Appeasing The Lottery God
Yes, by the time this comes out, I'll be sitting down with my yacht designer, telling him exactly what bells and whistles I'll want on the custom-built sailing craft that part of my $30 million lottery jackpot is earmarked for.
Because I've done it right, this time. I've crossed all the T's, dotted all the i's. I've got the Lottery God by the forelock. He's got no choice but to favor me this time around.
What's my ''system,'' you ask? Why am I so cocksure that my six numbers will come up this time?
Well, I've studied, and pondered, and watched, and observed -- and I've realized that there is no real ''system'' for winning the lottery. People with ''systems'' simply don't win, at least not the big prizes. Birthdates, anniversaries, the license number of the beat-up old Plymouth you drove to college, numerical derivations of your dog's name -- they don't hit. Buying your ticket on the new moon, buying it at precisely noon Friday, buying it at your ''lucky'' gas station -- nope.
No, the only real lottery ''system'' is no ''system'' at all. You can't try to win. In fact, you really shouldn't even CARE about winning -- you should enter only as an afterthought.
Consider: How many winners have you seen interviewed who said they carefully chose their numbers according to some inverse square root formula, and then were waiting at the Seven-11 when it opened the next morning?
Not many. Most of the big winners, when they tell their tale, start out with, ''I almost didn't even get a ticket that day, but ... ''
Don't you see what's going on, here?
The Lottery God studiously avoids all the people who TRY to win the lottery, and bestows his biweekly blessings on those who LEAST expect to win. The guy who pays for his gas and then says, ''oh, what the heck, gimme a pick-six, too.'' The fellow who forgets altogether to buy a ticket, and is sent back out by his wife to get one. The woman who finds that a forgotten ticket in the bottom of her purse is worth $50 million.
So.
Today, I went grocery shopping. Just that, and nothing more. Bought a newspaper, some Pepsis, a half-dozen eggs. Checked out, and headed for the door. Said to myself (and the Lottery God) as I ''just noticed'' the lottery window, ''oh, well, I've got a spare dollar here, maybe I'll try the lottery.'' No prior intent, no plan, just an afterthought -- I might just as well have kept that dollar. My decision was pure, random choice, evens-odds, heads-tails, acey-deucey. The Lottery God likes that.
I bought one, and only one, entry -- a quick-pick. (Quick-pick, because the Lottery God loathes ''systems.'' And just one entry, because if you've wooed him right, one is all you need.)
Oh -- one more, very important thing: I am Worthy.
What that means is, I'm not greedy. The Lottery God frowns on greed. My plans for my lottery millions are pure. I mean, sure, there is that big sailing yacht, but when you're looking at $30 million -- well, 500 or even 750K for one little indulgence is barely a drop -- nay, a transient mist -- in the bucket.
All the rest goes into mutual funds or bonds that will generate a steady income, enough to support me and my family in modest comfort. With, of course, plenty left over to donate to worthy causes.
No garage full of vintage cars for me, no seaside mansion in Malibu. Oh, a little nicer apartment; certainly; otherwise, I'll be the same old person. Same old jeans and T-shirts, same old dinner every night at Luby's, same old car, (until it gives out on me altogether, then I may opt for a loaded Jeep. Or a crew-cab pickup with a Gem Top. Nothing fancy.)
See? I am the picture of Moderation, the poster child for Responsibility, the total antithesis of Greed. I am, in short, Worthy. In spades.
I can't lose.
But if I do, well, maybe -- just maybe -- I'll play next week.
Then again, maybe not.
