“I’ll raise you five Harriets for one of your Jacksons.”

(Ben Gannon)

Gambling Currency Glossary of terms:

I’ll bet a….

C-Note, century, Benny or Benjamin Franklin. That’s 100 dollars.

A Johnny:That’s a two dollar bill representing our second president, and much like second place, no one remembers him properly and bets a currency which is almost obsolete.

An Honest Abe: The five dollar bill. The only thing dishonest about this bill is when you place a bet and win, the man in debt to you skips town.

An A .J. (Andrew Jackson) Twenty dollars. That’s not worth a Yankee Dime, unless slavery is your thing.

Some Wampum: Tobacco, maize or quality mash.

The fifty dollar bill: That’s a Grant. Not many gamblers carry these anymore, but five dimes equals a Grant.

One large: That’s one thousand Georges. One dollar bills. Our first President would be selling his wooden teeth as wampum if he knew he was the lowest form of currency.

Let’s take a deep and sorrowful dive into the depths of the 45 dollar bill. That bill would be bright red, adorned with snakes, littered with hooves of lies, a deceitful haircut and “In Evil, We Trust.”

Sadly, years ago, many people close to me may have thought I had a gambling problem…until I struck it rich and quit. No problem. Then, my friends following me developed their own problem and blamed it on me. Once they find that pot of gold at the end of the bookie’s ass, they’ll finally get it. When you find that pot of fool’s gold, you go two directions. Quit or take a right. Quitting was always the best option. Taking a right hook is up to you.

Even when you quit serious gambling, you are plagued with gambling credibility and guilt. Calls continue from right field to center and left asking for advice on the latest game. That’s the worst. I was blamed for so many losses (and divorces) for others taking my thin as ice advice, I would have nightmares wondering if they could afford their next month’s rent. That’s when I informed my friends I was officially out.

Since then, the gambling demons have not surfaced, (I do friendly bet on occasion with friends and brothers) but an annual call does ask for my Super Bowl pick. I just laugh, and say, “flip a coin”. Heads they win, and tails you lose.That’s the best I’ve got. Or, bet on Brady. He will probably be the first Quarterback whose face is on the Billion Dollar Bill.

Regarding the names of currency, I will give my vote for one monumental, courageous, intelligent, noble person deserving to be placed on the Twenty Dollar Bill. Harriet Tubman should replace that slave owning ass hat known as Andrew Jackson.

Proudly, I have a friend, all of 94 years of age willing to take the covid vaccination. That takes moxie. I would have written “balls”, but he doesn’t need those anymore.

As a former gambler, I looked up the Vegas odds regarding his life expectancy, post vaccination. Amazed, Vegas was far too righteous to take any bets. Vegas!????

Smuckers, the Today Show King of Jelly, good wishes, thoughts, and fare thee wells, was willing to toss out some odds. The over under on our friend is currently one hundred and ten. As a longtime friend, wishing my buddy, Marshall, to live past one hundred and ten, I took the over. My brother, also a lifetime friend and realist, bet the under, but just so he could sleep peacefully at night, never wishing to bet on someone’s demise, he did wish him to live at least until one hundred and nine.

Whichever man wins this wager will be supplied a lifetime supply of Smucker’s Grape Jelly. My bookie is currently on the line with Wonder Bread and Jif.

Marshall didn’t wish to participate.

A few years from now, all the students of the world can trash those ridiculously outdated history books no one reads anymore, but are used as a supplement for teachers who still believe the Berlin Wall remains upright and the USSR is not just an APP, but a country.

We are witnessing a very critical, positive moment and perhaps moments in our great and sometimes tarnished history of America. Most of us are celebrating not only the first woman Vice President, but also recognizing her to be the first woman of color to represent our separated Nation. As a white boy growing up in the 70’s 80’s and 90’s, I remember my father saying, “One day, a great leader of our country will be crowned President of the United States. He or she will be a qualified man or woman, black or white, but it will happen. That’s when I’ll have hope for America again.” His republican friends thought my father shouldn’t fog his ideas with booze and common decency. My father was the most sober of the bunch.

Well, I hope my father is rejoicing in heaven. No fireworks, no busting beer glasses over heads with Irish and Scottish glee, just a sigh of relief knowing we can evolve.

What’s the difference between a mob and an angry mob? It’s a trick question for morons. There is no difference. A mob is a mob. Just watch the Simpsons.

The mayor of Springfield: “Let’s kill everyone!”

Community of Springfield: “Hurray!!

I am legally blind, but I can hear and have developed a keen sense of smell. That’s what separates me from the pigeons. They enjoy crackers. I like chocalate milk. Who really cares?

Wake up and smell the pigeons.

Wednesday used to be referred as “Hump Day”.

While teaching with sixth grade female teachers, the male seventh grade teaching pigs were not allowed to use this phrase. The female teachers deemed that day blasphemous when it wasn’t ok to have sexual relations in the cafeteria, locker room, boiler room, playground or gymnasium.

They had it all wrong. The male teachers always thought that day was just that much closer to drinking on Friday.

A snowball to the face, or central man region, hurts. But, not as much as Covid. I was wondering if anything good can come of this God awful pandemic, especially during the holidays. Here’s where I went.

Wherever there is snow, youngsters take advantage of that snow. A good snowball fight can calm the nerves, ease some suffering, and ultimately fight an enemy which must be destroyed…..your neighborhood ‘snow toughs’. It’s a perfect Covid fight where many kids cry, but nobody dies.

In our neighborhood, there was a gang referred to as the “Carbones.” They ran every carnival in town and had links to the “BoneCars”. They ran the local demolition derby and bumper cars on Sundays. The Carbones would schedule their derby during Catholic mass when all the fathers were plowing snow. It was a great escape and excuse for the fathers praying they could get the Sunday off.

Snowball fights tend to be socially distant, which is a key requirement for Covid safety protocol. Usually, unless you run out of snow, those in snowball combat will not get closer than six feet before tossing and hurling wet ice balls directly at your forehead. Ice balls are considered Christmas War Crimes. Rocks in the balls? You can look at that at two ways. Look away or run away.

Thinking back to a neighborhood snowball fight when we were kids, my brothers and I fought fair. We’d wad up a ball and toss it at the opponent as though we were Roberto Clemente. (Best right arm in the game.) The Carbones would get nasty. As God’s wet flakes landed on the tongues and yellow teeth of the Carbones, it would melt into a volcano of sulfuric filth. We were terrified but stood our ground. As the Carbones approached, we were well armed, and we even had a snowball sniper on our roof in case things turned ugly. His name was Joe. (Unfortunately, a Carbone picked him off when he briefly lost attention to make yellow snow). God rest his soul.

Although we thought we were winning, one of the Carbones spat in the snowball, crossed the line and crammed it in the mouth of one of ours. (This would break COVID safety protocol nowadays.) It was a kamikaze mission. That rendered us defenseless.

As I reflect on those snowball fights, I realize that COVID has nothing on the Carbones. Thankfully, they aren’t around cramming yellow snowballs in our faces, and if we’re lucky enough to have snowfall this holiday, we can rest assure that most snowball fights will be appropriately safe and socially distanced.

Stay warm…Happy Holidays

Singing is not my weapon of choice, although it should be since I don’t own a weapon other than the friendly Lousville Slugger.

When carolers come to our house, they scatter when I open the door with a bat. It’s pretty cute. Perhaps the real reason they never come back is because I’m wearing eighties clothing.

Swinging the bat left handed and throwing with my right was not that unusual. My brother, Greg, hit left handed, threw right handed and wrote left handed. He is an amazing artist.

I looked up to him because he would eat Thanksgiving leftovers with his left hand. It seemed more productive for him, so I tried it out on my napkin which was where the gravy, potatoes and stuffing landed.

For all you a-holes not knowing the difference between dressing and stuffing, don’t worry about it. I didn’t understand until my mother stopped making both. Pretty simple. The stuffing is stuffed in the turkey and dressing is placed in a buttered glass dish, also known as lazy stuffing.

Pre heat the oven to 3000 degrees. Wait a minute. 375 degrees unless you live in Canada. You and your metric system are on your own.

Ingredients:

Two table spoons of butter. Get the salted butter. We are all going to die, so we may as well go down in glory with salt and butter.

Two Onions chopped. I have two great friends from Walla Walla, so I get the sweets. Other than my friends and their mothers, there is nothing good about Walla Walla, other than the name and a side of asparagus.

6 large cornmeal muffins. Unless you are a mormon, skip the Marie Calllender’s waste of your time recipe and go to your local baker. Believe me. They are better. No cooking or prayer required.

One ostrich egg , or you may substitute it with a regular egg at the local grocery store.

Fresh Sage leaves, chopped angrily if the in-laws are coming to bitch about you not taking advantage of stove top stuffing found at the dollar store. Two for one discount.

Firearms: Put them in a safe place.

1/4 heavy octane cream good for the soul and your last artery.

1/4 chicken stock…broth is for the suckers. The Irish are the only ones buying chicken stock because it’s cheaper and no one will hire them. It’s easy to hate the Irish. (My wife just informed me I’m Irish…dang it.). Thank God this recipe doesn’t include potatoes.

Salt and Pepper. It’s an equal opportunity spice.

The cooking:

Melt the butter in a medium skillet. My friend called it a munchkin skillet, and I found that offensive. To his credit, we did watch The Wizard of OZ recently.

Cook the onions for ten or fifteen minutes….or as or as long it takes to finish your drink…in that case five seconds.

Caramelize those onions as though they were your best enemy. Low and slow but try to enjoy the sweet suffering.

Mix the egg, cream and stock. Pour it over the corn bread, stir it together and thirty minutes later, you will be asleep but wake up to some great leftovers.

While playing cribbage with our former commander and chief, I lost. He ended the game before I could count the cards….without cheating…according to him.

Two plus two is not four, but seventeen, according to the foolish man trying to run our Country.

I was honest and counted his cards for him. When he reminded me the game was already over, I was baffled. He had placed his peg in the winning hole and said, “I won.” I said to him, “You know you’re delusional, right?” Upon telling me he didn’t know what that word meant, he went on spewing abnormal lies I couldn’t accept, but I did listen. I just, for obvious purposes, didn’t believe one word coming out of his orange pie hole. Almost feeling sorry for him, I said said, “Let’s play again.” He replied with, ” Ok Fred.” He thought he was playing cards with Frederick Douglas…..a man Trump believes to still be alive and doing great things.

You want to feel sorry for him until he cheats at cards and makes fun of race, creed and culture. Then, you just want to smash him in the face with the Irish wand of truth. Since that wand exists as much as Frederick Douglass, my sympathy level is not low. It’s on empty.

Returning to the game, I knew the truth was something which didn’t exist on his side. I was intrigued with this poor, sad, well dressed pooched lipped evil soul.

The next game didn’t end in a tie, according to him. Skunking him, I won in a card landslide. He wanted a recount. Sadly, he couldn’t count his own cards.

Always carrying a straight jacket handy in our living room, he was carted away, kicking and screaming wearing a silly red hat. After I placed the hat on his head, he screamed, “I’m Santa Clause, you asshole!”

Strange dream. Prophetic?