Today is “Black Friday,” or what I call, “the Great American Stampede.”
Think of millions of buffalo storming off a cliff.
Seriously, have you seen what goes on at malls and stores? People line up at midnight. Why? To go shopping!
That’s right, SHOPPING.
What are people thinking? Or smoking? Or snorting? Instead, couldn’t they have gone out and bought all that shit no one needs yesterday, or last week, or last month, you know — when most of the stores were empty and you could easily find a sales associate with a smile eager to help? What idiot wants to stand out in the cold, fight crowds, wait in long lines, and get horrible service? Well, it appears the answer is — just about anyone with a credit card and a pulse.
Today is the worst day ever invented by humankind. It’s a capitalist conspiracy designed to stir the masses into a buying frenzy. It’s an outlandish marketing campaign intended to drive more Americans further into debt. It’s the third-world slave labor employment act.
BISON FLINT, SD (Nov. 26) — Calls for the Washington Redskins to change their team name grew considerably more vocal this week, as several Native-American Indian tribes put aside centuries of bitter hostilities for the first time and bonded together, demanding that the National Football League franchise immediately replace the team’s controversial mascot.
Organized by the Black Cliff Indian Nation Chief “Donnie” Whitefeather, who works the graveyard shift as a pit boss at the Dry River Casino, several tribes issued what they call an “emergency resolution” hoping to get the team to change their name.
“We’re absolutely fed up with being associated with this team,” Whitefeather fumed. “The Redskins are an absolute embarrassment to the heritage and tradition of our proud people. I mean, did you see that fucking fiasco last Monday night?
Whitefeather alluded to a horrific performance by the dreadful last-place team, a humiliating 27-6 loss at home to the San Francisco 49ers. In that game, the Redskins compiled just 147 total net offensive yards, their worst output in 12 years.
“I tried to watch the whole game on TV, but I couldn’t make it all the way to the end,” Whitefeather added. “I had to shut it off in disgust in the fourth quarter because I couldn’t take the pain anymore. You’d think those miserable shits could at least cover the six-point spread, especially given the 49er’s injury situation. Hell, they even blew my parlay with the under by three touchdowns!”
The Redskins have called the Washington, D.C.-area home since being founded back in 1932. For many years, American Indian tribes across the country relished the association of having a team named in their honor, especially one based in the nation’s capital. Indeed, when the Redskins were a winning franchise, team memorabilia enjoyed its strongest sales in areas populated by citizens of American Indian decent. But ever since bombastic boy owner Daniel Snyder took over the team in 1993, popularity has steadily declined everywhere as the Redskins have floundered at the bottom of the NFC East, disappointing anyone idiotic enough to root for the gutless team, from mayors to crack addicts (sometimes one and the same in D.C.).
Meanwhile, a similar movement is underway elsewhere to change the team name of yet another NFL franchise. On Monday, residents of the nation’s second most populous state took to the streets and rioted, insisting that the dismal performance of the 2-9 team bearing their name had brought “deep shame” to the 26 million residents of the Lone Star State.
Officials with the Houston Texans were unavailable for comment.
Gambling has no holy grail. But if there’s such a thing as finding the golden goose, it’s past posting.
While not exactly legal, past posting means placing a bet after the event’s outcome is already known. For instance, if someone was foolish enough to accept a wager on last night’s ball game, to place a bet with him would be past posting.
My first experience with past posting occured when I was still in high school. I worked at a fancy country club in Dallas. On weekends, the country club held what they called “casino nights.” Since Texas had no legal gambling of any kind at the time, “casino night” was wildly popular, operating sort of like an old speakeasy. Hundreds of rich people showed up every Saturday night to gamble.
Horse races were the highlight of the evening. Of course, the country club didn’t actually have any horses running. Instead, a movie projector was wheeled in and set up inside the clubhouse restaurant. Black and white film reels of old horse races from the 1970s were shown on a giant movie screen. Betting windows were set up and everyone bet on obscure races that had been run years earlier at some track in Miami. They even printed up sheets with the odds and names of the horses. This was long before the internet. Bettors had no way of knowing what races they were watching, so no one could possibly know the winning horses in advance.
Here I am working my ass off giving the public free gold, and then these bullshit games don’t turn out as they’re supposed to.
Total horseshit! It’s so wrong.
Consider two games played last week. Chalk up a $4,200 swing and losing my lunch to the inexplicable forces of the universe.
Recall that I touted the “UNDER 45” in the Philadelphia-Oakland game. That should have been an absolute cakewalk. Like minting fucking money. Hell, I already went out and spent what I was supposed to win from that game.
So instead of winning and cashing, what really happened? Those two piss ant offenses ended up combing to score 69 points! There is no fucking way Philadelphia and Oakland were supposed to score anything like that. I mean, you show me some kind of evidence where you could see Philadelphia showing up for a road game and putting up SEVEN FUCKING TOUCHDOWNS.
At about 10:30 last night, the monotony of another mostly chatterless WSOP Main Event final table was broken by a giant panda rushing onto the stage and subsequently crashing at the feet of six stunned poker players, playing for millions of dollars.
That was undoubtedly one of the highlights of a November Nine final table atmosphere which has become the equivalent of poker’s giant one-ring circus held the Rio’s big top — an excuse for anyone and everyone who can spell POKER to dress up, drink up, chant, celebrate, and party like there’s no tomorow, all interspersed with a mind-boggling marathon of down time during which nothing much happens.
This is televised poker. This is the World Series of Poker championship. This is the culmination of the profound wisdom pontificated by recent Poker Hall of Fame inductee Tom McEvoy when he said, “Poker is hours and hours of boredom, punctuated by moments of sheer terror.”
Here are some of my most memorable moments from last night: