Let’s clarify something: Alabama’s being only a touchdown underdog in tomorrow’s game says more about the (sizeable) betting pool in the state than of its team’s chances on the field. Thin all over and transparent in spots, the squad should not scientifically be able to win. But then, that’s what they said about the accursed Red Sox.
Why does the money flood the desert so? What emotion drives even the most rational homer to blow his payday on an artificially withered line? It’s a lure, I tell you! A damnable trap. And yet even as I say it, I’m reaching for my wallet and the worn scrap of paper on which I keep the Bird Dawg’s scrawled number.
Perhaps you need a history lesson.
Remember that time you were late for your post-lunch meeting with the boss? That guy who made you late, the guy in front of you at McDonald’s who stared at the menu for 10 minutes, the menu that’s stayed essentially the same for the past 54 frickin’ years? He’s a
That driver who cuts you off only to test out his new brake pads for the better part of rush hour? He’s a
You have a sister? That guy she dated in high school, the one who was few years older than her, told her he would call the night after and didn’t?
That guy with the three-wheels-and-a-cinder-block Mustang in his front yard? Kicks his dog?
The marketing pro who invented New Coke?
The legislator proposing a regressive sales tax initiative?
That record collector who prefers Wings to the Beatles?
The fifth dentist?
The undecided voter?
John Wilkes Booth? Lee Harvey Oswald? The guy who snuffed Franz Ferdinand?
Roll Tide.
