The 29th (and greatest) U.S. President, Warren G. Harding, was a renowned gambler, golfer, and lover of life. As such, his words are brought to you here through the medieval art of necromancy. Seeing as President Harding ushered us into economic success unheard of in human history (before being tragically assassinated by his jealous wife--which tanked the economy), his words here might as well come to your doorstep in the form of etched stone tablets. (All views and opinions presented here should be considered only those of Warren G. Harding himself, obvii).
As the subject matter enclosed is intended for mature audiences only, reader discretion is strongly advised.
I woke up in a Chinese opium den, head feeling like I got smacked in the face with a bag of hot nickels. In my eternal clumsiness, I tumbled down the stack of naked slatterns I had so carefully erected in my crunkiness the night before.
"Where are you going, Lordship?" said one of the 'tutes as I tumbled down the small mountain of flesh and hair.
I didn't have that kind of time to answer the questions of that kind. Tumbleweeds like me, we don't know where we're going, we just roll wherever the wind pushes us.
And when I hit the polar bear skin rugs of the opium den's floor, I realized why the Gods had sent their wind to topple me from my mountaintop of naked ethnic girls: it was Presidential Power Parlay season.
The Celestial Reavers rewarded their chosen son with over $120,000 in the honeypot after last season. Could have been over $210,000 if I hadn't pissed away an extra 90K after doing some blotter acid with Ronald Reagan.
My initial plan was to turn $120,000 into $120,000 worth of cocaine, before I turned those bricks into $500,000 greenbacks. Alas, it is as the Navajo say, "A line of pure cocaine leads to a line of pure cocaine leads to $120,000 cocaine fueled orgy soirees."
I don't know what happened, all I know is it did, and ever since, I have been back-packing my way through Asia. My travels lead me to the opium den in the capital of the Sichuan province, Chengdu.
I'm not sure how many of you have to the hustling and bustling streets of Chengdu, but the people they are mighty gregarious. If you happen to stumble into the opiate district -- and don't worry, you'll know when you're there, the stench is unmistakable -- look up my friend Sun Tzu and his opium tents. Drop my name, and he'll probably hook you up with the finest samplings of his most cherished reserves, and his whores are down for whatever.
After settling my account with the desk clerk (that is, letting her fellate me on my way out the door), I hit the streets of the Land of Milk and Honey, and immediately the people flocked to me. I guess a corn-fed, 6'4" cracker jack like myself stands out in the streets.
"Warren!" They shouted! "Feed us! Feed us! The streets need fed!"
Who am I to deny the streets? I reached into my satchel and I found a small boulder of cocaine. I broke off chunks at a time and fed the streets until most of my stash was gone. (Papa Bear always needs a lil' honey to get by, you see).
After dispensing of goodies into the streets, I dipped into a small maze of piss-satured allies. A zig here, a zag there, a quick hit of opium there, and boom, you come to a little tavern run by gypsies in a back corner hustle of the city.
"Ronda!" I said over the smell of marijuana and Triscuit crackers, "I hope I'm not too late to put down a parlay banger in this here establishment!"
The one eyed gypsy, cloaked in dishrags, threw her mangy white hair back over her shoulder as she looked me over. "Warren," she said, "I had heard of your prowess between the sheets, and I was blessed enough to witness it firsthand. Alas, your prowess in gambling game is even more renowned. Are you trying to bankrupt and old gypsy?"
Yes, I wanted to say before lighting the whole den of inequity on fire, but I chose my words more kindly, "I am told gambling houses like this generally look in favor of the parlay. Is this not the case here?"
"With most men, aye, parlays are favored, but you are not most men, Warren Gamaliel Harding."
I reached into my tuxedo jacket and pulled out a sack of gold coins. If there's one language gypsies speak, it's gold. I handed them the satchel over to her.
Her milk-colored, leathery hands clutched the bag. She held it up in the air in an effort to weigh it.
"Fine," she said. "Fine, I will let you place a wager here. But none of this 3-team pussy shit. I want you to put down four or more teams into a wager." A smirk cracked her face.
Hook, line, and sinker and I thought. "Tell me, Ronda," I said, "How much would 10,000 U.S. dollars get me if I were to place a wager on Toledo (+11), Ohio State (-23), Ohio (+6) and Alabama (-13.5)... how much would it win me?"
The one-eyed gypsy, her face mangled with scars, slipped my coin purse into her robe of rags. "It'll net you $100,000 in this house, and not a penny more," she said.
"Ronda, you must have me mistaken," I replied, "for I never want a penny more than I'm earned, but I also don't want a penny less."
Ronda the Gypsy Queen bowed and disappeared into the shadowy backrooms of her establishment. I bellied up to her bar in order to write this message to the streets back home.
I'm rolling with the State of Ohio this week, because really, is there a more silkier state in the entire Union? I know the South fancies their football teams and somehow equates this to societal dominance, but I'm not too old enough to remember a time when Confederate soldiers used to wear coffee beans for jewelry. (Yeah, I'm shocked they lost the war too. LOL.)
I like Toledo (+11), because, well, I like the city of Toledo. Back during my cocaine syndicate-Presidential days, I used to use Toledo as a port to push my product, Marion Anthrax, into the streets of Canada. The Glass City is a fine city, and it's people are upstanding and honorable.
Because of this, I have no choice but to take 11 points that these gambling chumps are so foolishly giving me. I know there are people in this world who glean over tombs of "pre-season" information, but I don't deal in conjectures. This world is about gut instinct and grit, and I know my people from Toledo aren't going to let me down against some team from old Mexico.
As for Ohio State -- I wanted to take Ohio State of Marion, but apparently the Scarlet Wave don't have a football team yet, so I'm forced to take the next best thing: the Ohio State Buckeyes of Columbus (-23). The Buckeyes pissed on themselves every time I wagered on them last year, but this new guy, this Urban Meyer, I know a big-dicked bronco buster when I see one. And that's what I see in Urban Meyer.
Plus, Ohio State is playing Miami from Oxford. I don't know if any of you have ever been to Oxford, but it's a bunch of pastel wearing half-wits slurping Miller Light and calling it a "party" before "earning" a job at their dad's ski resort.
For Ohio against Penn State, I am still reeling from the fact my old accomplice, Joey Blaze, was in leagues with a serial child molester. Joey Blaze and I had done hella dirt back in the day -- but every man needs a code -- and Joey Blaze went against a code in which 99.5% of the world's populace believes in.
Because of that, I have no choice but to ride with the Bobcats of Ohio (+6). I haven't seen a lick of their film yet, but god damnit, hasn't Ohio had this football thing on lock since our state's inception? I'd like to think so; hopefully the Bobcats realize what being in this parlay means for them, and they won't let their President down.
Then there's Michigan vs. Alabama (-13.5). If there was a "gambling lock" of week one, this would be it. I have never put my pistol in the face of a newborn in exchange for its Snickers bar, but if I ever did, I imagine it would feel a lot like gambling on this game.
Michigan isn't good at anything. During my first Presidency, I tried to sell Michigan back to the Chippewas in exchange for some wool and feathers. They weren't having it. The Chippewas are crafty ones indeed.
So there it is, friends. The football season is upon us. It's time for another yearly hustle; long live The Hustle. I will write of the next move this after this weekend.
Cocaine safely, friends. NAMASTE!