My friend, an archer by preferred form of innocent and defenseless animal slaughter, hit me up for some raffle tickets the other day. Said it was for a worthy cause, and I believed him because he's my good buddy even though he does participate in innocent and defenseless animal slaughter.
I put down a ten-spot which gave me two chances to win cash—I forgot to ask how much—or some kinda' gun.
I've always wanted to be a gun aficionado, but two things prevent me from being so: the necessary cost of weaponry, and fear … fear that I'll hurt myself. I don't mind shooting guns, but it's the possibility of shooting myself that bothers me.
While Main Most and I were eating out, my innocent and defenseless animal slaughtering friend came up and asked, “If ya' win, do you want the cash or the gun?”
Taken by surprise, my initial response was something along the lines of, “Uh, uh, uh!” as I swallowed my spoonful of some really good rutabagas.
Instinctively, which is due mainly to 50 years of marriage and a keen desire for peace and harmony in the home, I looked at Main Most as my eyes said, “What do I tell him?”
I was still in “Uh, uh, uh!” mode as I remembered the bills that still needed to be paid, but I simultaneously thought about all the talk I'd heard about the country imploding and how many real men are arming themselves with high-powered weapons to protect their homes.
All I've got is a hammer!
“Well, I'm not sure,” I said to my innocent and defenseless animal slaughtering friend as my eyes still longed for guidance.
“Well, I guess I'll take the cash? … No! The gun? No! The cash! Well, let me think about it and I'll get back to you.”
“Yeah! Sure! Uh-huh!” he sneered, obviously irritated by my ambivalence.
Actually, I don't really care for raffles. I care even less for casinos.
Basically, all a casino is is a raffle on steroids. Both are out to get your money, one way or another. I'd rather flush my money down the toilet. At least then you wouldn't have to push your way through a bunch of old people with more money than they know what to do with to get to your casino's favorite game of depravity.
My mama, who used to cut the bacon strips in half each morning so each of us kids would have at least one-half piece, taught how to handle my finances. She taught me that money isn't the most important thing in the world. Love is.
Fortunately, I love money.
With raffles, adults send out school age children to hawk tickets to folks who are about as receptive to raffles as they are to termite invasions. The kids are cute except for their hyperactivity and their giggling, chipmunk explanations of why they're there and how the money will be used.
“AweomeMr.Slinker,likewouldyoulikebuyaticketforanewcolorlikeTV...like?”
“For what will the money be used,” Mr. Slinker inquires.
“Uuuhhhh!LikeIdunnoexactlylikesomethingaboutsomethingatourlikeschoolbutweweren't toldlikepleeeezzzbuyonefromlikeme.”
I generally end up buying at least one raffle ticket from the kids. I mean, how can you turn away a cute kindergarten student or first-grader? Second-graders through sixth-graders may have a slim chance, but seventh-graders and older would do better spending time spit-shining their tennis shoes.
My innocent and defenseless animal slaughtering friend is way yonder older than that, of course, which makes me wonder why I folded so easily to his plea.
I called him the other day and told him that he's too old to be selling raffle tickets, and that I want my money back.
“Sorry, but I already spent it,” he replied. “But just to show you how good a friend I am, you can have the gun or the cash even though you didn't win. You've got one second to decide, starting NOW?”
“Uh, uh, uh! I guess I'll take the cash? … No! The gun? No! The cash! Well, let me think about it and I'll get back to you,” I stammered.
