Cocky Shit-Heel Wins Lottery

urther proof the world is just plain unfair occurred last Monday when Atlanta, Georgia-based asshole Brian McGurney matched all winning numbers and the Powerball in the Powerball lottery game to win the $25 million jackpot.

McGurney, a 27-year-old former assistant manager for a major video retailer, currently "between things," checked the paper Monday morning to find out he had matched all winning numbers and the elusive Powerball to claim the jackpot. With no sense of humility, McGurney admits it was his first (and now only) lottery ticket.

The winning prize of $25 million will be paid out over 25 years, approximately $1 million before taxes each year, to supplement McGurney's income. The high school graduate bragged that, after taxes, a friend figured out for him he'd be taking home about $750,000.

McGurney refreshingly admitted that the money would change him greatly.

"Yeah, sure, I'm not going to let the money change me—you think I'm going to tool around in a '92 Ford Tempo with a million bucks a year coming at me? Forget it. I'm going to get something expensive and obnoxious. Like a Rolls Royce or a monster truck."

The big win comes at a great time for McGurney, whose ten-year high school reunion is the first week of June in a couple weeks.

"At first I wasn't going to go," said McGurney, "but now, you bet your sweet ass I'm going to be there. I thought I might wear an expensive tuxedo, but now I'm leaning toward just wearing an expensive jogging suit. You know? It says, 'I have the money, but you're not important enough to wear a tux for.'"

The little toad is also not forgetting the most important people in his life, like his parents.

"Mom and dad have hit on hard times lately, with dad losing his job and all," McGurney said. "But I'm going to surprise them by buying back their house from the bank. That'll be a kick in the ass, me being their landlord! Ha! I'm sure my rent will be reasonable, based on their income and such, like they did for me when I lived with those pricks.

"I'm also going to pay off my girlfriend's car," continued McGurney. "That ought to settle up things between us for that money I borrowed for that big stock venture. Then I'll have a clear conscience when I kick her to the curb. I want to make a clean break before I start hooking up with all the supermodels and shit who'll be scoping me now."

McGurney had no immediate plans to start a savings account, though he did have an excellent idea to put five pounds of fish into a safe deposit box, remarking how "they've been asking for a major prank after bouncing six of my checks."

For all his faults, McGurney's friends still think he's a deserving winner.

"It's about time," said long-time friend Tim Blanch. "Brian's been through a few tough years since high school, and those jerks at the video store should have given him a break when he needed it. Now that he's finally hit his stride, you can count on him to remember his friends who are down like he once was."

Blanch added, "That's good stuff you can use, right? Make sure the pissant reads it, if he can even read. What a fucking knob."

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I'm not that big a fan of talking. I don't know what the big deal is. It seems like it's basically impossible to find a girl to date who isn't constantly nagging you about that. "What do you want to eat? What are you thinking about? Why did you put my dog in that Ziplock bag?" I swear, if I wanted to be interviewed I'd show up at the airport with lit fuses sticking out of my shoes. I'm just trying to live my life here, not run around in some kind of non-stop monologue nightmare.

It's not just girls, either, there's all kinds of social situations where people just won't let you shut up. You go into a restaurant, and right away, somebody's asking you what you want. And even if you point politely at the menu they still won't leave you alone, they've got to ask for some kind of verbal confirmation. What are you, retarded? I pointed at the duck nuggets, didn't I? You think I'm the kind of person who silently points at food he doesn't want? Think again.

That's why I started eating at fast food places exclusively. It's way easier to gesture your way through a meal there since they've usually got the menu in big pictures over the cash registers. But some of those geniuses have a hard time following an imaginary line from your fingertip to the menu, everything's all "Oh, you want Big Mac?" Even at the Chinese place, weird as shit. And you wouldn't believe the trouble you can get into if you decide to make it easy for them and just reach over to press the cash register buttons yourself. It's like they think you need a degree in nuclear physics to run the thing. I've seen them press the "Slow Loris" button enough times, I know where it is. If you want to have a one-sided argument with me about it, I guess that's just your prerogative.

Nobody's worse about the "no talking" thing that people who call on the phone. Jesus. I don't know where these people come from. If you're going to contact me over a non-visual medium, at least have the courtesy to learn your Morse code, people. I'm willing to meet you half-way in the auditory department, and you're just shitting all over my diplomacy with your "Hello? HELLO?? Is there anybody there? I don't know, it's just this weird tapping noise. I think my phone's fucked up."

As you can imagine, I flunked speech class in college. I thought I could Pictionary my way through it, but my professor was a hard-ass about the talking part. And the rest of the class were horrible guessers anyway. A cow? If you people can't tell the difference between a horse and a cow, remind me never to accept a barbecue invitation over at any of your houses, all right? That was a hard year, both semesters. Eventually I got the requirement waived after arguing (in pictures) that speech class was an illogical requirement for a culinary arts degree.

Of course, that was before I discovered the cruel reality of the world, that nobody wants to hire a chef who doesn't talk. Talk about your discrimination, you're lucky if you can even get past the first interview.

I don't even want to get into the time I was asked to speak at my dad's funeral. There are still a lot of family members who haven't forgiven me for that Mexican standoff or the way the funeral home closed with all of us still in there. I've had half a mind to tell them all off, but they're even worse at Pictionary than my college class was.

But I've said too much already.

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I present to you, the King of throw-away island. Slicing a trench into the past, dogwoods spread their sprays like drifting clouds, the most wasteful member of the tree family. "King Trapper of the North" is how they'd like to be remembered. Hardly. Tubers, seeds, runners, corms, bulbs, rhizomes, roots and spores fan out like chuck wagons clattering in a figure eight. A boy sets out; a man returns, chromosomes aligning. Less secret are the lichens, and the groundhogs are without good cause, like spoiled vultures. Shaded by the cursed dogwood. Among the toughest of living things, A.L. van den Brandeler makes quick with the axe to help me single-hand her.

You will feed during summer's abundance, mate, lay eggs and die. Try again later.

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