$10,000 Presidential Power Parlay: Bust the Bank

Get in, loser, we're going to sniff a bunch of street narcotics and rob federally insured banks.

America’s founding ethos is, “Fuck you, pay me,” yet society curiously frowns upon bank robbery to solve financial famine.

What is more American than doing imported designer drugs and knocking over six federally insured banks in the course of a 72-hour bender to pay your gambling debts before a surly drug lord sends one of his assassins to your doorstep to settle your soul’s account with the King of Zion?

Did you know that most bank robberies go unsolved in this country, despite every one of them being investigated by the federal police? Think about that for a second. Even in the age of the digital dragnet and nerds being able to say “hey I know that guy” on some cop’s social media post, the FBI won’t be able to find you if you use a modicum of intelligence to cover your tracks.

Am I proud of my gambling addiction forcing me into armed robbery? Absolutely. It means that, no matter what, I’ll be able to gamble on next week’s games when assuredly we will find that opium crone that showed me the map to the fabled Titty Island.

The first rule to robbing banks is don’t do it within a 200-mile circumference where anybody knows your name. You might be saying, “But, Warren, you’re the 29th president of the United States. Everybody knows you!”

Yes, but the masses have been deluded into thinking I’ve been dead for the last 98 years. Yes, I was voted Sexiest Man Alive every year of my adult life, yet how many of our countrymen know that, let alone could identity my cold icy jaunt when I stroll into the nearest corporate bank with a twinkle in my eye and a note demanding every cent in the teller’s drawer—with no funny business otherwise their kids will be visiting them in a cemetery.

A funny thing happens then. Most working Americans aren’t willing to die over somebody else’s money. I remember as a young lad, while training to become a clerk at Marion’s General Store, the owner told me if some desperado came in demanding money, he would fire me later if I tried to play the hero.

“Buddy,” I thought. “If a desperado comes in this store demanding money, I’ll direct him to the safe in the back of your office and help him transport it into his getaway vehicle if he asks.

The ultra wealthy have deluded you into thinking true satisfaction comes from working hard and letting everything handle in the rest. No, satisfaction comes in speeding down the interstate while high on cocaine with a sacks of untraceable currency that, unlike Bitcoin, is valuedby more than pedophiles, money launderers and internet drug dealers.

Is this a recipe for a timeout in the nearest federal max security prison? Possibly. But the pigs won’t be catching me this week, and after all—tomorrow ain’t promised anyway.

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The truth is, the College Football Gods humbled me two weeks ago. Oh, you just thought you were going to waltz onto the pink sands of Titty Island like you were one of us? Animal Torture University covered! Ohio State looked as defenseless as I do on a random Saturday night when some woman old enough to be my mother is shoving her hands down my pants in the piss-soaked bathroom of an instate dive bar frequented by the insane, criminals, and insane criminals.

Well, I have bad news for them: I’m still in the game, and I’m still taking punches. I have one last parlay up my sleeve, and they’re not going to like what happens next. Even Gods can fall, as I will soon prove.

Without further ado, here is how to win $60,000 in profit on a measly $10,000.

Notre Dame at WISCONSIN (-6.5)

Sweet Mother of Mary… I had no idea we were still letting the Indiana Papists attempt to play football. Them and their freakish little golden helmets, as if to remind us that the Pope could end world hunger tomorrow but instead he enjoys his opulent palaces and dumb little hats.

What teen wants to spend the prime of his life in rural Indiana getting hectored by nuns and Jesuit pedophiles in class only to go get screamed at during football practice by a tiny little man who looks like a grape and who, by the way, killed a student when he made his ascend a scissor lift 40 feet in the air on a gusty day.

Their fans are all over 40 and yet must have missed the part where the Bible forbids divorce. Just keep multiple mistresses like the rest of us and stop airing your marriage’s dirty laundry in the local paper.

Oh, yeah, and fuck Rudy, as a staff, a record label, and a motherfucking few.

UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS–SAN ANTONIO (+3) at MEMPHIS

I won’t lie. I literally know nothing about these teams. However, while perusing the lines, I remembered Patrick Mayorn, proprietor of The Outside Zone and oracle who predicted the only winning game in the last parlay, had mentioned the UTSA (as we in the biz call them) Roadrunners.

Our interview went a little like this:

Patrick, UTSA +3 vs Memphis right?

Yes. Memphis defense bad.

This might be the Lock of the Century, folks. Subscribe to The Outside Zone.

CLEMSON at NC STATE (+10)

I know that look anywhere. It’s like when you blacked out and look in the mirror the next morning pand think you contracted syphilis for the third time.

Clemson will be lucky to score 10 points. Their offense is that putrid, and if I have to get through this season by cheering for bad things to happen to Dabo Swinney, then I will do just that.

Until next time, cadre.

THOSE WMDs. How to never waste bread again… An ex-drinker’s search for sober buzz… The spy tech that went home with kids for remote learning—and won’t leave… The manger of Windows of the World survived 9/11, 79 of his employees did not… The lonely journey of a UFO conspiracy theorist.