SO MUCH FOR CAVIAR DREAMS

Lottery

by Joe Buonfiglio

 Okay, in retrospect, as I get older, perhaps my retirement plan of “Buy winning lottery ticket. Win lottery!” is a bit foolhardy at best. I’d be better off putting my weekly lottery-ticket money into a non-interest-bearing savings account. At least then, I wouldn’t lose any money. God only knows how much cash I’ve flushed down the porcelain slot machine compliments of my state government over the years via lottery tickets. I’m sure somewhere in Hell there’s a special fiery room waiting for me filled with the tears of my kid’s college fund.

But hey, can you really blame me?

I don’t know what your lottery dreams would be if you ever hit all those beautiful little numbers for millions of dollars, but here’s what I’d do with my winnings from the casino of state-sanctioned gambling known as The Lottery.

I’d buy off all the politicians necessary to put my “Uncle Joe’s Happiness Hut” windmill-powered dildo factory off the coast of North Carolina whilst refusing to pay for contraception in my employees’ health plan due to it violating the religious tenets of the church for which I will be a self-ordained minister, “The Temple of the Latter-Day Chinese Buffet Enthusiasts.”

I’d buy a llama named Babette to whom I’d feed nothing but oatmeal cookies and sarcasm.

I would finally purchase my bucket-list dream car: the 1925 Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost. I would then fill it with the spirits of dead gold miners all bragging about their big strikes and laughingly yelling “You’re only worth silver?!” just to give my newly acquired and beloved automobile an inferiority complex. That’s right, my shiny vehicular friend; we know who’s boss now, don’t we?

I’d hire accomplished and renowned opera tenor Paul Austin Kelly to train me; not to sing, but to fart the alphabet.

When I use my money to invent the “glopsicle,” the world will herald my achievement as both creator of a wondrous new frozen treat and the architect of a practical solution to the Earth’s roadkill problem. I will then use the profits from the Glopsicle to fuel the promotion of my other invention, the “smellphone,” the world’s first hands-free cellphone designed to be inserted up the ass.  Not only is butt-dialing no longer a problem, it’s required.

I will have a massive coliseum designed and built, and then round up all of the mimes and clowns on the planet to battle each other in a “last man standing” gladiator-style fight to the death. The ultimate winner will be crowned the world’s most annoying human being and be immediately eaten alive by the highest-ranked SEC football team.

I will buy my first Glock pistol, and then shoot myself in the foot in order to physically experience what I’ve been idiomatically experiencing for years. As I bleed out, I will collect up my life’s nectar and use it to make a British-style Christmas pudding for the neighborhood kids while reading any number of Dickens’ stories in my final moments of consciousness.

I will cure erectile dysfunction with mayonnaise, a toothbrush and extra-strength Toilet Duck, but only reveal the secret formula to celibate Buddhist monks; cruelly reveling in glee at my both very specific and very ironic joke on humanity.

I will buy every all-you-can-eat sushi bar in Las Vegas for my personal use, except on Mondays. On Mondays, I will open it to any member of the public who can accurately quote the dialogue in The Black Knight scene from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

Get it wrong? “None shall pass…”

And the final thing I shall do with my hundreds of millions in lottery winnings is…

— BUY THE LOTTERY! That’s right, I’m gonna buy the whole damn lottery system itself. Why? Because in the end, the house always wins. Between my harebrained schemes, an absolute lack of business and financial-investment sense, as well as my leeching relatives, I’m left fully anticipating blowing through all my millions in no time flat. I’m going to have to game the system by owning the system if I intend to keep living the good life to which I’m sure I’ll rapidly become accustomed.

Hey, have you ever seen what a horrifically bad driver I am? Chauffeurs don’t come cheap and Rolls-Royces don’t insure themselves.

Ah, whom am I kidding? So much for champagne wishes and caviar dreams. The reality is that after taking in a quick Gamblers Anonymous meeting, it’ll be back to lukewarm Budweiser and cold Mickey D’s cheeseburgers for me. One thing is for certain: my gambling days are over!  I’m swearin’ off the fucking state lottery for good. I have better odds of being hit by lightning twice in one night than hitting the big Lotto winning num—

Hey, I wonder if I’d have better luck with the scratch-offs?

 

© 2015 Joseph P. Buonfiglio     All Rights Reserved.

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