Ca$hing in at Coa$tal Point
Call me Spike.
No, no, hold on. Call me Tex. Yeah, that’s it — Tex. See, I’ve always wanted to be a cowboy, but have always been deflected from that particular vocation because of my distaste for, and utter fear of, horses. That’s kind of a stumbling block when your dream is to roam the plains and rob banks and get in shoot-outs at high noon and drink whiskey from a dirty gl... wow, I’m not so sure I’d like drinking whiskey from a dirty glass, either. Perhaps I could be a gentleman cowboy, riding in to town in my air conditioned convertible, with my white hat and ...
But I digress.
Why the name change, you might ask? Well, by the time you have sit down to read my weekly ramble into the obtuse, I have become quite wealthy. And a wealthy man, the way I see it, can be called whatever he sees fit.
The staff of the Coastal Point recently merged all our rolled pennies and shiny buttons into purchasing group tickets for Wednesday night’s Powerball drawing — with at least $340 million up for grabs. How am I so confident we walked away with the money even though I wrote this column hours before the drawing? Is it the “Luck of the Irish” I’m relying on to change the fortunes of our entire staff? Nope.
See, when I was 3 I got beat up by a girl in our apartment complex while my father laughed at my sheer sissiness. At the age of 10, I got so nervous during a class speech I displayed that morning’s breakfast for the masses in a convulsing and humiliating fit of stomach-wrenching goodness. At 16, I had a party at my parent’s home that resulted in my mother coming as close to beheading a son as has ever been recorded in modern history. I’m an Orioles fan.
Long story short, I’m due.
That’s why I’m so convinced the Powerball was won by us on Wednesday night. What goes around, comes around. Isn’t that the saying? So, with that concept in mind, I’m quite certain that as you’re sitting wherever it is you sit when reading this (please do NOT send in where you normally read this column — I’m squeamish about such things), I am shopping on the Internet for Ferraris and miracle hair replacement techniques from a hidden laboratory in Akron.
Yes, like many of you unfortunate souls who did not win the Powerball, I too dreamed of fortune and security — of paying off debt and going on exotic cruises with the Malaysian national female gymnastics team.
I had visions of helping my parents enjoy life however they saw fit, throwing money at every charitable effort I believed in and blinging out my rhinestone Speedo to all diamonds, baby. My plan included buying a small portion of my beloved, though admittedly flawed, Orioles, and giving the current majority owner a noogy while we ate finger foods at an owners meeting, and hiring a rather ominous looking fellow with a nasty scar to simply stride behind me as I walked into bars.
There would be incredible parties at my new beach-front home where the upper crust of the community would be doing Jell-O shots with the sordid characters I’ve encountered throughout my lifetime and Bob Bertram would be wearing a pair of shoes that could last on his feet more than the obligatory 15 minutes he gives us each day before unleashing those stockinged puppies on the office.
I’ve thought about how Susan Lyons would put a new wing on her house solely for her 800-pound “puppy,” Shaun Lambert would buy a heart for his Seattle Seahawks, Heather Wiles would find a cure for being very small and Sam Harvey would strut his stuff up and down Route 26 in his “brand new” 1989 pick-up.
It’s certain that M. Patricia Titus would hire the president of Harvard to be her son’s tutor, Jane Johnson would secure a limo service to take her to and from work every day and Monica Fleming would expand her grocery delivery business to levels never even imagined by the fine folks at Wal-Mart.
Carolyn Fitz would no doubt put her efforts to some diabolical form of cloning that would jeapordize the very fabric of our community (fine, she’d probably take her daughter to Disney again), Susan Argo would take that little road trip down south in her solid gold Hummer that would bring such satisfaction and Ruslana Lambert would buy a camera lens capable of seeing the other side of Jupiter.
Want to know the best part of all of this?
John Denny, our sports reporter and resident Redskins apologist, took the high road. Yes, John was so certain we would not win that he refused to put a single dollar in to the pot to be included in the grand split.
Hey, John, I truly hope you’re enjoying that peanut butter sandwich you found in your backseat this morning. The rest of us are in a little café in Paris.