This has nothing to do with fantasy sports this week, actually. It’s just a bunch of stuff.

Why? Because I don’t feeling like writing a column with a beginning, middle, or end this week, that’s why. My fingers are just too tired and chapped from dialing 1-866-IDOL-01 to vote for Clay – not because I necessarily think he’s the best singer, mind you, but because I want to see those Clay closeups when he mouths the words "thank you…thank you" while fluttering his eyelids, which simply makes me melt…or want to kick in my TV. I’m always confusing the two.

So instead, I will simply list the disconnected mental flotsam and jetsam that has accrued inside my crank-addled brainpan over these past few weeks of watching way too much television, most of it sports, a lot of it stupid, and all of it time I’ll want back on my deathbed.

Caught some of the Celtics-Wizards game last night. God, I hate NBA – nonstop dunking and missed 3-pointer action, it’s faaaaaaaaan-tastic! – although it was entertaining to watch Kwame Brown running around the court sporting the "mutant offspring of Macy Gray and Sideshow Bob" hairdo.

Something was gnawing away at me while watching one of Missouri’s NCAA tournament games. It was a starving rat. But right after that, something else started gnawing away at me: Mizzou head coach Quinn Snyder reminds me of someone…someone with late-80’s hair…bulging eyes…no, it couldn’t be?!…..good God, it’s true!! QUINN SNYDER IS THE SPITTING IMAGE OF ANDREW MCCARTHY!!!

This wasn’t on TV, and has nothing to do with sports, but it bears mentioning: want to know the most surefire way to tell whether someone is definitely a sub-developed, lobotomized mongoloid? Simple: If they laugh at that Fandango.com movie-opener where the guy takes the other guy's parking spot and hilarity ensues…well then, they definitely are. And hey, I know how we can connect this to sports: systematically hunting these people down and giving them lethal injections so they can’t mate and create more mongoloids with zero sense of humor that laugh at the Fandango.com movie-opener – that should be a sport.

Speaking of movie-openers: Has Craig Kilborn – whose Coke movie-opener is approaching Fandango "if you think it’s funny you should be euthanized" status – reached the point where he doesn’t even know whether he’s being sarcastic anymore? I mean, does he try to, say, order a steak at a restaurant and then suffer raging internal anguish because he’s not sure whether or not he really wants a steak, or was just ironically making fun of himself ordering a steak? Being him must be a living hell. That, and he’s clearly bulemic.

Raise your hand if you want to pitch a little woo with the sexiest Augusta National protester around, Martha Burke. Me too, my sick friend, me too.

Mike Tyson is just on the cusp of the "redemption" period of his career, and don’t be shocked if the predictable American public actually starts rooting for him soon. Oh, and I want his next fight to be against Colin Farrell, during which Tyson savagely beats the "cocky actor wearing ski hats indoors and smoking during Katie Couric interviews" right out of that kid. Hell of an actor, though. And you should definitely see Phone Booth. It’s the best movie about a guy stuck in a phone booth ever.

Can someone just tell me when Michael Jordan is retired already? Really. I just don’t feel like watching anymore.

The Florida Panthers recently won the #1 overall pick in the recent NHL draft lottery. In related news, billions upon billions upon billions of people all over the world are presently going on with their lives without giving one, single millisecond of thought to the Florida Panthers or the NHL draft.

So Emmitt Smith is now an Arizona Cardinal. Anyone else having those "Willie Mays stumbling around in a Mets uniform" flashbacks all of a sudden? See the sad, old Mets' Willie there on the left? His back broke when he took that swing and missed a 73 m.p.h. fastball.

Someday, inside WNBA locker rooms all over the country, there are going to be some serious postgame showertime brawls over who gets to date Tennessee guard Britney Jackson. Hell, they’ll probably use the poor kid as currency.

Does John Olerud’s head end where his nifty fielding helmet begins?

(Insert requisite "no one in America watches Major League Soccer" joke here.)

Sorry to say it, but Boston Red Sox fans being "knowledgeable" is a bit of a myth. In the span of about 30 seconds while watching a recent 13-6 loss, I saw: a) one meathead throw a full bag of peanuts at Orioles RF Jay Gibbons; b) the fans go absolutely ballistic on the Orioles pitcher when the guy lobbed a 60 m.p.h. curve that barely grazed Manny’s helmet; and c) some ass yelling the following joke you just know he had in his arsenal for weeks, just waiting for when B.J Surhoff came to bat, and here it is...get ready, 'cause it's really funny – "Hey B.J, you evah give any BJ’s?!?!" Whoahhhhhh. High comedy there, Sully or Murph or whatever your name is! Look, some Red Sox fans are, but most Red Sox fans aren’t very knowledgeable. They’re unfunny, chowderheads. And they're drunk. And sadly, I’m one of them.

Speaking of Boston sports – and this’ll be an inside joke if you don’t watch local sports talk shows, so just shut up and move here already – is it just me or does WEEI/FSNE's Greg Dickerson actually wear layers and layers of rouge and mascara? Add a couple hundred pounds, ship him off to Baltimore, and the guy could star in a John Waters film.

My favorite thing about watching the Women’s NCAA tournament coverage? ESPN analyst Stacey Dales-Schuman. My least favorite? Not being to restrain myself from undressing Pat Summit with my eyes.

The NBA just blows. Did I say that already? Damn. I'm losing it.

Okay, that's a sure sign that it's time to wrap it up. I'm all cranky. I have nothing else on my mind. I'm resorting to just saying the NBA blows and calling it a day. Maybe I'm losing my passion for silly sports jokes? Maybe I've hit the proverbial rookie wall? Maybe I have scurvey? In any case, I just don't have anything left to write for this issue. If you have any thoughts or ideas, or can save me from writing another column like this one, let me know at editor@thesportsrag.com. Clearly I need the help.