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
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