Water From A Stone
The mouth of the righteous is a fountain of life, but violence overwhelms the mouth of the wicked. ~Proverbs 10:11
28, 26, 25, 24.
These are numbers that have haunted me for the past day. Normally, the only numbers I count are the ones I discuss with my favorite degenerate gambler friend on Thursday night as we wait, like two dogs slobbering over a bone, for the kickoff of the first college game. Do you take the over on the game and sweat through the first quarter when both offenses look like feeble junior varsity teams, do you dare call at half time to take the teaser second half line or do you just throw all you money at the nearest stumbling drunk and scream at him to call out random keno numbers?
At least football makes some sense. Unlike politics.
Politics is a loser. It will suck you in, drag you along and then crush you like the strange twisted ways of an 8th grade bra clasp. The man who tells you he knows the ways of politics is the worst kind of charlatan. He should not only be ridden out on of town on a rail but also should be shaved bare and left naked at the edge of a bee farm.
But bets have to be made and numbers have to be called. And only those who cannot resist the tug are awake when decent people are asleep, mumbling incoherently about the spread that they should have seen and the junk of the hard facts intruding on the voodoo behind their picks.
The worst bastard in the world is the one who crows at the bar about how he called the sure lock of the century while poor hopheads who spent their last rent check on some horrible deceit like South Florida start chewing at the brass bar fittings.
Politics. God help us all. At least the bookies win on the games. Hell, nobody wins at this awful thing that is politics. We chew around the edges hoping to nibble off just enough to sustain the vig.
The only safe bet is football. At least on those treacherous fields, the only ones who get hurt are the next generation. Lord knows, you read the bones wrong on this thing called politics and we might all be awash in gap-toothed carnies until the wheel circles again and bathes us all in the fires of Megiddo.