The $1,000,000 Presidential Power Parlay: Clink

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 $1,000,000 Presidential Power Parlay is intended for mature audiences. Viewer discretion is highly advised. Seriously.

LAST WEEK: (0-2 overall) Penn State (-10),  Miami (-22)
SEASON RECORD: (14-18-1)
THE HONEYPOT: $-1,540,000

Thanks to the PATHETIC efforts of Penn State and Miami, for the last week I have been known only as Prisoner #42069 in ADX Florence, a supermax prison known to a weaker class of criminal as "The Alcatraz of the Rockies." I've done bids before — hard time in international houses of horror, but this shit here? I've been in country clubs with less commodities. 

Barry Mills, who the white kids in here call "The Baron," approached me about joining the Aryan Brotherhood. Apparently he was some high-ranking member of this stupid club, although I was thrown off by him wearing my grandmother's sunglasses.

It was lunch time, and I was eating by myself because I left social cliques where they belong: middle school. I also didn't care much for pink people, especially those in large numbers.

This answer didn't satisfy Mr. Mills, who, for whatever reason, said something about putting my ham sandwich up my ass.

Accosting a man while he's in the midst of eating his state-issued ham sandwich? I had been looking forward all morning to that stupid fucking sandwich. Criminals these days have absolutely no honor.

Barry Mills and his woman-glasses tried to hotbox with GAWD

I stood up, broke my plastic tray over my knee and used a shard to sever his jugular right there in the middle of the mess hall. "Ah, nice of you to bring me ketchup," I said as I dipped the remainder of my sandwich in the river of blood flowing from his neck and chuckled over his writhing body as his life slipped away from him.

I was able to finish my sandwich, albeit in a hurried manner, by the time prison SWAT officers arrived on the scene. These baboons came in and started macing me and beating me with nightsticks while hollering something about a crime.

Some rappers wake up in new Bugattis, but I woke up naked, with the Baron's dried blood still caked on my pink skin in a solitary confinement cell with naught but a rusty bucket to defecate in. There was no light, only darkness.

It was in this moment I realized just how hard I had fallen. Didn't Crazy Horse say it's always darkest before dawn? And Malcolm-X said jail was the second best place to learn behind only a college campus?

Both those dudes were full of shit. 

I definitely had a broken rib and finger, a missing tooth and I had no way of telling what time or day it was, so I did the only thing I could: I went to sleep.

"President Harding," said my fiery latina lawyer whose name to which I didn't pay attention. "You don't get it. You're charged with conspiracy to distribute cocaine, the murder of roughly sixteen people, aggravated robbery and fleeing arrest. This is all without the murder of Barry Mills; while a complete unsavory, him being human garbage doesn't give you a license to extrajudicially execute him in the middle of a mess-hall. You could very well die in here, from the Aryan Brotherhood or Father Time."

I didn't look up from the newspaper the lawyer brought with her.

"Do you even want the help of Amnesty International?"

I looked up, "You said something about being able to post my bail?"

The lawyer sighed, "It seems you have friends in high places, President Harding," she explained. After it was announced we were taking your case, our office was flooded with donations from all over the globe."

Warren G. Harding keeps a cadre of shadowy contacts.

"Perhaps I do have a few friends in high places — or more likely — hordes of friends in very low ones. Do you know what I've been up to the last few months, Miss Harvard Education? I've been dwelling in the sewers, sleeping on park benches in the shadows and showering in the wash-rooms of back alley-saloons. My only blankets being the slatterns draped on me post-coitus.

"My point is, you meet some people when you live like that. People who would haunt your nightmares. People who will support me no matter what crimes of enormity I commit.

"And frankly, if we're at the point where murdering a leader of the Aryan Brotherhood is a crime, then fuck it. I'll take my cell at the bottom of this god-forsaken pit with some god damned pride. They'll have to feed me."

"That... that doesn't even make sense, President Harding. Are you saying you want me to return the donations for your bail money? A little over one million dollars has flooded into our office."

"Well," I said with the machinations of war already churning in my mind. "That certainly changes the picture."

"So you do want out of here? Good. I was surprised the judge even granted you bail, but given your philanthropy work and past presidential experience..."

"Who said I wanted out of here?"

"Wait, what?"

"No," I sneered, "I want you to take that money and put it down on another parlay."

"My god," her head collapsed into her hands. "The stories are true. You are completely in the throes of gambling addiction."

"I would never ask you to understand something you have never lived. I have an oath to these streets. They can throw me in a cage. But keep me from feeding my flock? That's something I could never abide and keep my life."

"I... I would have to ask my boss... the donors..."

"I don't care. Now write this down:

"Stanford (+11) vs. Oregon. Damn, the Oregon Ducks are good, but I'd like to believe Stanford (along with that ol' whore-mongerer Jim Tressel himself) holds the key to beating Oregon. Plus, this game is on Thursday night, which means it will be sloppier than normal. Do Stanford fans get rowdy? Hopefully they drink some cosmopolitans and rise up. (I doubt they smoke meth and talk shit about their own team like Oregon Ducks fans apparently have a cool tradition of doing.) Hopefully Stanford can control the game by going on long-lasting drives and win the turnover battle. 

"Iowa (-15) vs. Purdue. Have you ever gotten so drunk and high on cocaine that your penis just refuses to work, even for a naked ethnic woman? The penis in that situation is Purdue football. I have seen snuff films that filled me with more hope and joy for humankind than Purdue football. At this point, I wouldn't bet on Purdue football to cover a spread against my grandmother's rotting corpse. Wow, is Purdue terrible.

"Minnesota (-2.5) vs Penn State. Has there ever been a more fraudulent coach than Bill O'Brien? "BUT SANCTIONS BRO" is about as predictable as fans of a losing team blowing their shit over holding left uncalled. Champions shut up and make a play. The Gophers have been sneaky good since Jerry Kill started overlording over Minnesota games from the press box. I also like the fact this game is in Minnesota. Have you ever been to Minnesota outside of summer? Your thought process is overwhelmed with trying to figure out how the hell your life arrived in Minnesota and also how to escape. TIME TO CHOP THIS WOOD, GOPHERS.

"Do you have all that?"

The lawyer made a few more frantic scribbles before nodding at me.

"Good," I said as I stood up. "Guards! We're through here." 

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