The Presidential Power Parlay: Week 3

President Warren G. Harding is neither down nor ever out.

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.

SEASON'S HONEYPOT: +$100,000
LAST WEEK: Air Force (+21), Central Michigan (+21), USC (-26)
SEASON'S OVERALL RECORD ATS: 5-2

During my first Presidency, it was rumored I hosted many bacchanalian orgies in the White House. Well, let me be the first to tell you, those rumors were 110% true.

I like the company of Comrade Putin because he's into group sex. While most men think being able to get two women naked at the same time is worth eternal bragging rights, I got over that thrill my sophomore year at Ohio Central College.

If I'm forced to look at a couple of men in their natural element in exchange for seeing twenty to twenty five women at the same time, well, that's a price I'm willing to pay every day of the week.

After the realization I had misread the stars in the Altai mountain range, and thus cost me and my followers a cool $10,000, it created a pit in my stomach that only an orgy could fill.

Thankfully, Comrade Putin was up to the task. After a speech claiming that the U.S.S.R. was no more, he pocketed my $10,000 and came back with six kegs of Vodka and a horde of "party girls."

If there's one thing I loathe in this world, it's vodka. The only liquid worse is tequila. I've never spent a night drinking vodka or tequila and woke up the next morning and said, "Damn, Gamaliel, that was a wise-head move you made on that vodka/tequila last night."

But, alas, it is as the great Descartes once wrote, "When in Mother Russia, it is best to do the damn thing as the Russkis do the damn thing."

So, after a nutritious meal of ice cubes, I decided there was nothing left to do but make myself at home in the Kremlin because while I enjoy Comrade Putin's grandiosity and free-wheeling sexual nature, it's not like I was about to let him peel 10 bands off my back.

So last Saturday, after I paid Comrade Putin what I owed, he invited me outside into the Kremlin's courtyard. There, until the dark Russian sky, in the middle of a snowbank, Comrade Putin, his head of security named Georgi, and I re-upholstered about eighteen Russian party girls.

Some men are cowards, and take pride in abandoning the women they delight. This is largely because they are incapable of humbling themselves and serving to please for more than mere minutes. I chuckle at those little boys, for when I satisfy a woman, I bring a moving truck with me.

After three hours of our unbridled celebration of life, Comrade Putin produced a vial of a substance he called "Krokodil. (as always the case with my sagely wisdom, NSFW or anywhere else, really)"

"Our devious fiends in Serbian gulags produced this," he told me, holding a vial of the murky green substance. "It's home-brewed desomorphine, and produces a long, euphoric high."

I normally shy away from drugs which require injection, but I wasn't about to chicken out. When Putin began to search my arm for a suitable vein to inject me, I waived him off.

"There is only one vein I inject things into," I told him suggestively.

Putin seemed a little offset by my request, and that is when I knew I would have my monetary vengeance upon him this week.

The Krokodil packed a mean, mean punch. Once injected, I fell back into the snowbank in a euphoric bliss as the green substance coursed through my veins and tightened its hold on me.

When I re-harnessed my motor skills, much to my horror, I realized the substance had produced hard green scales everywhere.

When I pointed this out to Comrade Putin, he merely chuckled and said "Where do you think the name Krokodil came from?" before going back to making his Russian party girl scream.

I gritted my teeth, got back on my feet, and went back into the fracas with my scales swinging. It was during this second session, which I judged to be happening at around 5:30 in the morning, when the Celestial Reavers revealed this week's moves to me whilst I was in the throes of my sixth high five with the goddess Persephone during the same hour.

That morning, after Putin, Georgi and I finished burying the party girls in a shallow, unmarked mass grave, I asked Comrade Putin if he would be willing to accept another wager for the weekend.

"Of course," Putin chuckled, "If you feel like giving Mother Russia more money, she will never turn you down." We each sliced our hands open with his bowie knife, and upon shaking hands, the deal was done.

So, my followers, I apologize about leading you astray last weekend. Predicting one out of three games is a god damned embarrassment, and I'm not going to tolerate it. I hold myself to the highest of standards, and that's why this week, I have a good feeling we will be back in the money.

This week's $10,000 Presidential Power Parlay is a 3-team banger which will produce $60,000 in pure winnings. It's a street anthem that goes a little something like this:

Alabama vs. Arkansas (+21). The everyman better will gladly put their money on the Rolling Tide here, and bookies will chuckle and take their money. Many people were impressed with Alabama's dismantling of Michigan without realizing how big of a fiery pile of garbage that Michigan really is. I don't think the Razorbacks will win outright, but they will certainly cover.

USC vs. Stanford (+8.5). I have no idea what I was doing betting on USC last weekend. I hate them and all they stand for. Plus, I saw their fabled "Song Girls" and they're iffy sevens prancing around like they're dimes. Is there anything worse?

Take the Cardinal and laugh at your bookie when you do so.

California vs. Ohio State (-16.5). Hahahahahaha. I don't know what I was doing last week by not betting on my blood rider Urban Meyer. In years past, Ohio State games were about as fun to watch as a glass of milk sitting in the open sun.

Urban Meyer has brought a different 'tude to the Buckeyes. He doesn't even bother to punt half the time because punting is the coward's way out in football.

Plus, these NoCal boys are rolling to the Midwest, and playing in a venue which they will be in awe of. Imagine when gladiators came from some remote Roman outpost to fight in the pits of Rome in front of Caesar. That's what the Golden Bears will be this Saturday in the Horseshoe, and it will be King Urban presiding over the ceremonial bloodletting.

... Now let's get this money, Comrades. I will write next week when I'm ferrying our fat sacks of cash across the Russian border. Look to the east, for I will be riding west.

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