March Madness is nearing its end, and regardless of whether or not your team makes the grade, we can all appreciate labeling a month with an epithet of insanity. In fact, your Mountain Times staff is sad to see it go. That’s why we’re offering alternative months for alternative sports. Here are some of our favorites.

Frank Ruggiero: Pro Thunderball

In the late 1990s, Comedy Central offered some of the funniest programming known to mankind on the cusp of the 21st century. It was the dawn of The Daily Show, the era of Dr. Katz: Professional Therapist, and the chance to Win Ben Stein’s Money. It was also time to join the Upright Citizens Brigade.

Pro Thunderball is a full-on contact sport, incorporating vicious hounds and the forbidden Gun Circle for the sake of captivating competition.

Based on the comedy of New York improve troupe, the Upright Citizens Brigade, this particular program was sketch comedy at its most bizarre, all episodes linked together with a subtle, or sometimes not so much, thread, but all hysterically clever and sharply satirical. Each of the program’s three seasons would culminate in a finale based on a running joke from throughout that particular season. The third and final finale was an episode on Pro Thunderball, considered “both an improvement on baseball and a new sport to lead us into a new century.”

The rules, as according to the UCB, are as follows:

The stadium walls are brought in closer to allow for more home runs, which are worth two points, and the outfield is five feet lower than the infield. Instead of one ball, there are three balls in play, all in constant motion. Located throughout the infield are nine multi-shaped targets with varying point values, and baserunners, who are allowed and encouraged to keep their bat, can attempt to throw the bat at the targets as they run.

Defenders are allowed to tackle the runners, but since runners keep their bats, defenders must exercise proper precaution or brute force. It’s also worth noting that Thunderball players wear full pads and helmets. The batter may choose to take six strikes instead of three, but this allows the pitcher one free throw at the batter, and a hit from which does not count as a free walk. All the while, players must beware of Honeys and Hounds, scantily clad women and vicious dogs, respectively, who are allowed to roam the field freely. And then there’s the Thunderball car, typically a Honda Accord that drives anywhere on the field throughout play, and players are allowed to use the car for defense or offense.

Each team’s pitcher is also allowed to throw three ceramic baseballs a game, whenever he so chooses. And last but not least, there’s the Gun Circle, a clearly marked circle behind second base containing a loaded handgun, which players are forbidden to use. To quote Gun Circle engineer James Ramsey, “I’ve always said it’s better to have a gun in the outfield than under a mattress where a child can get to it.”

Steve Behr: Gilbert Gottfried Alarm Clock Madness

I was told to think up a new sport since March Madness is coming to a close — in April.

Gilbert Gottfried wants YOU. Probably for something loud and ear-grating.

Yeah, that’s what I need, another sport to keep up with.

There are so many non-mainstream sports out in America that the world doesn’t need me to come up with another one. There’s competitive jaywalking, which is especially popular in New York and more challenging after a few beers.

Exercise, which is only a sport when a score is kept, should not be so boring. Going on a silly walk instead of just a regular walk is a lot harder, more fun and brings up the glory days of classic Monty Python episodes.

Maybe London will include it in the 2012 Olympic Games. John Cleese would be the judge.

Personally, snooze alarm smashing is one of my favorite sports. Unfortunately, it only lasts for an hour and contestants get to hit the radio just once every 15 minutes. It’s more fun when, instead of music blaring through the radio speaker, the voice of Gilbert Gottfried comes on.

“HEY, WAKE UP! What? Are you going to sleep your life away?!”

Smacking the snooze button is most fun with this alarm.

“OW! You hit me. I didn’t hit you, but you felt the need to hit me. Okay. You get 15 more minutes, then I’m coming back.”

Who wouldn’t want to smack that snooze button — with a hammer? Exercise is exercise.

As our nation becomes a group of people who are turning into one diabetes candidate after another, we need recreational sports to get us back into shape. Extreme snow shoveling should not only be an Olympic event, but a requirement for anybody living above the Mason-Dixon line.

In recent years, ESPN, the Evil Sports Programming Network, has tried to sell us on the idea that poker, spelling, hot dog eating, sports-columnist yelling and playing football for the Detroit Lions are all sports.

Don’t be fooled. Playing for the Lions should not be included as a sport.

Melanie Marshall: Billiards Brainsickness

This will come as no surprise to anyone that knows me. I would like an entire month of nothing but billiards. I don’t follow basketball, but I do know my professional pool players. I jump at the opportunity to watch the nine-ball and trick shot tournaments.

This is exactly what Melanie needs – pool to go.

Growing up in a small town that had only a pool hall to keep me busy and, for the most part, out of trouble, I developed a love of the game. By the age of 21, I was practicing daily. Unfortunately, I didn’t turn out to be WPBA (Women’s Professional Billiards Association) material. Classes kept getting in the way. I don’t think a few games a day can prepare for professional. It was like playing Horse to prepare for the NBA.

I read somewhere that Jeanette Lee practiced 10 hours a day before going pro. I don’t have the time or the quarters to dedicate to that, so I must be content with ESPN2. There is little I would like more than Billiards Brainsickness month, where every time I turn on the radio or pick up a newspaper there is an update on the latest tournament. XM Radio could dedicate an entire channel to it. What’s one more in 200?

Scott Nicholson: Competitive Illustrated Swimsuitness

I’m one of those relatively heterosexual adult males who is supposedly the target audience of “Sports Illustrated,” and I grew up in the noisy arena of ESPN, when an announcer’s hair gel and decibel level were much more important than knowledge of any particular sporting event.

While I fully embrace televised wrestling as an authentic slice of Americana, if not an actual competitive sport, I was dismayed when automobile racing and golf began showing up as “sports.” I have friends that are passionate about those competitions, and while I’m sure participation requires a certain set of skills, such as left-hand turns and pressing a pedal, or swinging a tiny stick and riding an electric cart across manicured grass, I don’t see much physical activity involved in that newest sports-television darling, “Texas Hold ‘Em.” Poker is boring enough without taking most of the cards and options out of the players’ hands.

So I am still trying to figure out how “Swimsuit Modeling” has become a competitive sport that dominates the sports Web sites, gets its own calendars and magazine covers, and involves such rigorous activities are gathering grains of sand upon one’s carefully oiled body. In fact, in trying to ascertain the minutiae of the sport’s finest aspects, those hair-trigger, split-second moments that separate the also-rans from the champions, I spent 15 minutes (though my editor swears it was 2 hours) analyzing footage of the latest skimp-off. After a while, the models all began looking the same, and I found myself wondering what they were thinking about while their pictures were being taken:

“Boy, I hope the airbrush takes that little problem away...”

“This sand is really itchy...”

“Hey, Jerry, bet you didn’t know I’d look like this when you broke up with me in the sixth grade.”

And, probably, “Is swimsuit modeling really a sport?”

Well, it’s March and basketball is almost over and almost nobody cares about baseball anymore. Besides, the sun’s out and the beach is calling, but you’re stuck at your computer like a loser while the champions are out there oiling up swimsuit models and snapping pictures on the French Riviera and Maui. You have a right to be mad.