Sunday, September 29, 2002
NOT A LOTTO LUCK
I have never purchased a lottery ticket.
Hard to believe, I know, what with all the hundred million dollar purses you keep reading about. But I swear on a stack of bingo cards it’s true.
Not that there’s anything wrong with playing the lottery, but I have my reasons for abstaining. Two, to be exact.
Reason number one -- I am not lucky when it comes to games of chance. Now, some people are born lucky. Take the Irish, for instance. They have a lucky mascot (the Leprechaun), a lucky cereal (Lucky Charms) and a lucky school (Notre Dame).
Or consider my cousin. If he puts on a pair of pants he hasn’t worn in a while, he always finds money in the pockets. Once, he even found a twenty in a pair of pants he tried on at a department store.
Me? I never find anything of value -- unless collecting lint balls and ticket stubs suddenly becomes a cottage industry.
I have never won anything of any substance. Not even a free taco at Taco Bell. But I’m okay with it. In fact, when the neighbors gather for poker night, I simply drop off a check and call it a night.
But the primary reason I don’t purchase lottery tickets is my fear of winning.
You see, with all of my unluck over the years, I figure my odds of winning the lottery are significantly higher than the average person. Call it Murphy’s Law of the Lottery.
While this theory might beg for a test, I will not do it because I know what happens to the winners, their family and friends: Bad things.
I am a true believer in the adage that money changes people. It changes the people that have it, and it changes the people around them that don’t. The more the money, the greater the change. In most cases, the changes are not for the better, either.
You might be thinking: Then give it away if you win.
Easier said than done. Lottery winners are bombarded with donation requests the moment their names surface in the public domain. Most requests are from reputable charities. Some are from Bob’s Center for Cosmic Healing and Ten Minute Oil Change.
Then there’s Uncle Al, who only needs a couple hundred thousand to get his synthetic rice farm up and running. Or Cousin Sue, who could use fifty grand to fund the launch of her picture-frame billboard business.
All worthy causes, but where does it end?
I haven’t even touched on the changes that take place within the immediate family. I think I read somewhere that one lottery winner was sued by his son for a raise in his allowance, from ten dollars per week to a thousand dollars per week. Seems the boy was trying to support a heavy candy habit.
Ultimately, they settled out of court. But the damage was done.
So I say to the lottery board: Keep your millions. Give them to one of those poor fellows you see on the television show "Cops". You know the guy -- unemployed, trying to support eight children by three ex-wives and still find time to redecorate his double-wide. The guy will never find anything of value in his pants pockets because he doesn't appear to own any. Let him deal with the dark side of sudden wealth.
Me, I’d be completely happy if I won a free taco at Taco Bell. Just leave it at that.
(c) Marc L. Prey 2002
All rights reserved.
Sunday, September 22, 2002
A NIGHT AT THE BALLPARK
I believe that mankind is generally made up of decent people who care about their families and friends and try to do the right thing whenever possible. I also believe there is a small minority of people who, in varying degrees, prove to be exceptions to this rule.
History is littered with examples, large and small, and I won’t bore you with a recap. What I would like to do is induct two new members into the Jackass Hall of Fame. Believe me, these clowns are more than deserving.
Who am I referring to? Why, the father-and-son tag team that ran onto the field in Chicago’s Comiskey Park this past Thursday and attacked the Kansas City Royals’ first base coach, Tom Gamboa.
If you haven’t seen the video, it’s really quite disturbing. The father, a thirty-four-year-old we shall call Bozo, and the son, a fifteen-year-old we shall call Oopsy, claim that Gamboa raised his middle finger to them after they began razzing Gamboa’s Royals. For the record, Gamboa vehemently denies the charge.
So, instead of using their limited vocabulary on Gamboa, these two geniuses take off their shirts, hop over the railing and proceed to tackle him to the ground. At the time, Gamboa was standing on the field near first base (the logical place to be, if one is a first base coach).
Next, Bozo and Oopsy begin punching and kicking the bewildered coach, who attempts to fend off his attackers while lying on his backside. Fortunately for Gamboa, it appears the two lunatics strike each other with nearly as many blows as their intended target.
After a few hairy moments, the entire Royals’ team bolts onto the field and piles on the clowns. One can only imagine the beating that was laid upon them at the bottom of the human pile-up.
Finally, police haul Bozo and Oopsy away and book them on assault charges. Gamboa, meanwhile, escapes with minor cuts and bruises.
After viewing the video during that evening’s newscast, I will admit I was more than a little curious as to the circumstances that must exist to lead a father and son to perform such a despicable act. Well, I did some digging, and here’s what I discovered.
The day before the game, Bozo is fired from his job at an Illinois natural gas facility for igniting his own gaseous emissions with a lighter, creating a flame that nearly blows the plant to Iowa.
Meanwhile, fifteen-year-old Oopsy is suspended from the fourth grade for attempting to start a food fight in the school library.
Sitting around the double-wide the next day, they come up with a brainstorm: Attend that evening’s baseball game together after mugging some unsuspecting fans of their tickets.
Seated in the lower deck near first base, they proceed to razz the visiting Royals mercilessly.
“Hey, Number 37, me and your momma was internet last night! That’s right, uh huh.”
“Good one, Pa.”
“Thanks, Son. Why don’t you give it a try.”
“Okay. Hey, number two-two, me and you is gonna get internet tonight! That’s right, uh huh.”
“I think you need a little work there, Son.”
Things were going well. Bozo was getting drunk by stealing cups of beer from beneath their neighbors’ seats, and Oopsy was getting, well, oopsy.
And then it happened. After the end of the eighth inning, Gamboa goes out to coach first base. Looks up into the crowd to pass the time. Feels an itch at the tip of his nose. Raises the middle finger on his right hand to scratch it…
“Hey, Pa, that fella just gave us the bird!”
“I saw it too!”
“What are we gonna do about it?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do, Son. I’m gonna take off my shirt, hop the fence and kick his @&#$%!"
“But won’t that be dangerous, Pa?”
“Heck no, Son. It’s between innings. No one will see us cause they is all watching commercials.”
“Oh. Then, let’s do it!”
And the rest, as they say, is history.
Now, in case you are wondering why I am making light of this incident, the explanation I have to offer is this: A society in which a father and son jump onto the field in the middle of a professional baseball game in order to beat the tar out of an unsuspecting, middle-aged first base coach is, in a word, scary. It is easier for me to deal with this blatantly irrational act if I can find some humor in it. Then, I can tell myself the world hasn’t gone completely insane, and I can maintain some degree of hope for a pair of little boys I know.
See, I am a father too.
(c) Marc L. Prey 2002
All rights reserved
I believe that mankind is generally made up of decent people who care about their families and friends and try to do the right thing whenever possible. I also believe there is a small minority of people who, in varying degrees, prove to be exceptions to this rule.
History is littered with examples, large and small, and I won’t bore you with a recap. What I would like to do is induct two new members into the Jackass Hall of Fame. Believe me, these clowns are more than deserving.
Who am I referring to? Why, the father-and-son tag team that ran onto the field in Chicago’s Comiskey Park this past Thursday and attacked the Kansas City Royals’ first base coach, Tom Gamboa.
If you haven’t seen the video, it’s really quite disturbing. The father, a thirty-four-year-old we shall call Bozo, and the son, a fifteen-year-old we shall call Oopsy, claim that Gamboa raised his middle finger to them after they began razzing Gamboa’s Royals. For the record, Gamboa vehemently denies the charge.
So, instead of using their limited vocabulary on Gamboa, these two geniuses take off their shirts, hop over the railing and proceed to tackle him to the ground. At the time, Gamboa was standing on the field near first base (the logical place to be, if one is a first base coach).
Next, Bozo and Oopsy begin punching and kicking the bewildered coach, who attempts to fend off his attackers while lying on his backside. Fortunately for Gamboa, it appears the two lunatics strike each other with nearly as many blows as their intended target.
After a few hairy moments, the entire Royals’ team bolts onto the field and piles on the clowns. One can only imagine the beating that was laid upon them at the bottom of the human pile-up.
Finally, police haul Bozo and Oopsy away and book them on assault charges. Gamboa, meanwhile, escapes with minor cuts and bruises.
After viewing the video during that evening’s newscast, I will admit I was more than a little curious as to the circumstances that must exist to lead a father and son to perform such a despicable act. Well, I did some digging, and here’s what I discovered.
The day before the game, Bozo is fired from his job at an Illinois natural gas facility for igniting his own gaseous emissions with a lighter, creating a flame that nearly blows the plant to Iowa.
Meanwhile, fifteen-year-old Oopsy is suspended from the fourth grade for attempting to start a food fight in the school library.
Sitting around the double-wide the next day, they come up with a brainstorm: Attend that evening’s baseball game together after mugging some unsuspecting fans of their tickets.
Seated in the lower deck near first base, they proceed to razz the visiting Royals mercilessly.
“Hey, Number 37, me and your momma was internet last night! That’s right, uh huh.”
“Good one, Pa.”
“Thanks, Son. Why don’t you give it a try.”
“Okay. Hey, number two-two, me and you is gonna get internet tonight! That’s right, uh huh.”
“I think you need a little work there, Son.”
Things were going well. Bozo was getting drunk by stealing cups of beer from beneath their neighbors’ seats, and Oopsy was getting, well, oopsy.
And then it happened. After the end of the eighth inning, Gamboa goes out to coach first base. Looks up into the crowd to pass the time. Feels an itch at the tip of his nose. Raises the middle finger on his right hand to scratch it…
“Hey, Pa, that fella just gave us the bird!”
“I saw it too!”
“What are we gonna do about it?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do, Son. I’m gonna take off my shirt, hop the fence and kick his @&#$%!"
“But won’t that be dangerous, Pa?”
“Heck no, Son. It’s between innings. No one will see us cause they is all watching commercials.”
“Oh. Then, let’s do it!”
And the rest, as they say, is history.
Now, in case you are wondering why I am making light of this incident, the explanation I have to offer is this: A society in which a father and son jump onto the field in the middle of a professional baseball game in order to beat the tar out of an unsuspecting, middle-aged first base coach is, in a word, scary. It is easier for me to deal with this blatantly irrational act if I can find some humor in it. Then, I can tell myself the world hasn’t gone completely insane, and I can maintain some degree of hope for a pair of little boys I know.
See, I am a father too.
(c) Marc L. Prey 2002
All rights reserved
