The $10,000 Presidential Power Parlay: Hunger

The 29th (and greatest) U.S. President, Warren Gamaliel Harding, was a renowned gambler, golfer and lover of life. As such, his sage wagering advice and stories of criminal bravado are brought here through the medieval art of necromancy. Seeing as President Harding ushered us into economic success unheard of in human history (before being tragically assassinated by his jealous wife — thus tanking the economy), his words might as well be chiseled into stone tablets. (All views and opinions presented should only be considered those of President Warren G. Harding.) 

WARNING: The content of the $10,000 Presidential Power Parlay is intended for mature audiences. Viewer discretion is highly advised. Seriously.

LAST WEEK: (1-2 overall) Louisville (-13.5) Alabama (-7.5),​ South Carolina (-13.5)
SEASON ECORD: (3-6)
THE HONEYPOT: $-30,000

"You sure you want me to make this call, Mr. President?" the serpent-like man hissed.

Gaston B. Means was an oily son-of-a-bitch who would stricken his own kin with polio if it meant he could make an extra buck. That is, he's the perfect wild card to keep in a Rolodex in case shit ever got too hectic, and it was about that time.

Last week, Gucci Man allowed me to pawn his Bart Simpson chain to the Gypsy King for credit on a $10,000 Presidential Power Parlay that got put away by Johnny Football like it was the last few chugs of a 12-ounce can of Busch Light before embarking on a 10-hour ménage à trois. (I don't even remember South Carolina failing to cover against a spiraling Vanderbilt program, tbh.)

The next day I woke up shirtless in a field outside the Marion Coliseum with a symphony of jackhammers tap dancing on the inside of my skull. I was caked in dried vomit and missing a sock — why is it always the sock? — but things really went to shit when I read about Gucci Mane getting arrested and jailed for guns, drugs and "threatening a cop" (which I thought were why we fought the British). True rock bottom came when I realized I didn't even have enough money to post his bail. I had squandered it all parlaying with the Gods.

"Make the damn call," I said before hanging up my T-Mobile Sidekick.

I admit, the dark rumours you have heard regarding my political career are true: I started as a small-time dope peddler fronting as a local newspaper proprietor, and I turned myself into the head of a global cartel that fronted as the American government.

Money ginned in the trafficking — and I'm not talking about the small-town hillbillies role-playing criminals whilst ferrying spit-liquor brewed in some backwoods bathtub. (Liquor brewed in the  same place Ol' Dude's wife produced three or four dark spawns, and these people want to shame my trade? Bitch, please.) — was used the coal that propelled my train to the White House.

Being poor is hell; I'm not about that life. Some men in this world are meant to toil in anonymity before dying. Some men are okay with this if they can own their little homes, drive their little cars, eat their cabbage and have hot water. (Do poor people still eat cabbage? Probably the dumb ones. The smart ones are eating drugs.) I am not that man.

Gaston Bullock Means was a private detective, salesman,
bootlegger, forger, swindler, murder suspect, blackmailer
and con artist.

Ordering 200 kilos from a ruthless Mexican cartel, without even the slightest hint of a distribution network, probably wasn't the smartest move, but it was damned bold. Just the type of power move for which I've been in search.

Those next two hours felt like days for me. Even in the pleasures of a bordel, there's little beyond sadomasochism that makes me well-and-truly randy. But, after a few hours, came a knock on my door. The rotund, suited man carrying a massive ornate suitcase waltzed in and the half-naked ethnic women scurried out. (Such are the lows and highs of life.)

When the door was shut and locked, Gaston threw the golden-encrusted suitcase onto the foot of my bed.

"There's 200 kilograms in there," Gaston said while lighting up a cigar. "Minus the nominal fee we discussed. The Mexicans have given you two weeks from today as a deadline for this consignment."

I flipped open the suitcase. An army of bright red snowman, the mark of the infamous Helado Cartel, stared back at me. Everything appeared to be in order, other than the peanuts Gaston B. Means undoubtedly stole from me on top of his fee. Such is life, and such is the price of the game. Every penny, whether in cocaine or blood, would be accounted for when this rocket ship landed.

I closed the case, and Gaston, knowing the deal was done, headed for the door. Before he took his last step out, however, he turned. "President Harding," he said. "If I may offer a mere mote of advice."

When I didn't object, Gaston continued, "Men like you and me didn't begin as overdogs in life. We started with scraps in the street, and that hunger is what we ground our axes on. It's what enabled us to become the titans we are today. Lying, cheating? Maybe. Maybe we did all that, but if not us then whom? It's the price of this game we play. Hungry dogs have no time for piss-in-the-wind philosophy constructs like morality.

As it pertains to the $10,000 Presidential Power Parlay, the Dog, Darkman-X was last week's musical guest, and you laid down three favorites. Your parlay two weeks ago brought more chalk than a primary school teacher on the first day of her career. Favorites, Mr. President? Psh. Marionaires have never been favorites." 

The next sound I heard was the door close. 

"If you're at rock bottom — keep digging," was a favorite phrase of my old comrade Thomas Edison. The giant of a man in a tiny frame was fond of that phrase in many fireside chats in the thick of the Maryland woods. He is the literal Thor of our people; however, it's a phrase I haven't truly appreciated until these last few weeks of destitution.

One of my best friends is incarcerated in Georgia. I'm $20,000 plus an invaluable Gucci Mane's Illuminati necklace in in the hole to Gilderoy Scamp the Gypsy King. I'm determined to earn everything back. Eventually a hungry dog is going to eat.

Back in the gypsy den, I threw bricks of cocaine at the foot of Scamp's plush throne. "These bricks can be sold for $33,500 dollars a piece on the streets of Columbus."

The disgustingly obese, naked man simply grinned. He motioned to one of his lurking squires to dispose of the goods. When they were gone, Scamp's smile grew wider, "Why do you say it so sternly, President Harding? There aren't any enemies here," he wheezed. "You've made the Gypsy King rich, oh yes."

His egg roll-sized fingers fondled the golden Bart Simpson chain around his fat neck. "The Gypsy King was heartbroken to learn about your comrade, Gucci Mane," he said in mock sadness; the black coals shoved into his face where his eyes should be betrayed him. He was taunting me.

You will rue this day, Gypsi King, I promised myself before corralling my wild Irish blood. There was a time and place for everything, and this was neither. I collected myself:

"The $10,000 Presidential Power Parlay kicks off with THOSE AGGIES OF UTAH STATE (+7) vs. University of Southern California. If the Aggies pull off this upset, it could be Lane Kiffin's last game at USC before he takes over the Browns next year because this world is fraudulent. If we're lucky, USC players will play dead in a blatant effort to get their coach fired. Lane Kiffin is the worst, and I don't want to hear any garbage about scholarship limitations. He has more talent than 90% of the teams he faces and does fuck-all with it.

"Besides, would you leave Lane Kiffin in your living room with your mom? I sure as Hell wouldn't. Once he's fired, we can start the countdown until Bert Beliema brings him aboard his ship of slovenly baby-men and and his trophy wife. (Coincidentally, Bert's only trophy of note.) It will be the apotheosis of unreservedly smugness in college football.

FROM L TO R: Henry Ford, Thomas Edison, President Harding
and Harvey Firestone.

"The second game is #MSUDAWGS (+7) vs. Notre Dame. Speaking of undeserved smugness, Good God do I love betting against the Fighting Irish. We'll see who's the bigger bully: that #DAWGDEFENSE or Brian Kelly. They both bully teenagers, but one of them isn't a purple, portly, middle-aged man-child with a staggering Little Man complex.

"Teens have made me scream a time or two, but the exploited labor I was screaming at from my multi-million dollar throne didn't speak English and my screaming was due to euphoria — not deep-seated rage over a child's game.

"Sparty's defense is filled with a bunch of block-knockers. Notre Dame's already been caught on the bluff. They're not holding shit this year. Everybody knows it. 

"The third bet is KANSAS STATE WILDCATS (+6) over the Urn of Mack Brown's Ashes. (May he RIP.) Mack Brown had a fun run on the back of Vince Young all the way to a national title victory and there's no shame in that; he won more than he lost and will always be remembered, but THE GAME GOES ON. Nobody gives a shit about the past anymore."

The Gypsy King yawned, "So be it. Your rants grow tiresome."

"Lastly," I said, "Give me THEM FIGHTIN' UTES (+7) vs ol' Joseph Smith, for obvious reasons that are obvious, but namely I don't trust a grown man whose name is 'Marc Bronco Clay.'"

"Two kilos for $10,000 credit... a four-teamer to win $125,000... So, it is done." He dismissively waived his fat hand in the air. "You know your way to the exit."

"Gucci," I muttered as I spun around to exit the catacomb headquarters of the gypsy syndicate, "hang tight, my old friend. I'm coming."

#Regime #FreeGucci #illuminatiSultan, 

Read more of President Harding's legendary exploits in The Most Hated On, also available on Kindle.