Murder, Mayhem and Mass Millions

I’ve never been a bumper sticker guy. However, I can’t argue with this: “The lottery is like a tax for people who are bad at math.” Now, that’s a bumper sticker.
As much as I respect those among my friends who profess on their bumpers a hatred of George Bush, a hope for whirled peas, instructions on what toll-free number to call if one wishes to dine on excrement in the event that the reader is less than impressed with the car operator’s driving tendencies, or even conclusions regarding piping plover taste tests, I cannot and will not join their ranks. Until now.

When I am at a Cumberland Farms, a Tedeschi’s, or any other of the rich, warm quilt of evenly placed food marts in our humble, wonderfully zoned region, more than half the time I end up behind some blessed septuagenarian, systematically spending his or her hard earned Social Security check on Mass Millions or Cash Winfall or Megabucks. Now, as I am prone to stereotyping, I will try to avoid jumping the three, well-marked inches to the conclusion that Fred the 71 year old pipe installer with the Masonic ring is likely a Republican who likely at least once in the past month – if not since breakfast – has made some sort of unfavorable comment regarding the status of illegal immigrants in this country (especially the brown ones) and how they are largely if not solely responsible for the downturn in the economy, high gas prices, violent television, us losing the war and "fags." In fact, everything and everyone else besides Fred has had a hand in helping him to arrive at the checkout counter of this very food mart, carefully investing in his future, picking tickets like a more speculative type would pick stocks. He’s going to win and he’s going to thank God when he does and he’s going to go to Foxwoods and blow it all and he’s going to be back at this very counter next year blaming the Pakistani convenience store clerk for selling him the winning ticket in the first place. In the meantime, I’ll still be standing behind him or one of his friends, waiting oh-so-patiently to pay for my chips and gas, finding not only the lottery, but the lighters shaped like cell phones, the $10 baseball cards and the rolling papers more and more attractive as the minutes pass.
I especially love how when Fred, Maggie (or whatever bag of protein is filling the orthopedic shoes in front of me) notices my definitely palpable impatience, they seem to slow down, if that’s possible, and really take their time with the choices they’re making. “Hmmm… I could get ‘Lucky 7’s’ but I won $20 on those in February. Maybe ‘Pot o’ Gold.’ Nope, Jimmy got $100 last week and then busted his leg at the Elks Club; bad luck there.” I’ll get an angry glance that says, “I’ve earned the right to stand here simply by existing on this earth longer than you and I’m gonna do it,” which is the kind of logic that is essentially on an even scale with my saying, “I can forcibly remove you from the checkout counter because I’m younger, stronger and since I haven’t blown my earnings on the %$#@! Lottery, I can easily post bail.”

The great singer (formerly of Black Flag and presently of Rollins Band,) speaker, writer and all-around righteous dude, Henry Rollins, once proposed that there should be varying degrees of murder for people that waste the time of others in such a fashion. His reasoning is that life is finite and the 5 minutes someone spends arguing with the lady at the airport ticket counter about why he should be able to bring a cleaver in his carryon luggage should be considered as 5 minutes less you have in the length of your life. If there are 3 degrees of murder and manslaughter, perhaps an offense of this type should be, say, 16th degree; a “life-larceny,” of sorts. I like that. If someone wants to charge me with that when I’m 70 years old and clogging up the line at “Romney’s Hydrogen and Refuse Mart” in what were formerly the pristine dunes of Truro, great. I’ll pay the $600 (if I have it after I fork over the $20 for M&M’s and the National Enquirer with the photos of a scantily clad Suri Cruise-Holmes caught on a Bali beach with President Rick Santorum) and be on my way.
Until then, move it, Gramps. As much as I appreciate your generous contributions to the state coffers resultant of your poor knowledge of arithmetic and as glad as I am that my road gets plowed because of it, I sense that your luck is in grave danger of running out.