Generally, I think wagering on things is a fine way to spend your free time. There's something particularly American about placing undo value on stupid things. For instance, as a college man, I recall betting on whether or not someone could drink 100 shots of beer without throwing up. It was something called the 100 Shot Club. As I recall, there was a set amount of time to drink these 100 shots -- maybe until the girls showed up, or maybe until we realized there had to be something on television more entertaining than watching other people drink, or maybe it was just until the first person vomited, though I could be wrong. It might have just been about the shots. I never bet on this myself, feeling like my money was better wagered on things like, you know, whether or not someone would hook up with a particular Tri-Delt. It wasn't a very exciting college experience, in retrospect, but at least it was filled with games of chance.
Later, when I lived in Las Vegas, I learned to not bet on too many things since the opportunity presented itself everywhere you looked -- I always liked watching people smoke and play video poker at the grocery store and Rite Aid, personally -- and, plus, once I had money, I didn't really want to lose it on something trivial. Better to bet metaphorical things. Like we'd see Vern Troyer at Cheetah's and I'd say, "I bet he grabs that stripper's ass," and then, five seconds later, sure enough, Vern would have a handful of a stripper's ass and everyone, except probably the stripper, would view themselves as winners. Today I beg more than wager, like with God -- "Please, god, don't give me any more student manuscripts in second person about cancer!" -- and with my email -- "Please, don't let this email be from some fucktard asking me to review their self-published book in the LA Times!" -- and occasionally with Wendy -- "Please, can't we watch The First 48 marathon? I'll totally clean the backyard if we can!" -- or, today, with romance author extraordinaire HelenKay Dimon -- "Please, tell that title stealing whore she's a title stealing whore!" and, usually, it comes to no avail. I get 2nd person manuscripts about cancer, someone emails me to review their horror novel about an infected laptop that holds the devil inside of it (really), Wendy opts for E! and HK chickens out and just sits nicely beside said title stealer at a BEA signing.
Living your life on bets and wagers and even prudent reasoning is no way to exist. Why? Because you end up taking it too far. You end up sending in some letter caked in the jizz of fucktardery to Parade. You end up NAME REDACTED DUE TO GOOGLING SELF AND REALIZING THE HORROR, FOLLOWED BY A KIND EMAIL ASKING FOR REDACTION of Sanford, FL. Actually, you end up as SEE ABOVE and her fiance:
I say R.E.M. frontman Michael Stipe has romanced women. My fiancé insists he’s gay. Weekend chores are riding on your answer. Who wins?
Who wins? No one. No one win. Hope dies. Russia gets stronger. Bin Laden laughs. The Minutemen lay down their weapons and our borders are flooded. Who wins? Fucktards, that's who. I think it's sad that your fiance insists he's gay and you put that in a national magazine. Is that any of our business? I mean, I think it's great that he's gay, I'm totally in support of that, but why did you feel like you had to put that in the question? Oh...wait...I think I misread that...well, never mind, the point is still the same: What the fuck is wrong with you and your fiance, SEE ABOVE? Do you guys really sit around betting household chores on Michael Stipe's sexual persuasion? How fucking nasty must your house be? I can see it now: "I'll wash the toilet, honey, if you can tell me whether or not Neil Diamond likes to be on top when he's making a girl a woman soon." "I think Rick Springfield has had a dirty sanchez performed on him. What do you think? I'm not doing the dishes until we have definitive proof!" "So, what do you bet that Neanderthal looking guy from Nickelback wipes back to front? I'm not folding the whites until we know!" I mean, SEE ABOVE, what the fuck is wrong in your household that this is how you guys conduct life? Who wins? Satan. Jesus dies again and Satan rises up. That who fucking wins. You have brought on the end of days. I hope you're fucking happy.
Nevertheless, it is of vital importance that this is settled so you and your fiance can finally clean up after your 34 cats, so we'll let Walter Scott have his say:
Share the vacuuming. Stipe, 48, has taken lovers of both sexes and once described himself as “an equal-opportunity lech.”
Well, that settles nothing. Who wins?
The Century Club. A shot of beer every minute for 100 minutes.
I did not throw up, but I avoided the number 100 for many months.
I couldn't even look at a Buick Century without feeling queasy.
Posted by: Antoine Wilson | June 02, 2008 at 08:29 AM
Oh, god, that's right: The Century Club. I wonder what the cut off age is where the idea of drinking 100 shots in 100 minutes stops sounding like a good use of time and liquor?
Posted by: tod goldberg | June 02, 2008 at 11:39 AM
Tod Goldberg wins!
Posted by: Emil | June 03, 2008 at 05:16 AM
um -google. Everyone knows everything on the internets is true and can be used as the ultimate authority on all things fucktardworthy.
Posted by: Mary | June 03, 2008 at 07:15 AM
"You either suck dick. Or you do not suck dick" Andrew Dice Clay circa 1987.
Going by the Dice theory, which by all accounts is authoratative in regards to determining one's sexual inclinations, one would have to conclude that sinces Stipes sucks dick, he is therefore as queer as a tennis helmet.
(Insert obligatory I love all minorities, homos and Democrats and have no problem with Stipe statement here)
The 100 shot club? Why the fuck don't I remeber that? I nearly vomitted on my desk just thinking about doing it now though.
Posted by: kryme_dog | June 04, 2008 at 11:22 AM
BTW. That authentication at the end when I am posting is fuckin annoying. What kind of people does that shit keep out? Anyone can type ghj454jl or some shit. If I'm not getting tit ass seats for the Laker game after, I don't feel like I should do it.
Posted by: kryme_dog | June 04, 2008 at 11:24 AM
Good GOD, the 100 shot club. We all seriously made it to college only to become really, really stupid. Another in a long list of "would have been forgotten forever" had there been no Tod mother f-ing G.
Posted by: Dave Baker | June 06, 2008 at 11:40 AM