You were holding up the line at the liquor store. You had on giant, Coke-bottle-thick glasses and a Marine haircut. You insisted on standing at the counter, scraping Scratcher after Scratcher, determined to win a million dollars before you walked out the door. Meanwhile, the cloud of hot mugginess around you was the opposite of winning. You are how I imagine Pigpen from Peanuts would smell in real life. Never mind the line growing behind you while you just stood there, open mouth smacking on your hot dog, leaving a layer of dollar-ticket dust crumbs so thick it looked as if you were whittling a toy boat with a dirty quarter. Finally, after the fifth worthless try, you gave up. “’Course I ain’t won nuthin’ . . . here,” you said to the unfortunate store clerk. “Yer owner cheats the game so he kin win.” Yes, lady, I’m sure he commits a federal offense so you can’t win at scratch tickets. Meanwhile, how about next time you spend that $5 on a stick of deodorant?
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