You know what? I'm sick of not winning the lottery. The injustice has gone on far too long. So I decided, about five minutes ago, that I'm going down to the corner store and buying a lotto ticket and, by tomorrow: say hello to millionairemonster.
See, my thought is this: most people just buy a lotto ticket on a whim or out of the same obligatory gambling instinct that makes people go to the dog track.* Me? I only buy one when it's a sure thing. And this, ladies and gentleman, is a sure thing. In fact, I need to buy it now, for fear that I forget to capitalize on my foolproof plan to become an accidental tycoon.
"Hey, buddy. How can I help you?"
"I need a lotto ticket. I'm planning on winning."
"You sure about that buddy?"
"Deadly sure...better make it two tickets."
"Ok, buddy. Good luck."
But see, I don't need luck. Luck is for saps. I'm making reservations for a lobster dinner. I'm calling Wesley Snipes and letting him know "Simon Phoenix, I got you covered." I'm bidding on houses on eBay. This can't turn out badly. After all, I let the lotto robot choose my numbers and if I've learned anything from watching 2001 and The Terminator it's this: Always trust the robot.
While I wait for my innevitable windfall, I thought I'd make a brief announcement. Tomorrow night, we're playing an SF Weekly shindig at the Warfield. A few things worth mentioning here: 1) SF Weekly had more GAP ads this week than articles. It's daunting, but, worth mentioning if only for the sheer bredth of celebrities involved: Mary J. Blige, Spielberg, that speed-skating guy who, for no real, discernable reason, is naked with a GAP headband on. At least they're all alive. Kudos for that. 2) We play early. In fact, we play first. This means, roughly, right when doors open. Foolishly, we'd originally planned on being in Salt Lake City the next evening before realizing the Autobahn was in Germany, so we asked to play early. Silly Birdmonster. We're on at 8. So if you're coming, come early. Awards will be given to people who are not us. I will buy them with the $41 million I'm due to inheret around dinnertime tomorrow. Should be fun.
* If you've never been to the dog track, it's basically the height of degenerate gambling sadness. Ill-fed canines chasing a surprisingly loud roborabbit while shower-phobic guys in trenchcoats half-heartedly scream "bitch" then rip their tickets in half. Fun for the whole family, really. Take the kids.