Have you seen the Powerball jackpot? It is up to $250 million. That’s a quarter of a billion dollars. To put that in terms the average person can understand, $250 million would fill up your car’s gas tank 3.5 million times. It would buy you over 41 million six packs of beer. Lindsay Lohan would jerk you off in an alley 100 million times at her customary rate. That is a lot of fucking money, and I want you to know that it is all mine.
A while back, I wrote about the heartbreaking time when my family thought we had won the lottery because of a single smudged number in a newspaper. Instead, we had all but one number right, but due to the large number of people that just happened to get five out of six right that week, we only got $90 out of it. And since then, the best I’ve ever done on a lottery ticket is one correct number, which is pathetic because that was over a span of twenty four years. Well, I’ll have you know that last week I bought a lottery ticket that contained no less than three correct numbers. And since I tripled my success rate in one ticket, by foolproof mathematical reasoning we can see that the ticket I bought for Wednesday night will contain an astonishing nine correct numbers, which will probably bankrupt the Multi-State Lottery Association. And since they give a metric fuckton of money to the states that sell tickets, I will probably bankrupt those states as well. So if your child comes home from school crying because they sold the playground equipment and burned all of the desks to heat the school for one day, you can thank me. I won’t hear you, though, I’ll be too busy telling Lilo to get her own goddamn towel.
Hahaha, just kidding. For the benefit of those readers who also happen to be my wife, I’m fully aware that we would share the money equally amongst members of our family and only a small portion of the $250 million would be earmarked for procuring sexual favors from washed up, desperate celebrities. We would also find constructive uses for the money such as buying a controlling interest in the Minnesota Vikings and then converting them into a Girl Scout Troop because although they’d still never win the Super Bowl, at least this way people could get some cookies out of them. Oh yeah, and $61 million would be immediately handed over to the Russkies. We’d also bribe the NFL so that they’d stop putting lame Super Bowl halftime acts on TV and make with the fucking Babymetal already.
On to this week’s hypothetical question which once again comes from someone who wishes to remain anonymous. Maybe I should just change the layout of my site to a non-descript brown-paper bag. Anyway, Anonymous wants to know:
What is the absolute worst place to get caught having sex?
I’m going to have to answer your question in general terms, Anonymous, because there is a terrible double-standard involved when it comes to being caught getting after it in public. Namely, if you are female and you get caught, you are a slut. But if you are male, then you are a stud. And if you are Andy Dick, everyone just says, “Ewwww”, and walks away, mildly grossed out. It’s not fair, but it will skew our results, and we are nothing at Dogs On Drugs if we are not scienmatific.
Being caught getting laid in your parents’ bed will never end well. I was at a party in high school thrown by a classmate named Julie. At the height of the party, as I stood chatting with friends and sipping a beer, a middle-aged woman burst through the front door and stormed across the living room with a very pronounced scowl on her face. “Who’s that?” I asked. “Wow, that’s Julie’s mom!” was the answer. “Uh-oh. Where’s Julie?” “Getting laid in her parent’s room.” Guess where Julie’s mom was headed?
While most people started making their way to the exit, my friends and I stayed put to watch the show. The show consisted of a fifteen second pause followed by a teenage boy wearing boxers and carrying a t-shirt and shoes bolting out of the bedroom and sprinting for the door. That was followed by a high-decibel conversation centered upon whether or not Julie was, in fact, “out of her goddamn mind”. That didn’t look like a whole lot of fun. And I can’t imagine what would have happened if it was Julie’s dad that opened that door.
Getting it on in a pediatric cancer ward would probably be a hard thing to explain away unless the Make-a-Wish foundation hired you to grant the wish of a particularly horny teen, in which case you may not be doing the Lord’s work, exactly, but it’s gotta be on the positive side of the ledger. (And of course, it should come as no surprise to find that things like this do happen.)
But what has to be the worst place to get caught having sex would have to be at a funeral. Most funerals are short affairs, so at best you are going to be seen as an insensitive lout with no hormonal control, and at worst the kind of person who gets turned on by looking at dead people. You will be a richly deserving social pariah. And apparently the internet agrees with me because after fifteen minutes of searching, I found no incidents of people caught bumping uglies at a actual funeral. I found a story about two Chinese people who, um, defiled a coffin, a married woman who supposedly had sex with her boyfriend in a car outside her son’s funeral(!), but it was actually two days afterwards, which makes it a-ok by comparison, but still really fucking bad. (Bonus scumbag points for this kind of behavior, by the way, if your husband’s first name is “Hardlife”, which in this case it was.)
Ok, the more I think about it, the more it creeps me out that the person who asked this question wishes to remain anonymous. I, for one, am calling the cops the next time I see anyone loitering at a funeral that I do not recognize. Especially if they’re with Lindsay Lohan.