Sharing The Wealth

Greetings Fellow Gamblers,           

In honor of Turkey Day I am supplying those of you who have a desire to become wealthy, with some guaranteed picks for the weekend.  I (no bullshit) have gone 12-1 in my last 13 College Football picks.  Feel free to use this expert inside info to your advantage to bring all of your local bookies to their knees.  The forecasted winners are in pink.             

This holiday always reminds me of a story that my old pal Matt Greenburger told me about a Thanksgiving his father Tom had when he was a young man.           

Tom had been driving to his folks house for Thanksgiving Dinner when he realized that he had a leftover hit of acid in his glove compartment.  Rather than ignore this fact he began to think about how much more fun the holiday would be if he had a little something extra in him.  He thought about how funny his crazy uncle Marvin’s dumb-blonde jokes would be with a little hallucinogen running through his veins.  After much internal deliberation he decided that to consume the small blotter as he pulled into his parent’s driveway and have the best Thanksgiving ever!  Things would go smooth as silk, he thought.  By the end of the night however, this would prove to be a foolish assumption.  The series of events that led to this outcome would live in
Green Bay lore for years to come.           

Prior to sitting down for dinner things were going OK for Tom.  Sure, he was a little paranoid but he was able to keep to himself mostly, avoid eye contact, and focus his attention directly on the television set for the football game.  The real trouble began when the food was served and the whole family gathered around the table to feast.  First, there was the near two minute laughing fit during grace, followed by a very uncomfortable science.  No matter how much he tried to concentrate and act normal he couldn’t escape the dark fear that they knew what he was up to.  He quickly noticed that all conversation around the table and even his own breathing seemed very loud, almost as if he were hyperventilating.  Soon afterward he could not only hear the breathing of himself and everyone else at the table, but what seemed to be the conversations in neighboring houses.  Did he have brain damage?  Was he dying?  He certainly thought so.             

It was at this point that he said he had to leave.  This being Thanksgiving, his family was not only alarmed but insulted.  Here he was, their only son, and he was acting like a rabid animal, drooling and staggering saying he needed to leave three minutes into dinner.  Was it the food, his mother wondered.  Before she could ask though, Tom’s father quickly stood and took the giant wooden fork from it’s perch near the giant wooden spoon on of the dining room wall and hurled it like a trident at him while screaming “Nobody laughs during Grace in my house Fuckface.”  Unfortunately, the giant fork hit Grandma in the throat and although it was not sharp enough to pierce the flesh, it did send her crashing to the floor. 

Without even checking for to see if she was breathing Tom quickly flashed back to 8^th grade Health class and initiated mouth to mouth.  In his impaired state he also assumed she needed full on CPR, and as they taught him in class he immediately opened her blouse to begin chest compressions.  Unfortately, Grandma was not wearing a bra and her bosoms were fully exposed to the entire family.  Everyone was screaming, but in Tom’s confused mind the environment was no more insane or hostile than it was before the fork had been launched. 

Although he was now completely tripping balls, he went about it like professional EMT, unfazed by his frantic surroundings.  He subconsciously thought that maybe this was meant to be.  Maybe he had a future in medicine.  Approximately 15 seconds into his heroic life saving effort he realized that Grandma was not unconscious at all, and that from the point of view of everyone else in the room he was doing nothing less than committing a savage rape on his own grandmother for the whole family to see. 

Tom spent the next three years in a maximum security prison and although he was later released, his children never flourished.

If there is a moral to this story, it is that you should never mix high powered hallucinogens with holiday cheer.  Take care Folks, and if you’re in the Green Bay are this fine holiday weekend, stop in at the Out of Bounds II for some serious celebration!

LOUISVILLE CARDINALS @ PITTSBURGH PANTHERS

3:30 p.m. Sat	Record			Line			Betting Trend
375 LOUIS	(9-1) (4-1 A)	W-1	6-4-0	-12.0	-12.0		77%		n/a	69%
376 PITT	(6-5) (3-3 H)	L-4	5-5-0	57.0	58.5		23%		n/a	31%

12:00 p.m. Sat	Record			Line				Betting Trend
373 CINCI	(6-5) (0-4 A)	W-1	7-2-1	-3.5	-3.5			91%	n/a	n/a
374 CONN	(4-6) (3-3 H)	L-1	4-5-0		38.5			9%	n/a	n/a

6:00 p.m. Sat	Record			Line				Betting Trend
369 ASU	(6-5) (2-3 A)	L-1	6-4-0	45.0	44.0			9%	n/a	87%
370 ARIZ	(6-5) (3-3 H)	W-3	5-5-0	-3.0	-3.5			91%	n/a	13%

2:00 p.m. Sat	Record			Line				Betting Trend
365 MISSST	(3-8) (2-2 A)	L-1	4-5-0	39.0	39.0			4%	n/a	n/a
366 MISS	(3-8) (3-3 H)	L-1	5-5-0	-3.0	-3.0			96%	n/a	n/a

3:00 p.m. Sat	Record			Line				Betting Trend
355 SMU	(6-5) (1-4 A)	W-1	6-4-0		XX
356 RICE	(6-5) (2-2 H)	W-5	8-3-0	-3.0	XX

7:00 p.m. Fri	Record			Line			Betting Trend
331 AIR	(4-6) (2-2 A)	L-2	4-6-0	-10.0	-10.5		100%	n/a	n/a
332 UNLV	(1-10) (1-4 H)	L-10	3-7-0	48.0	48.0		0%	n/a	n/a

Winning is Contagious

In the mid-1990’s Brett Favre and the Packers were the biggest thing in football.  In those years Green Bay was a magical place to be.  Everyone in the city felt like an integral part of the team.  The Packers were winning, therefore we were all winners.

That being said, the athletic prowess on display atop the observation deck of the Lake Summit apartment building on the east side of Milwaukee last Saturday was unrivaled by anything in sport.  Cornholers came from far and wide to compete in the High Altitude Major Milwaukee Showdown.  The field of this great tournament consisted of many lawyers, Russian pimps, Koreans, sexual deviants, and other members of the WCA (Wisconsin Cornhole Association).

The brainchild of one Gordon Grenada, the group has grown from a small number of dope fiends to become an integral part of the sports lexicon of this great state.  Many freaky looking strangers now gather at backwoods campsites and laundromats several weekends per summer and put politics aside only to throw bean bags, “work their magic”, and put “corn in the hole,” all while getting strutting drunk and trying to avoid arrest.

Last weeks event was the first of its kind that this writer had participated in, but I can certainly assure you it won’t be the last.  I hosted the founder and several others at my home the night before for some pre-competition festivities and drunken revelry.

The weather Saturday varied not only hour to hour but minute to minute at some points, alternating between warm summer sun and cool autumn rain.  One thing that didn’t vary anywhere near as much was the mood of the day.  Spirits were consistently high atop the mini-skyscraper from start to finish.  The only worry came about when a fat little hairlip named Greenberger showed up mumbling about an old bull dyke being stabbed downstairs by a gang of neo-nazis who were on their way to Planned Parenthood to go dumpster diving.  When the accuracy of his report was challenged by a senior member of the WCA he slunk away whispering something about Dill Pickle Potato chips and it was never mentioned again.

My partner and I achieved a record of 1-2 in the doubles tournament and by the time my name was called in the second round of the singles tournament I was forced to forfeit on the grounds of acute intoxication.  Although I tossed no more beanbags that night, I did continue drinking for several more hours, for that is a sport at which I shine.

Yep folks, it is now a stone cold fact.  Mr. Grenada’s WCA will continue to grow for many years to come and much like the citizens of Green Bay in the mid-1990s, all those associated will continue to feel like winners.

The New Patriot

Hunter S. Thompson once said “Ether makes you feel like the village drunkard in some early Irish novel.”  I don’t know about all that but I do know that being in theCounty Clare (an upscale Irish pub on the east side of Milwaukee) after drinking twenty beers can bring that feeling upon.  At least 60% of the beers were taken in cannonbong fashion.  That is, one takes a puff of their favorite smoke and while holding it deep in their lungs, does a beer bong.  Once the beer bong is complete, the individual will release the smoke from their lungs, usually to great applause- unless you do them at home by yourself, but that’s neither here nor there.  What I’m describing is not some theoretical, fictitious Friday night, but my own Friday night last week.

It started simple enough, a trip to the Eastside for some binge drinking at a friend’s house.  Four hours and $50.00 later, I had done six or seven cannon bongs, two of which were triple cannon bongs, meaning three cans of beer in the funnel instead of one.  

Enough messing around I thought.  Time to go to the bar.

Luckily the County Clare was a mere fifty paces southeast of our location so the journey was not so treacherous.  From there my memory seems to fail me slightly.  I remember a few Manhattans and some scotch on the rocks were consumed but after that things get a bit cloudy.  Based on eyewitness accounts, there was a drink thrown in my face and upon our return to my associate’s domicile I promptly flattened a chair and passed out as I hit the floor.

When I awoke in the living room the following morning I had to shit like Carnie Wilson after an enema.  It was 6 a.m. and the pressure in my rear was unparalleled.  The only bathroom in my associate’s apartment was through his bedroom, which was currently occupied by he and his significant other.  Rather than take the sane approach and knock on the door, letting him know I needed to use the restroom, I opted for calling my girlfriend to come and pick me up, remember it was 6 a.m. and I was still pissy, or shall I say shitty drunk.

My friend had moved recently and I didn’t know his exact address, I just knew I was onKnapp Street.  So I told the girlfriend to pick me up at the corner of Knapp and Van Buren.  I quickly gathered my beer bongs (I had two of them mind you) and walked down the stairs, shit beginning to force itself out.  His apartment is on the 3^rd floor and by the time I got to the exit door I could feel what I’ve previously heard described as “the heat”.  The time had come to do something I had never done before.  I went behind the building and quickly took off my shorts and underwear and shit on the ground near the dumpster, like a stray dog.  My underpants were already slightly soiled from my trip down the stairs and made for handy asswipe.

For a brief moment I considered what George Washington would do.  He was a patriotic American who probably shat in many an undesirable location.  Still he persisted and many would agree that his life was a productive one.  I then slid my shorts back on, gathered my composure and set out for the corner of Knapp and Van Buren.  Drunk, shitty, and with two beer bongs I didn’t exactly fit in with the 6 a.m. Saturday crowd.  Not that there was much of a crowd but you catch my drift.

My driver’s timing was impeccable and just as I reached the corner she pulled up.  Her mood was not the best, however, since she had been awoken from her slumber by her lover saying he was about to shit his pants and demanding a ride home.

Before leaving my friend’s house I borrowed a DVD copy of Quentin Tarantino’s Jackie Brown.  Believe it or not when I got home (after showering of course) I began pouring myself whiskey sours and watched that wonderful piece of cinema.  Much like Robert Deniro’s character in the movie, Louis, I too sometimes enjoy getting high in the morning, and for that matter would love to bang a surfer chick in the kitchen.

As the end of the movie neared I again thought of our first president and considered that had he been born 250 years later, he too may have imbibed in such experiences.  Cannonbongs, triple cannonbongs, alcohol induced blackouts, and the joy of beating back a hangover with more cocktails are definitely American activities that I think old George would have loved to partake in.