The edge-of-your-seat thrill ride that was the saga of "Blit Meat" ended with a quiet queef in the night on Friday, March 28.

With one Drew Neitzel missed three point attempt after another, "Blit Meat" — a delicious little morsel that brought hope and faith to Americans everywhere — died before it ever really even got the chance to live.

The "Blit Meat" bracket, bold and insanely accurate through two rounds of Tournament play, woefully missed the mark from the Sweet 16 on. Stanford in the Elite 8, Wisconsin in the Final Four, Michigan State in the NCAA Finals — the glory of "Blit Meat" ended up being as fleeting as a drunken college one-night stand.

This, of course, was to the great relief of my friend Jeff, the novice NCAA Tournament office pool organizer, who took on the reins of pool "Commissioner" just two months into his new job. As it turned out, there were no complaints to Human Resources over the term, no "Jeff ... Let's chat when you get in" Post-It notes from his boss waiting on his computer monitor on Monday morning, and no awkward questions from Jane in Accounting as to what exactly a "Blit Meat" was.

By Monday, the office water cooler conversation had shifted to the NFL Draft, that creepy Archuleta kid on "American Idol" and the new "mildly attractive, Regina Spektor-looking" intern on the 17th floor.

"Blit Meat" finished in 73rd place out of 87 pool participants. The predicted Michigan State-UNC finals match-up turned out being as ill-fated as the bracket name itself.

According to Jeff, a bracket named "ChiefWahoo" ended up winning the whole thing. Incredibly insensitive in its own right, sure — but not quite of the same uber-offensive quality as a "Blit Meat."

As for the man/woman behind "Blit Meat"? Jeff claims he never found out the individual's true identity.

It's probably best we never know.

This way, "Blit Meat" can live on in a faceless, almost pure way. Who knows? Maybe it takes on a life of its own. Graffiti artists will passionately pen the words on city buildings. Kids will mischievously tag it on bathroom stalls. Facebook pages! T-shirts! Celebrities naming their babies Blit Meat! Perhaps Neil Everett mentions it in passing during some mundane Astros-Reds mid-July highlight.

Mysterious, eternal, and strangely enthralling — this doesn't have to be the end of "Blit Meat." It could very well be just the beginning.

Yes, folks. Maybe "Blit Meat" has legs.

Blit Meat having legs?

How's that for a nauseating image?

As is the case for most sports fans the Monday after Selection Sunday, I awoke on March 17 to a cluttered inbox filled with various invitations to participate in NCAA Tournament pools. I signed up for a few, sent my checks to the necessary recipients, and promptly filled out a bunch of brackets. One of the pools I signed up for was my buddy Jeff's.

Jeff had just started at a new job about two months ago, was finally getting comfortable in his new environment, and apparently thought it was his place to be the guy to get the office tourney pool going. Taking the reins and being "commissioner" for one of these things is undoubtedly a giant pain in the ass. On top of recruiting enough participants to make it worth everyone's while, you've got to hassle people for money, constantly send out reminder emails about payment and in the end be the point person for everyone's complaints and commentary. To assume this responsibility at a new job in a new office? With people you barely know? Well, that's courageous.

An interesting wrinkle in Jeff's pool was that each participant had to "name" their bracket. I, like most of the other people involved, just used my last name and moved on to filling out my brackets.

But not everyone went that route. The roll call of bracket names looked a lot like a fraternity fantasy football league — inside jokes between three people, endless references to "Anchorman" and on the whole, just some really lame stuff.

A few examples? "My Bracket's Already Busted" (LOL!), "Burgundy's Back" (OMG!), "March Madnoose" (LOL!), and the clever old standby, "Duke Sucks" (LMAO!).

In all, Jeff recruited about 80 participants. Not bad for a first effort at the new job. Fifty or so of the players were from his office, about 20 were non-work related friends, and roughly 10 were friends of friends that he really didn't know. Everyone paid within the first couple days, and all the brackets were all filled out. By the time the games tipped off on Thursday, Jeff was pretty satisfied. On the one hand, he'd just organized a pretty big pool for people to follow throughout the tournament. On the other, he showed some of the folks at work his ability to motivate and manage a project.

But a few days in, things had gone horribly wrong.

As of this morning, the second place team in Jeff's pool is a bracket named "Stevens". Third place? "Lil' Mac". Fourth? "Janice".
First place?

"____ Meat". That blank space? Well, the word rhymes with Blit.
Yep, "Blit Meat."

Blit Meat!

Now, put yourself in Jeff's shoes. New job. Fifty new co-workers. Some are Vice Presidents and Managing Directors. Several are women. And they all log in to check those standings each morning.
What's the first thing every single one of them sees when they click on that standings button?

"Blit Meat" all alone on top in first place.

"Walking on egg shells" does this situation no justice. Jeff, Woody Allen paranoid as is, claims everyone gives him disgusted looks at work now. He swears he caught some of the other pool participants pointing, whispering and shaking their heads at him in the company cafeteria the other day. He's a marked man. All because of his pool.
All because of "Blit Meat."

Now, here's the kicker: Jeff has no idea who "Blit Meat" is. And even crazier — "Blit Meat's" bracket is absolutely incredible. It's downright dominating the pool. He/she has Villanova and Davidson both in the Sweet 16, they accurately predicted San Diego to beat Connecticut, and somehow had Drake falling to Western Kentucky in the first round too. "Blit Meat" has Michigan State beating Memphis. If that happens — something no one else in the pool has — there's a good chance he/she wins the whole thing.

Jeff's job may very well be in jeopardy over this. Every morning, his co-workers check the standings and see the words "Blit Meat" in bold letters.

The lesson? Always let someone else run your office tournament pool. Always.