What will I do? Where will I go?
Scarlett O’Hara
Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.
Rhett Butler
Wait! Tomorrow's another day.
Scarlett O’Hara
Margaret Mitchell, Gone With the Wind
Look, Listen. Like life, football is a cruel and brutal sport and gambling on it is even worse. The Carolina Panthers must feel something like that sick nag with the hide scraping ribs and frothing lips that Scarlett O’Hara whipped to death on the doorstep of her father’s colonial mansion, Tara. The Panthers were beaten like stray cats on Saturday, and only drunken gamblers saw it coming. There is no one I pity less than Jake Delhomme and his 5 pathetic turnovers that probably turned over 50 million dollars or more in legal bets and just as much off the table.
Now, I don’t give one damn for any of those sick panthers that slouched off the field against the laughing stock of the playoffs, the Phoenix Cardinals. No. They folded like Confederates in the path of General Sherman and took a licking that they deserved. Thank god that I put no money on those cheap punks, though I would have if I had not been badly disillusioned previously by so many teams in the final weeks of the season. It is better to invest your money in a ponzi racket than place one cent against the bookies. They know more than the South has ever lost and are more vicious and exacting in their numbers.
This is all that I have to say this week. Perhaps this blog can be resurrected, but I will need a serious sure shot, and these things are hard to come by, especially in these mean times. I cannot stomach the world today: something is wrong and I lack the patience to put my finger on it. Perhaps I need a small vacation. Somewhere small, warm, safe and nice. A place perched on the edge of the sea, still forgotten, still lost. Save your money, ignore the newspapers, forget about love, and stockpile smarts while you still have them. If you think that the drunk is bad, wait for the hangover. We live in dangerous times; don’t say that you weren’t warned. Everyone has felt their hearts sink into their boots, gamblers or not, and the road is not pretty. Many are called and many are punished. It is not enough to be rude and thoughtless. You have to be prepared to cut your own throat and those of your neighbours without even waiting for the cock to crow thrice. Peter is staring down the barrel now, and it is not a pretty sight. There is more room in the potters’ field, and there are many bodies yet to be buried. Trust only yourself, and still keep one hand behind your back. I have seen the dawn and it is as blood red as ever. For those who have faith in the big show (i.e. the Olympics), there will be no return. Real estate developers and hair dressers roam the corridors of city hall. There is no honour among thieves. None. The writing is on the wall and only clichés can deaden its sting. But the pain is already here; it has always been here. Everything before was just a postponement. I am serious and you should be too. Thank god for Tom Petty and Irish whiskey. These things have never done wrong. Ever. Il giocare, non e male, ma e male il perdere (there is no harm in playing but great harm in losing).
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