Goddamn…32, 26, 20, 38 and 58. They seem so obvious, but only one Powerball ticket sold in Sun City, California matched them all. At final tally, the jackpot was $448.7 million, with a lump sum payout that would be worth $279.1 million. It’s the seventh largest prize in Powerball history.

Jeebus mamaloocha. That makes my intestines roil. I’ll freely admit it – I’m not a magnanimous guy. Whenever I hear about someone hitting the lottery, all I feel is a queasy, seething disgust. First off, it should be me. I’m clearly more deserving. I’d give most of it away to charity…cancer research, stem cell…uh… your various technologies, climate change stuff, garbage like that, you know? Goddamnit, it should have been me! Sun City, California…sounds like some podunk arm-pit if I’ve ever heard of one. Dollars to donuts the lucky winner is a brainless troglodyte, the kind that would spend thirty grand on a gold plated statue of a dolphin…or maybe of themselves holding a dolphin. This is going to keep me up a couple of nights.

I don’t play the lottery anymore, thank God. If I did, I’d feel worse. I used to though…play the lottery, I mean. It had to stop eventually. It just became too mentally and spiritually exhausting. In the days leading up to the drawing, I’d obsess over it. How would I react if I was the big winner? How would I split up the loot? A million here and there to my friends…and to, you know, cancer research and all that crap. Like I said, I’d give most of it away. Maybe, I’d hang on to fifty mill or so…sixty at most…seventy-five tops! I remember, on the nights of the big drawing there was always such gorgeous expectation. I would be so buzzy with excitement my taint would vibrate. Of course, I always lost, obviously…duh…or else I wouldn’t be here writing about it – I’d be in my luxury condo in Boca Raton with a gold plated statue of myself holding a dolphin.

Thing is, I never came close. When it comes to picking numbers, I’ve got total shit for brains.

I’m not meant to be on easy street. I was born to lose. Not like that rube in Sun City, California….he was born to win! Well, screw it. Good for him…or her. I wish whoever it is all the best, I really do. But, they should be cautious – that’s all I’m saying. You know what I’m talking about, right? The curse of the lottery winner. It’s a well-documented fact, their lives fall apart within a year of hitting the jackpot…five years at most…fifteen tops! It’s a well-documented fact, look it up if you don’t believe me.

I’ll get by on my meager wage. I’ll subsist on my mealy ramen, my disdain for humanity and my cheap booze. Don’t worry about me. It’s the person who’ll be receiving the $280 million that I’m concerned about. If the laws of probability hold up – and they always do — they’re cursed. Cursed, yes. I’ll be fine though, don’t you worry about me. I’m fine…I’m fine…I’m fine.

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I'm a writer/editor with a penchant for saddle shoes, pontification and fried pork rinds. Equal parts gadfly, cut-up, provocateur, philosopher, and silly-willy. My personal heroes include Reggie Jackson, Elvis Costello and Philip Roth.

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