First, because I love you all like Tricky luud the kids: From the bottom of my heart- Sorry about missing Friday’s post. I had a real streak going there. And I blew it. I got wrapped up in something I’m not proud of. I got caught in up in mass hysteria. Not only that, but mass hysteria for stupid people. Stupid people whose ranks I marched right into with head held high. I would have gladly carried an Iwo Jima-sized flag that read “Stupid Person” and carried it through downtown LA (or somewhere with a lot of judgmental people who like to tsk strangers) such was my delusion at 4:17 p.m. on Friday the 30th of March in the year of our lord, two-thousand and twelve.
Homeboys and homegirls, there is nothing I would like more than to become internet famous from this blog (That’s not a hint. Start spamming your friends.) but there are two other things I’d like to do as well. I would like to publish books. And I would like to earn some sort of income. As my resume has failed to ignite the employment frenzy I’d planned on, I began looking for other revenue streams, as the business folks say. I thought I found one last Friday.
I bought a bunch of lottery tickets.
It was $656 million dollars for fuck’s sake! What do you want from me? I’m only human! Just think how many posts you’d get out of me if I didn’t have to worry about money ever again? It’d be like Soviet Russia. I’d pay YOU to read blog. Just kidding, that meme sort of sucks and I’d just pay somebody funnier than me to ghost write two posts a week while I develop a coke habit and start systematically dismantling my life and the lives of everyone around me.
What? You thought winning the lottery would solve all my problems?
Ah….why? According to the media, the lottery ruins everyone’s lives without exception. Take a look at these headlines. They seem to be about something other than the koala bears, Lamborghinis, hugs, cocaine, compliments, and high-end non-stick cooking-wear that is, allegedly, the Xanadu of winning a lottery jackpot:
Then there’s Jack Whittaker, everybody’s favorite lotto horror story. Jack should get an award for the most unlucky $114 million dollars anybody ever won. First, his granddaughter’s boyfriend dies at his house (drug overdoes) followed by his granddaughter (drug overdose) followed by his daughter (health issues). Then his wife divorced him. And that’s just the big stuff. Here’s some other cool things that happened:
His house was robbed multiple times for money, clothing, and household goods.
He had $545,000 dollars stolen out of his car (!) whilst in the good ol’ Pink Pony Gentlemen’s Club in Charleston, West Virginia. (recovered later behind a dumpster).
He had $85,000 stolen from his car along with an ostrich skin jacket.
I would have loved to be a fly on the wall for that conversation:
Officer: Bad news, Jack. You’ve been robbed again. They took everything in the truck.
Jack: Wait, did they get the-
Officer: Yes sir, they got all the money.
Jack: Not the money, you fool! Did they get the jacket?
Officer: The jacket?
Jack: My god man! Answer me! Did they get the jacket?
Officer: There was no jacket found in the truck, sir.
Jack: That was an ostrich skin jacket! Only the lowest varmint scoundrel takes a man’s ostrich skin coat. There is only one thing to be done: We must hire The Rock to run this cretin down. Money is no object!
Officer: He’s not really a bounty hunter, sir. He’s just and actor with cool eyebrows.
Jack: Silence peasant! I could buy and sell you so fast your head would spin!
Officer: I don’t even, what does that mean?
Jack: It means you find The Rock [pokes him in the chest with a finger] and you get that ostrich skin coat back [pokes officer again] or I’ll have your badge [pokes again]. Here’s a hundred bucks for your trouble [stuffs bill in Officer's pocket]. If anybody needs me I’ll be at the Pink Pony. Oceanalynne goes on at 9 and she has backside that’d turn a porcupine into a coon dog.
Officer: Is that racist? It sounds very racist.
I don’t know if it went down like that but I’m pretty sure it was close. There’s no other explanation for that year when The Rock wasn’t in anything.
Anyway Jack has pretty much blown through the winning now and claims to be broke. Funny thing is, he was a multi-millionaire prior to winning (he owned a successful construction company). Irony you heartless mother-licker.
After reading dozens of stories about lotto woes, here’s what to expect should a multi-million dollar misfortune rain down upon your head:
Every person that has ever occupied the same zip code as you will ask for money. Some will just put the amount they want in the subject of the email (address will be in the body of the email for printing ease).
Your neighbors in your new gated community will hate you for winning a bunch of money and attempt to drive you out of your McMansion.
Multiple people in your immediate family will start up a drug habit, or worse a religious habit (say what you will, building churches is way more expensive than smoking crack) which will cost untold millions of dollars.
One of your family members will stop speaking to you. Probably your favorite sister or brother.
You’ll bankrupt something. Might not even be your own business. You might do something stupid like go to a strip club and brag about all the money in your car. Somebody might subsequently drug you and rob said car. You might call the police. They might investigate the club (We’ll call it the P. Pony) leading to its liquor license being revoked ultimately costing 40-some people their jobs after it closes down. One of them will be named Oceanalynne. But that’s just a for instance.
Oh and your co-workers are going to hate the fuck out of you which leads inevitably to them suing the fuck out of you. Even if you don’t have the winning ticket but like, those numbers, like, totally sound familiar.
So Himbo, What Do I Do If I Got The Lotto Fever?
If at all possible try to trade it in for Bieber Fever instead. It’s humiliating, I know. And pointless if you are a straight male because, let’s face it guys, that little lesbian is never going to be into you. I’m sorry, I don’t make the rules. Lesbians don’t go for dudes. Sorry it had to be like this. But isn’t it better than having your ostrich skin coat stolen?
If you can’t work up a good Bieber Fever then there’s only one option if you win the lottery: Kill yourself.
Or hope that mother nature sends you a hint and strikes you with lightning after you purchase the ticket. Of course I doubt, Bill Isles ripped up his ticket when that happened to him. He was probably thinking about all the lap dances he could get from Oceanalynne.