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It’s a mad, mad, mad, mad world

Beware of the Ides March.

No Italians — Sicilians to be exact — could have ever comprehended just how the third month of the year could disturb anything and everything this side of the space-time continuum.

This March Madness makes everything topsy-turvy.

We’ve got baseball — not just the Nationals –back in Washington, the Red Sox are considered the defending champs, there’s more basketball than at the 12th hour in Harlem and actors writing sports columns.

The last maddening event being the most inconceivable, as the Lexington Herald-Leader printed a column by renowned actress and Kentucky fan Ashley Judd, who wears more blue and white than a police officer.

She’s a Wildcats fan to one of the many teams known as the Wildcats.

Who was the genius who came up with this idea? Every time a new team is made, there must be one guy who goes, “Hey, I’ve got the best idea that I know of. Let’s name the team the Wildcats. No one has ever done it before.”

Originality not being the strong point of the idea — her column reads more like a pamphlet trying to sell timeshares in North Korea — as the paper in question was just doing it for the maniacal mayhem month promotion. To be honest, a sloth with no fingers could have written a better column.

So, is this what the media has turned to during the aquamarine month? Actors trying to prove they know basic English?

What would happen if various Hollywood starlets all had a column to write?What topics would they choose?

If someone like Jose Canseco got one — in lieu of writing Juiced and keeping on the coattails of having a great signing day at Sam’s Club — he’d make another outrageous claim that Rafael Palmeiro took a new steroid called Viagra.

“Hey,” Canseco would argue. “It made at least one of his muscles larger.”

What if Ludacris got one? It would certainly be pro-Braves, and he would probably start saying Old-Man-River 46-year-old Julio Franco was his father. The similarities are endless, especially since, at least one time, both Franco and Chris Bridges — the rapper’s real name — had a fro.

Sticking with the rappers, next would be P. Diddy, or Sean Combs. He’d use great detail to recount his journey when he ran in the New York City Marathon.

10:21: start time. 10:36: Diddy makes a left on a side street in Brooklyn. 10:40: Diddy gets in his stretch limo. 10:50: Limo pulls up to a hot dog stand, orders 12 dogs and 10 diet Pepsis. 10:55-12:35: Diddy kills time in his limo watching Finding Nemo. 12:45: Diddy has a sip of celebratory Cristal. 12:55: Diddy finishes race well before everyone else.

“Ain’t nobody going to take my pride,” Combs wrote after the race. “Ain’t nobody going to hold me down. Oh, no. I’ve got to keep on moving before I cramp up.”

God only knows what would happen if Michael Jackson got his own column. As a matter of fact, that was his excuse for being late to court the other day. He says he has a new fashion product out for baseball, which is a batting glove covered in rhinestones, and also claims that coverage of the Little League tournaments near his ranch can’t be beat.

Some brainpan sports editor in Boston would probably give Ben Affleck a column just so he could write about his beloved Saux. But then, Affleck would promote his directorial debut movie Good Will Hunting 2: Hardcore Saux, starring Johnny Damon as Jonnie, the down-on-his-luck janitor trying to get his degree from Boston College, Matt Damon as “A-Rawd” and Jennifer Lopez as the woman he loves.

Stephen King would get one, too, but then he would just promote his new book, Turmoil. It’s a nonfiction book about the 86 years of horror that Red Saux fans had to endure that led to the writing of all his other bestsellers.

Every leading lady who has dated Derek Jeter for the bare minimum of five days would most certainly get one. From Anna Kournikova to Jessica Alba to Scarlett Johansson and half of Manhattan, because the Yankees’ shortstop gets around New York better than a taxi cab.

The celebrities are everywhere and they just won’t stop. Those uncontrollable actors cannot be contained. They can only be tolerated.

They’ll continue on their spiral of shame with busted-up brackets and its pyramid of glory, keeping Cinderella alive better than Disney World does on Main Street.

They’ll write columns that keep the bridges from being scorched.

They have to be ignored, or the madness won’t stop.

But then again, who really wants it to?