Powerball: The Rich Get Richer, I Need a Beer

Powerball. Right.

Like I need another reminder that my life isn't a winning ticket.

Every time this shit blows up, the wife starts talking. 'What would we do?'

I'd buy a goddamn island. With a self-filling whiskey fountain.

She'd probably want a bigger house. More yard work for me.

And the kids. Oh god, the kids.

They'd still be brats. Just richer brats.

Imagine that. My son asking for a yacht for his birthday instead of a PlayStation.

Fuck that.

I spend five bucks on a ticket sometimes. On a Friday night. When I'm feeling optimistic. Which is usually after three Jameson and sodas.

Never wins.

What did I expect?

They say 'a chance to change your life.' My life needs a full structural overhaul, not a fresh coat of paint.

If I won, I'd pay off the mortgage. Get a new liver. Maybe a new back. My old back is shot from lifting kids and cases of beer.

Then what?

Still gotta deal with traffic.

Still gotta pretend to listen to Brenda in accounting.

Still gotta figure out what to make for dinner when the wife's too tired.

Money doesn't solve all the problems.

It solves the 'can't afford another pint' problem, though.

That's a big one.

It's a tax on hope, that's what it is.

And I'm paying my share.

Regularly.

Every time that damn jackpot climbs.

Just like everyone else.

We all think we're the one. The special one.

We're not.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I hear the ice machine calling. And it's not for a celebration.

It's for a hangover remedy.

Again.