The Case of the Post-Yule Burnout

Goddamn. I'm tired beyond all belief. Let's not talk about gambling, or football, or the fact that I'm drowning in a backwash of sour luck and hopeless flailing. I've swum out about as far as I've ever swum -- the coastline of safety is not even a pale band on the horizon of the world at these distances. It's darker out here with my eyes open than it is with 'em shut. If the cold doesn't snap my lower extremities off, my spasmodic churning is sure to do it. Probably for the best, anyway. My legs are just deadweight, another thing that could drag me under. I'll add them to the tally of "things that are pulling me down," right under empty optimism, plans and whatever that hunk was I coughed up a while back.

The Case of the Missing Bookie

Tuesday p.m. and still no word from my mysterious, wager-placing friend, Rat-tooth Garibaldi. I call him Rat-tooth, but I suspect his mother calls him "Alphonse." But that's not my problem. My problem right now is that in a drunken whirlygig, I bet on Stenhousemuir (second league) instead of Wick Academy (Highland league). Wick Academy lost 1-3, but I have no idea how the Warriors did -- and Rat-tooth is nowhere to be found. Needless to say, I suspect I won, and Rat-tooth figured I'd never know I placed the wrong bet. I been burnin' up the wire looking for a final result on the Stenhousemuir game, and burning up a nice batch of ass-kick for when Rat-tooth shows up with my winnings. Or not. Hell, I have no idea. Trying to find lower division scores is a bitch in and of itself, but when the guy who has a vested and financial interest in knowing these things goes missing, I got a feeling the two are related. It's not like Rat-Tooth is scarce when my pick goes down in flames. No, then he's camped out on my goddamn stoop waiting to gloat and tease me on the Portugese action.
But I stand by my hard-won knowledge of the beautiful game, and I stand by my knowledge of men, especially when it comes to gambling. You can bet on the EPL, because it's a game of men. You can bet on the SPL, because it's a game of angry men. You can bet on the Bundesliga, because the Germans take shit from no one. Likewise for the Danes and Norwegians, and even the Dutch will play the game. But the Portugese are cry-babies of the worst kind. Absolute pansies. The only thing worse than them is the Italians, who had the guts to buy their victories but didn't have brains enough to hide how they did it.
And wouldn't you know it? Alphonse "Rat-Tooth" Garibaldi sounds like he's got a little Italian blood in him. He'll have a little less in him if I find out I won. And if I can find him.
Oh, but I'll find him. By my accounting I'm up $2 on the weekend if the Warriors lost, and $26-something if they won. I'm drinking Ledaig if that happens. Otherwise --- I'm just drinking.

The Case of Football Sunday

I bet a bundle on the games this weekend, and I ain't breakin' even. Five bills on Hull to win brought me a tidy sum, but Celtic's draw (goddamn Ranger bastards) and the Gooners inability to score have cost me dearly. Adding to my woes are Sparta Rotterdam's dismal match and the absolute godawfulness of Werder Bremen's showing in the Champions League. Still, the GreenWhites did pull it out today, so I've picked up a little dosh on that front. If the Royal League would pick up the pace and play some games, I might actually turn a profit before Christmas.
Ah, why'm I complaining? That Hull victory has put me ten dollars in the clear on their season. I kept betting with my gut on those damn Tigers and they kept kicking me in the same spot. Maybe if The Beast hadn't gone down, I'd actually be drinking top-shelf rye tonight. Instead, in honor of my eight dollar bet on the Highland League, I'll be drinking Scotch and hoping those crazy Scots Vikings can find the back of the onion bag. Gimme a goal for every slug and the world'll be my oyster. A shit-filled, throat-choking oyster.
I think the real problem here is that everything I know about gambling on football I learned from my old man's old man -- and gramps died two years before I was born. I'm handicapped by fate and death, but I've got the blood of a lower-class drinker in my veins. I'd say it all cancels out, and my meager cash flow would back me up. Well, it'd back me up if it was currently available. I did lay that bet for Stenhousemuir, after all. I may not be making a killing on the games, but I drink like a champion.
See? It's a dead heat. Thanks, Old Man.
Stevedore

You're All On Notice

Stevedore Baltimore here. I don't like you and you don't like me. Or as my second ex-wife liked to say around drags on her Menthol, "Steve, I don't like you and you don't like you, either." She also like to call me a "dumb bastard" and "lazy in the sack." Guilty, guilty and guilty.
But my failings as a person make me a fantastic judge of other people. That's why I ended up as a private investigator. It may take a thief to catch a thief, but it takes a self-hating dumb bastard to catch another self-hating dumb bastard who happens to be balling the jewelry off the company whoore.
If you want that other dumb bastard caught, that one you married, I'm your man.
And if you're that dumb bastard -- watch out.