3rd Stone from the Sun

Beware the Ides of March – I’m a Hustler of Culture

History has shown that tragedy strikes frequently in March – it has never failed to bring fear, grief and extremely tangible losses – we always say this year will be different.  But as gamblers, it’s a time of rooted sludge, foul treason and guaranteed personal implosion.  It’s not quite spring and I get the creeps everytime I look at the calendar….big tree fall hard.  Even astrologers will tell you that March is a time to lay low and too beware taking risks, because March is ruled by Mars – the Sun is in Pisces, which is the worst time of the year to make decisions – just ask Caesaret tu brute?  Those decisions are sure to be made for emotional disturbances, rather than logic or rational thought.  Stupidity might be the new law of the universe.

Our culture has gone from civil debate, to twitter trolls, to the guy on Wheel of Fortune asking if he could make an “on-the-spot-dice-spin”?  You wonder if intelligence has become a liability to only be answered by a single word: MEH.  Morons, out in force, making left hand turns from right-hand lanes so they can pay for tacos in a drive thru with a check – “I have to have more money – I have more checks.”  You ask what happened?  What happened, is first…..uh 7?  It seems the break down is in education, with mandatory testing, lamenting we leave no child behind – only to leave our kids barely being qualified to run the ‘whack-a-mole’ at the traveling circus.

You could say we are at the fork in the road and it’s time to eat.  To the left you got books and to the right you have technology.  I’m wanting to take the hard left – but that sweet-digital-voice is telling you that technology will make it better – meaning less work, less thought, more stupid and soon it will no longer be just the King who shit himself.  We all will line up and take instruction from the giant LED screen and as long as we follow along, they might actually let us keep the little piece of our brain in a jar to take home.  Don’t believe me?  They still keep talking about how a man will be able to make love to any woman he sees on TV thru virtual reality – and you know it’s all over then, because being unemployed won’t be so bad when you can spend the $19.99 of your unemployment check to insert yourself into the latest bacchanal on Game of Thrones, or bang the Carl’s Jr spokes model in-between late night re-runs of the Simpsons.  It will make crack look like bottled water.

Brainstorm – 1983

That brings it full-circle to US – the degenerate gamblers – we know the terrible truth that March is truly the month of the NCAA men’s basketball tournament – and we know what that means, don’t we? Yes sir.  It’s the wheat from the chafe – it’s the belief that you know more than the other mouth-breathers – the realization that technology can help you pick a better bracket – it won’t.  The game is rigged, and that little piece of brain they let you keep – you needed that.  Even for the coolest and calmest Professional Risk taker it becomes extremely dangerous territory – less for the emotionally berserk amateurs with ‘home team fever’ – those poor bastards are doomed – It is a mathematical certainty – like musical chairs with only one chair.  Do you want to see the scars on my soul from past gambling disasters that never healed?  Want proof that scars on a man’s soul are real?  Ask any Kentucky fan anytime he sees the word “Duke.” #1992

March is a month without mercy for rabid basketball fans.  There’s no such thing as a gentleman’s gambler, no matter how much cognac (VSXOP please) you drink when the big dance rolls around.  All sheep will be fleeced, all fools punished…even your good friends will turn into harpies – they watch you intensely for any sign of emotional commitment to your bets, and then jump on you like a “john” on dollar day.  Loyalty is a fatal weakness in this game – it’s an open invitation to a beating.  I have been aware of it for years now and I am quick to take advantage when I see it in others.  Any Jackass who will bet his heart instead of his head on tournament games is either a brindled stooge or temporarily deranged – and all suckers are fair game, especially when they are crazy.  While I preach it, for some sick reason, I have never been fully able to cure myself of it, even though the pain it brings is swift and unmerciful.

So a better tournament-mouse-trap is being built for production on Monday – for we are the wolves, and for now, we have the directions off the yellow brick road, thru the back door to OZ.  We will walk into their homes, their places of business, and their watering holes – placing ourselves on our rightful throne of sagacious wisdom, laughing like a gang of hyenas – Lounging in our Olympic-sized-middle-finger-pool filled with Evian; while having the guy who licks our cars clean, beat the 3rd world orphan boy, because he was late walking our pure-bred-hip-dysplas’ed toy pinscher with our new Callaway platinum putter – we club them all like baby seals, careful to not get blood on our freshly manicured mink lawn.  Huzzah!

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