Next time you bend over to kiss your kneecaps, you know who to thank for them

What sucks about the Giants winning the Super Bowl this year is that no one has stopped to consider the bookies. New England was a 12-point favorite going into the game. That is some serious overdoggage, mis amigos. And the Giants won anyway, proving that oddsmakers, much like political pollsters, are about as useful as the Stocks application on the iPhone. Seriously, does ANYONE who owns an iPhone use that? Do iPhone owners even own stock? I thought the iPhone was the hallmark of just the sort of irresponsible consumer spending and thoughtlessness with money that has driven America to the brink of recession! Who the hell needs the "Stocks" application?!?! It's like the Eli Manning - but the Eli Manning of the midseason who was more likely to trip over his own shoelaces than complete a pass, not the Eli Manning who somehow managed to crap all over the first perfect NFL season in 35 years - of iPhone applications.

But getting back to the bookies (and you should ALWAYS get back to your bookies, peeps), did anyone stop to consider how depressing yesterday must have been for them? All their clients probably made long bets on the Giants (with the 12 points, obviously), knowing that if they were risking a more vicious smackdown than the Giants defense laid on Tom Brady's immaculately groomed ass if they were wrong. But, of course, they WEREN'T wrong. It was the oddsmakers who were wrong, just like the pollsters in Iowa and New Hampshire, and just like that bell-toting wacko with the sandwich board who accosted me on 7th Avenue in 1995 with the news that the end of the world was nigh. Which just goes to show you, the experts in this country are always fucking wrong. And so are the pollsters. And so are the bookies.

Seriously, how depressing must it have been to be a bookie yesterday? No kneecaps to break, no football for like six months, the Lost season premiere already four days in the rearview mirror, and still an entire day until Super Fat Tuesday. And TWO whole days before Ash Wednesday! AND, it was a Monday!


I feel bad for Monday this week. As if it wasn't bad enough that everyone hates Mondays to begin with. Please, if anyone has the email address for Monday, February 4th, 2008, please let me know, I'd like to send the following email:

Dear Monday, February 4th, 2008,

I just wanted to tell you how completely sorry I am about the shit job they did scheduling you this year. If I were you, I'd probably think about killing myself, except that it totally isn't your fault since the calendar is an entirely man-made contrivance. So I'd probably think about killing a few men then, just to make my point. But please don't actually do that, or else they'll haul me in for questioning, because my blog is very famous and well-read, and I am an incredibly influential person. (I correspond regularly with both Jesus AND Santa Claus!)

Anyway, I know you had a pretty rough life, being sandwiched between Mardi Super Tuesday Gras and Super Sunday - to say nothing of the hangover from Groundhog Day - and I just wanted to say that, to quote Chaka Khan's 1984 chart sensation, "I feel for you. I think I love you. Chaka Khan let me rock you, let me rock you, Chaka Khan. Let me rock you, that's all I wanna do."

I bet you probably thought it was cool, getting to be a day of the week and all, and then they pulled your lottery number and you were probably like "Monday?" with that look on your face like you just smelled a fart, but you still probably didn't see how it was all going to play out until about mid-January when all the Groundhog Day displays went up in the department stores and everyone in New York and New England wore competing shades of red-white-and-blue to represent their fairweather admiration of their favorite NFL teams. I for one would have called in sick if I were you, except that obviously, that's not really an option. So, I guess, oh well.

Anywhoop, if there's anything I can do, don't hesitate to ask. Except, please don't ask me to put in a good word with Jesus. Me and J-Dog aren't on that level anymore ever since I used Parkour as evidence to prove that His Dad existed.

Lates,
Smokey R.