys have been on easy street for too long.”

Robertson is no stranger to pointing fingers, claiming that 9/11 was because of the abortionists, Katrina the gays and lesbians, and Haitians, he discerned, caused their own misfortune by “being born in Haiti”.

We asked if, as crazy as it sounds, that maybe bad things happen to good people, but the notion was quickly scoffed at. “It’s pretty straightforward. If something bad happens to you, then you must have really deserved it. I’m an old, hateful son of a bitch, but you don’t see anything bad happening to me.”

When asked about his prostate cancer surgery, he deflected. “I let a homosexual doctor put his finger in my rectum. Of course God would punish me. If I never went for that appointment, I would never have received the news I had prostate cancer!”.

Still, Robertson was left grasping at straws for liberal groups to toss under the bus after the most recent tragedy. “It’s at times like these where I turn to the Bible for inspiration. I find comfort that my faith will guide me to an obscure passage I can misinterpret. It’s my blind hatred that gets me through this”, he says.

“How about the Jews? No, we blamed them for the economy last year. The Blacks, of course, stole the White House and every single one of a billion Muslims in the world are just waiting to blow us up, biding their time. The Chileans ARE Hispanic, though, so that’s a good start right there.”

A Telethon is scheduled for later this week with all proceeds going to fund Robertson’s batshit crazy predictions.