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No-Win Salvation

Jan. 20, 2010
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I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, during troubled economic times such as right here, right now, I know there’s a boatload of American citizens who desperately need whatever assistance our beleaguered states and federal US-focking-A government can pony up.

(Tea partiers, be damned. How ’bout you go spend a couple, three years down in, say, Haiti, and then get back to me on how much you enjoy a no-government country. Deal?)

So for those who sometimes may need to count on a helping hand from the government, let me guess: The numbers came up and you went down, didn’t you? You got suckered into purchasing another bum lottery ticket. Get over it.

Yeah, yeah, hard to believe any outfit that sells as many faulty products as our government lottery cartel does can stay in business but what are you going to do, ain’a? Take your ticket stub back to the clip joint you bought it from and ask for your money back? Ha! Forget about it. I already tried. No dice. They acted like I was speaking some kind of foreign language. And come to think of it, at the mini-mart I frequent, I was. English.

Ba-ding! But seriously, I’m here with this week’s essay to tell you’s people that just because your lottery-financed dreams have been dashed down the dumper like yesterday’s undigested baloney sandwich doesn’t mean that you’ll feel any better by packing it in and stepping in front of the first bus that comes by, I kid you not.

Take some solace in the fact that at least you know you’re a loser. Know thyself, like they say in the Bible. Not like these supercilious dickweeds who pride themselves in not getting snookered into these lottery scams. I got one thing to say to them: If you don’t play, you can’t win, and when you don’t win—well, you lose, any way you look at it, loser.

But really, so big focking deal you lost in the lottery again, that now you can’t run away with the uber-stacked manicurist you’ve had your eye on over by the beauty parlor where the wife goes; that you can’t tell your know-it-all boss that you won’t be in for the next thirty-focking years; that, damn it, you still have no pot to pee in; that you can’t take those dcoupage classes you hankered on or that long weekend in the Dells; yeah, those new soles for your pair of dress shoes will have to wait, and so will the knob from the collection agency knocking on your door even as I write and you read.

But do you really think you’d be happier if any of those dreams had come true?

Yeah, probably, but just because the lottery numbers you so carefully picked mega-sucked does not mean that your life is as good as over. Hell no, not by a long shot. What it does mean is that your life will continue to stink, and the familiar does have its own comforts I’ve heard. Don’t worry, you still got plenty more losing ahead of you, so buck up, buddy.

And what’s so great about that? Hey, read your Bible sometime, mister. Somewheres in there it says, “The meek shall inherit the Earth,” or so I’m told. Got that? It doesn’t say, “The focking rich bastards shall inherit the Earth,” does it? Of course not. That would be stupid ’cause you can’t inherit what you’ve already got, what the fock.

No sir, the Bible specifies the meek—another way of saying losers. That’s right. Losers. Just like you. And just so’s you know how special that is, second place inherits two Earths.

Ba-ding! But seriously, the losers are going to win the Earth, which may be a lot like winning a goddamn hippopotamus in that the first thing you got to ask yourself is, “What the fock am I going to do with that?”

And when you losers win the Earth, I imagine you’ll need to decide as to how you’ll want it: paid out as one lump planet or as an annuity spread out over a period of years. Me, I’d go the annuity route. For my first payment, I’d take Tahiti and Fiji out there in the South Seas, introduce myself to the native gals and spend my time making sure they were comfortable.

Next year, do I hear Monte Carlo? I might be meek, but not too meek that I couldn’t enjoy myself but good gambling nude on the beach right alongside the jet-setting chic. For my third year, I’ll take Hef’s mansion out in Southern California and controlling interest in a Major League Baseball team, what the fock.

So in conclusion, please remember that when you’re a loser, you’ve got nothing but dreams. But when you’re a winner, your days of dreaming are done and if you don’t have dreams, what do you have? Fock if I know, but as soon as I inherit the Earth maybe I’ll have an answer for you’s, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.


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