The Month I Might Win The Lottery

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December is upon us ladies and gentlemen, and that means one thing.

It’s my month to buy lottery tickets.

I should probably offer up the following warning for you before you continue to read this ill conceived installment of Letters From The Past. As it is right now, the plan is to pine on about exploring exciting new opportunities which reside on the horizon just beyond my reach. If you use your Little Orphan Annie Decoder Pin correctly, you’ll realize that today’s message is more than just a crummy commercial.

I’m feeling a little bloated.

I won’t go into a great deal of detail, however I will drop the nugget that Wifey found a new flavor of Hamburger Helper earlier today.

‘Nuff said.

Anyway, December is a little over a week away and it’s my turn to buy lottery tickets. June and December are usually my months to shell out a couple of bucks each week for a few quick picks. Honesty and a written agreement dictates that I share the winnings with a small group of co-conspirators I work with Cubeville. Winning Mega-Millions and/or Powerball has the potential to provide a happy pathway to financial security and reckless abandon for all parties involved.

Seriously, people.

I’m ready to do something else.

It was fun and exciting for several years, but it’s getting time to consider other avenues.

As to what I want to do at this point, the jury is still out on that one. The government has manured (or maneuvered, take your pick) itself into a position over the last several years to make sure my every last need is being accommodated, so why not take them up on it?

Once my needs are taken care of, I can pursue interests like training world class, highly bread, toy poodles to lay still once thrown into the monkey cage at the zoo.

Perhaps the good people at Charmin could use a good Quality Assurance Analyst.

Hang on. I have an itch.

Maybe, just maybe, I could find a job reviewing movies where my ratings of a film would be based on how many times during the flick I felt compelled to go tell the over-rated, self-important, movie stars to go *expletive deleted* themselves.

Two words: “Twinkie Tester”. Granted, I’d do that here in Texas or some other right-to-work state.

Obviously, the world is my oyster.

The problem is that I’m no fan of oysters.

Regardless, whatever I decide to do in an entitlement rich, post-Twinkie America, I’ll have to find something that challenges my interest and keeps me occupied for the next 20 or 30 years.