I did? I just won the lottery? Holy shit let me go tell the missus.
The first thing I'm going to do is quit my job at the turkey processing plant. I'm sick to damn death of standing in that little room, knee deep in blood and turkey shit, slitting those skinny little throats as they come by one after another. Yes sir, that's exactly what I'll do. Quit my job.
Then I'll go down to Pop's and buy everyone a beer. Yea, that's it. I'll walk in like I own the place and say. "Set 'em up Pop. Drinks are on me." And Pop will say. "What did you go and do Junior, win the Lottery?" And I'll say. "No, I'm just pretending I did because some guy on AZ Billiards asked me to." And Pop will say. "You know, that kid is dumber than a sack of hammers. I think his parents were cousins."
After eight, or nine beers, and a couple of shots of Tequila with the barmaid, I stagger out of Pop's place, get into my pick-up truck and drive home. When I get there I'm so drunk I miss the driveway and crash into our mailbox and get stuck. I step out of the truck and fall two feet into a drainage ditch half filled with water. Shit the bed, if things couldn't get any worse, they just did. It was my neighbors mailbox that I knocked down and he's out in the yard yelling and screaming something about suing my ass off. My wife comes out, all two hundred pounds of her and six months pregnant, grabs me by the ear, marches me into our home on wheels, and starts chewing on my butt like it was a happy meal. I can't take any more of this crap so I go into the bed room and fall head first into a pile of dirty laundry. I don't wake up until noon the next day.
My wife is screaming at me. "Well, Mr. Rockefeller, your boss just called and said I should tell that lazy drunk of a husband of mine that he need not bother coming in tomorrow. He's fired."
"As for me." She continued. "I'm taking the kids to my mothers. I'm through with you!"
Sonofa*****, I thought. Maybe I did win the Lottery after all.
