The Presidential Power Parlay: Week 2

The President is up $110,000 this week.

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).

LAST WEEK: $10,000 TO WIN: $100,000: Ohio State (-22.5), Alabama (-13.5), Ohio (+6), Toledo (+11)
SEASON'S HONEYPOT: $110,000

As the subject matter enclosed is intended for mature audiences only, reader discretion is strongly advised.

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"I don't think you want to go this route," I tried to tell Ronda the Gypsy Queen. "I came here to collect my winnings -- my earned winnings. Now, that ain't much to ask for. I placed my bet against the house, and the house rolled snakeyes."

The yellow tooth gypsy spit on the ground, "There's how much your gold is worth to the Gods of this house," she snarled.

On those words, two Samurai stepped out from the shadows.

"I'm calling your bluff, Warren Gamaliel Harding," the woman cloaked in dishrags said. "So, you can either tuck your pink penis between your legs and walk out of here with a sliver of pride, or you can keep your pride and see what the exchange rate is for it in the pits of Hell."

I chuckled, "Ronda, while I am mystified by the presence of two samurais -- a Japanese institution I thought to be extinct -- I must assure you, I wouldn't be this far into the pot if I were bluffing."

The time for tongue wagging was over. As quick as a high schooler on the cusp of his first hand job trying to get his manhood out of his pants, I reached into my tuxedo jacket, grabbed my bowie knife, and threw it in the direction of one Samurai. Before he could take his katana out of its sheath, he crumpled to the ground. The second one, however, was as swift as advertised.

Thankfully, I was already one step ahead of the game.

Before the second samurai could cut my melon in half, I heard the *CLICK, CLACK* of a Desert Eagle banging into place over my shoulder.

The katana stopped a half inch from my face.

You're god damn right I didn't flinch.

"You ain't the only one with goons lurking in the shadows," I said.

The Gypsy Queen did her best to keep her kiels even, but I saw her soul quake. I knew it because it was the same look her eyes flashed before she entered her 33rd minute of orgasm only three moons before. We made unprotected sex in the back alleys of Chengdu, next to a dumpster.... all whilst a pack of feral dogs howled at the moon, and the aroma of trash, dirt, and feces was still heavy in the night air.

I hate to see lovers turned into enemies, but that's the way it goes on the streets. I lathered my member in cement glue before we had the sex, and for that reason, I was not capable of catching the love bug known to you cowards as "HIV".

"Who is this man?" The gypsy queen asked, "I know this dirt-eared scaliwag isn't with your Secret Service."

I laughed in her dry, swollen face, "Gypsy Queen, allow me to introduce you to my newest accomplice, Bang 'Em Smurf. Mr. Smurf, I give you Ronda the Gypsy Queen, who, up until about 12 minutes ago, I figured to be the last honorable gypsy. Also, there's the samarai guy with the katana in my face, but he doesn't appear to be the kind to roll with a moniker."

"And you trust this.. this... Bang 'Em Smurf character with your life?" The question seemed to bemuse the gypsy queen.

"As much as I trust a crack dealer from Queens, which means insofar as I could spit. Alas, I drank with the man over these last eighteen hours, and maybe I promised him as much opium and cocaine as he can carry out of this den of inequity."

The gypsy queen opened her mouth, but it was already too late. I rolled out of the way of the samurai's katana, and Bang 'Em Smurf bucked his Desert Eagle twice. The Samurai fell directly back into the wood floor, while the gypsy queen's face disappeared before she crumpled the ground.

"And that's how the fuck we do in Queens," Bang 'Em Smurf said before slipping his Desert Eagle back into the waistband of his Zoombaz.

Unfortunately, the noise had alerted the other patrons in Rondo's gypsy den. The music stopped. The ale ceased to be poured. Naked men stumbled out into the hallway, just to see what the commotion was all about.

"This shit is over with," I decreed. "This house of gambling and pussy-mongering is at an end. You have 30 seconds to evacuate."

"Until our paths cross again," Bang 'Em Smurf said, bowing before he disapeared into the back to collect his spoils from Ronda's vault.

I bent over and dug through the gypsy queen's rags. Her face was still missing, blown into bone fragments and bloody tissue all over the walls and floor of her former hovel. Eventually, I found the silk sack of coins I was looking for. It felt ten times as heavy as the bag I had given her.

"This will do," I said before throwing two coins on her body. Never let anybody say Warren G. Harding took anything more than he was owed.

I retrieved my knife from the neck of the first deceased Samurai, and I sauntered over to the bar. I thought about wrangling a couple of Ronda's old hos and taking a quick jaunt to Pusstown, but I knew I didn't have that kind of time. I never have that kind of time during college football season.

"Give me your cheapest bottle of vodka," I said to the petrified bartender who looked somewhat like a lumberjack. I placed two silver coins on the bar, "One for you, one for the bottle," I said cooly. He handed me a bottle of Popov's Vodka. "This'll do," I said.

After taking a quick swig, it was a hard day at the office, alright?, I dumped its contents onto the wooden floor and bartop. Then, I took out my pack of 20 Class-A Newport menthol cigarettes, and I lit one with a match. After taking a couple of puffs, I dropped it into the puddles of vodka at my feet, instantly setting the bar aflame.

While others ran and ducked for cover, I stood in the flames and laughed. I even let the flames singe me, if for no other reason than I happen to enjoy the smell of burning pink flesh on an early Sunday morning. I was also high on cocaine.

I left in the same manner most Marionaires do: out the back door. Through the streets I ducked, ignoring cries for help... my time in the Land of Milk and Honey had come to an end. It was onto the next one.

I expected things to get hectic; maybe even have to hold court in the street, but in the end, the Chengdu law creepers didn't want none of it. After dippin' from the cops, I followed an old goat trail that a blind jujitsu sensei had shown me two weekends prior. After defeating him in hand-to-hand combat (that is to say, making him say "no mas" during hour 56 during a 72-Hour Hallucination hustle), he walked me to the edge of town, showed me the goat trail, and told me that this was my path into the future.

"No way, hombre," I told him, "my path into the future is six lanes wide and lined gold and cocaine bricks.... with naked chicks fanning me with palm leaves on the side of the road."

The blind sensei smiled, as if I had just declared the sky to be purple. His realities could not be shaken by words alone, and for that, I knew he was a waypoint sent to me by the Celestial Reavers themselves.

I took that goat path, and I walked until the leather soles in my loafs were ripped away by the rocks. I walked until my feet had blistered, festered, and the pus hardened between my toes.

And eventually, I found my way to the Soviet Union. I didn't know it until two surly chaps holding AK-47s confronted me in the Atlai mountain range. I didn't know it until they started speaking at me in Vampire.

"My name is President Warren G. Harding," I told them. My tuxedo was tattered and in rags, but not even gust of win sent from the rotted corpse of Lenin himself could move a frosty white tip on my unrepentant hairline. "Last week, I was drinking with a comrade of yours, a certain Comrade Petrov," I told them. "I heard there was a situation here in Moscow.... an on-going pussy riot," I shot them both a glance to confirm they knew what I was speaking of, "and I've come to lend all 13 inches of myself to the Motherland. Think of it as the greatest riot baton ever crafted," I motioned to my purple python bouncing against my thigh as my blood coursed through it. It was a big tent party I had been carrying for the last 3 days.

"I have also come to lay down a mean parlay."

The nice thing about the word "parlay" -- it is a word understood in any language. I have scoured dictionaries and ancient tombs, and I have yet to find a more kinglier word than "parlay".

I write to you from a Soviet guardhouse in the remote Atlai mountains. On the morrow, we will journey to Moscow. From what I gather, the new Soviet Premiere's name is "Putin". It seems to me, I've heard some tales of grandiosity about this Putin chap. We'll see what transpires.

Have no fear, I have the card I will be carrying into the Casino de Putin. In this week's $10,000 Presidential Power Parlay, I will be exchanging 10,000 dollars for whatever-the-fuck the going exchange rate is on whatever-the-fuck the Russians are calling "money" now.

I'm not going to lie, while out smoking a cigarette with my Soviet guardsmen, I looked into the stars, and the week 2 stars aren't burning nearly as bright as the week 1 ones were.

Still, there is only one direction on the Money Train. I'd brag about making a quick $100,000 last week, but frankly, $100,000 isn't enough to make my dick twitch anymore.

Vegas made the mistake of letting me and my goons kick in their door after week 1. Now it's time to tear this asshole open and burrow our way into their cold, money-pumping hearts. Last one into the champaign room is sucking my dick.

Now, to business, for the sun approaches:

Michigan State @ Central Michigan (+21). Remember the aforementioned tale where I tried to hustle the Chippewas by giving them Michigan back in exchange for a few bales of wool and three pillows-worth of feathers? (Enough to keep my concubines warm and comfortable in the winter.) But they wouldn't have it?

I like the Chippewas. They're the only honorable people in a state fueled by methamphetamine and Faygo. They're also the only ones with sense. Central Michigan, hosting the Sparty? Sparta eventually fell to their fondness of homosexuality. The Sparty will fall to the Chippewas.

Air Force (+22) at Michigan. Hmmmm, no idea what the Vegas gods were thinking with this line. I've read that our Air Force has bombers capable of evading sonar radar? Surely, the shitty little militias of Michigan are no match for our nation's bravest?

I guess we'll see what sort of Anti-Artillery fire Ann Arbor has tucked up her skirt. My guess is it's little more than gonorrhea. I'd be more scared if it were the measles.

USC (-26) at Syracuse. USC has some talent; they're on turf, and Syracuse is garbage. Plus, with the NCAA once again knocking on their door, USC will be out to prove a point. Syracuse should have been smart and scheduled this game at noon (aka 9 AM west coast time), but since this will be the equivalent of a noon kick-off for USC, I don't foresee the Orangemen offering much of a resistance to those flamboyant bros from the University of Southern California.

It's my hope to procure $60,000 in pure winnings, which should be enough to see us through next week. *fingers crossed*

Until next week, comrades.... ~*~*~*~*~*GONE~*~*~*~*~**~*~~*

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