The $10,000 Presidential Power Parlay: The Hunt for Titty Island
President Warren G. Harding returns from the dead to lead his cadre to a mythical island known only to the Gods.
Americans love talking about retirement like it’s something they’ll ever be able to afford. The truth is most of these banana pudding babies wouldn’t know what to do without punching a clock for a boss that would throw them in the gutter the second they became unprofitable to the company.
Look at the Baby Boomers, the last generation to afford retirement before they ripped it away from the rest of you. They’re flocking en masse to The Villages, Florida, a gated community of cookie-cutter housing populated by moldy loaves of bread who are addicted to Bingo, Shuffleboard and contracting STDs.
I shouldn’t be too hard on them, despite my immune system being robust enough to fend off everything peasant diseases like syphilis to gonorrhea. Crabs? Please. I’ve shaved my pubic hair since I first grew one at the age of seven. It used to be a rite of passage in this country.
Still, I suppose I’m similar in a way.
I faked my own death to get out of the hellhole that is the American presidency, and I thought I would be content to eat, drink, drug and whore my way to an early grave.
The simple pleasures in life and all that… or so I thought. It turns out that not even a never-ending smorgasbord of international pussy could quench my true thirst: Putting down power parlays during college football season.
Yes, I’ve been dormant these last few seasons. In unprecedented times like these, sometimes it’s smart to live off the grid to avoid being pinched by the Deep State. I’m old enough to remember that the founder of the FBI, J. Edgar Hoover, was an incorrigible pervert, and folks, he must be smiling up on his successors with pride at the parade of poorly tailored stiffs trying to put me in a cage for make-believe crimes like trafficking cocaine, public corruption, murder and tax evasion.
Well, like a proper erection, the pigs can’t keep me down. The Money Train will continue unabated, and this year’s target is a fantasy island known only to the Gods.
I awoke in an a humble business venture backed by the Juarez Cartel somewhere along the border with Mexico, which is the politically correct way of saying the back room of an opium den that reeked of stale beer and bad decisions.
I was wearing only a sock over my flaccid cock, which didn’t seem to shock the wizened crone in a dusty smock as she rocked in her chair while puffing a wooden pipe and putting the smoke into the air.
“Warren G. Harding,” she said in a tobacco-scorched rasp. “We meet again.”
I could barely understand her due to the lack of teeth and the symphony of jackhammers pounding against my skull, reminding me that I drank enough vodka and snorted enough cocaine to kill an entire fleet of police horses.
“Who the hell are you?” I asked, figuring she was some broad from my past who would soon be demanding financial support for some bastard child I put in her belly during a romp I had forgotten long ago.
She smiled a toothless smile.
Was this the same toothless broad that had fellated me after a particularly thunderous campaign stop in Iowa City back in 1920? That was over 100 years ago. I suddenly realized the timeline tracked…
“Don’t you ever get tired of….” the crone gestured broadly to the squalor in which I found myself, “… of all this? You used to be a great man.”
I sat up with righteous fury, as only a man thinking he’s being bettered by a woman can. “And what would you know of it, crone? Speak your piece, if you have one. The only woman who can lecture me is my wife, and she’s been dead since 1924, thank God.”
The crone removed a map, yellow and soaked with titty sweat, from her under her shaw and threw it at my feet. I picked it up and opened it.
“What is this? A children’s drawing?”
“That, President Harding, is a map of Titty Island.”
“Titty Island? What the hell is Titty Island?”
“Do you always ask questions to which you know the answer?”
I sat on the phrase, “Titty Island” for a minute. As historians have been sure to note while futilely attempting to denigrate my presidency, I was a man who fancied the sacks of fat hanging from women’s chests.
I was also a fan of islands, the perfect hideaways for the bacchanalian orgies which I fancied throughout my presidency, which again the virgin historians would have you believe was a failure.
The crone saw the wheels turning in my brain. “The ferry to this fabled island is no more than a three day’s ride with the right horse. I will take you, but it’s going to cost you.”
“How much?”
“Sixty thousand dollars.”
“I don’t have that kind of cash.”
“But you know how to make it, don’t you? Need I remind you, college football kicked off last week. You would have known that if you weren’t busy enough here, burying your face in mountains of cocaine and woebegone pussy.”
“Oh, that’s only a crime to feckless, jealous nerds who haven’t seen their own dicks in two decades.”
“Well,” the crone said, “Unfortunately that describes every member of law enforcement on this side of the border. But rest assured, they have no power on Titty Island. You know what you must do.”
“And where will I find you?”
The crone’s purple tongue slid across her lips as she looked over my chiseled pink body. It probably reminded her of the Greek Gods that were her high school classmates.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll find you.” She rose to her feet and walked through the tattered silk drape that served as my only barrier of privacy.
The hunt for Titty Island was officially afoot.
The $10,000 Presidential Power Parlay (Wins $60,000): Coastal Carolina (+25), Ohio State (-14.5), and Minnesota (-20)
I won’t lie: Cocaine, sex, and cocaine-addled sex have interested me much more in recent years than watching teams comprised of future accountants, middle managers and insurance brokers play football.
My bets are based on vibes, with a modicum of research sprinkled into the mix. This would be suicide for the average bettor, but the average bettor hasn’t bankrupted Las Vegas multiple times like I have since I fear no man—not even the mafiosos who built that depraved outpost in the desert.
Here are the picks.
COASTAL CAROLINA (-25) vs. KANSAS
This is the game I researched most, because I’m risking a ticket to Titty Island on a directional school from Carolina against Kansas on a Friday night, you better believe I feel good about the bet.
I reached out to Patrick Mayhorn, proprietor of The Outside Zone and a certified pervert who enjoys watching teams like Coastal Carolina and their undersized offensive linemen. The conversation went a little like this:
Mayhorn, is Coastal Carolina going to cover against Kansas?
Yes. Whatever the line is, yes.
All I needed to hear. Personally, I think if you lose to Coastal Carolina by more than 25 points, you should have to throw your program in the trash like a menstrual-soaked sheet in a brothel. But that’s a topic we’ll broach when I inevitably return to power in America.
OHIO STATE (-14.5) vs. OREGON
You know damn well this game was going to be included in the return of the Presidential Power Parlay. Take it from me, the guy who enjoys hunting dumb birds on Tinder: The only contact sport they’re interested in at 9 a.m. on a Saturday is a romp in the sack with a 13” diamond cutter like the one hanging between my legs. College football? Please. I doubt they’ve even heard of it in Oregon.
You may have also seen the story that 10,000 tickets remain for this game, the first they’re allowing fans into the Horseshoe in a little over a year due to the Spanish Flu.
If you’re interested in going, please hit up Daddy Warbucks who is apparently paying the iron price needed to cram the stadium during a pandemic:
In what world is this a “gigantic game”? This is called handling the business. Does this guy even know how far $100 or $200 can get you in a bar with a much more liberal cocaine policy than the Horseshoe? This was true before television even existed.
Get this bum out of my face, because the last thing I want is some grandma yelling at me because she’s offended I’m fucking a woman young enough to be her great-grandchild on the bleachers during a TV timeout in the third quarter.
Oh, the insanity! No, that’s called kink shaming, Dorothea, and we got rid of it around the time you discovered your husband Elmer had another family on the other side of town.
MINNESOTA (-20) vs. ANIMAL TORTURE UNIVERSITY
I respect a man that has been punched in the face and got back up to fight another day, and Minnesota fits that bill. Give the Gophers credit, they were in the game until the third quarter last week against our Buckeyes, which is three more quarters than Midwestern rodents usually last against us.
There is a case for a “letdown” the following week after a game the Gophers no doubt had circled all summer. Their players are in a world of hurt after going four rounds with the team that will win the Big Ten title (again).
And normally, Miami University students excel at torturing all sorts of animals to death before graduating to become serial killers when they leave the psychopathic confines of Oxford, Ohio.
Unfortunately for Miami, they won’t be allowed to slip mickeys into Minnesota’s Gatorade jugs, thus diluting their traditional predatory advantage. Hopefully those criminals will be humiliated in such a fashion that not only causes them to close their football program, but also their ostensible “school.”
So it is written. So it is done. Pack your bags and file for divorce; the ferry to Titty Island will wait for no man or woman.
Subscribe to The Rooster in the meantime and await my next dispatch.
THOSE WMDs. Memories of being raped by Catholic priest haunt Columbus man… How System of a Down’s “Chop Suey!” tore up the airwaves — before getting banned post–9/11… On Guillotines, Monarchy, and the American Right… U.S. Treasury finds the Top 1% evades $163 billion a year in taxes… Why are sitcom dads still so inept?
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