Twas the night before the SuperBowl, and all through the house, all creatures were snoring because they were soused. The bottles were scattered by the chimney with despair, in hopes that St. Gambler soon would be there.
The people all passed out were snug on the floor, while prophetic visions of money pranced upon them once more. And one dog in a ‘kerchief’ and another dog in my lap, had just settled our betting brains down, knowing soon they would get a proper betting slap.
When out on the deck, there arose such a clatter, no one could stand up to acknowledge what was the matter. Somehow, someone managed to stagger to the window quite unclear, only in hopes to cure the hangover with a beer.
This person could not see quite clear, but he could hear a voice coming from near.
“On Tom, On Greg, On Patrick and Craig. On Mr. Russell, oh, why must I beg?”
The voice came from a mysterious soul. Or, it could have came from just some random A-hole.
Those beckoned were gamblers waiting for the sun to rise, but inevitably, we all knew we’d hear their cries. The cries would begin with Madonna’s half time beating, but the cries would continue with no proper living room seating.
Most of these friendly gamblers in the room were betting on a man named Brady. There was another stranger in the room who looked a bit shady. This man was taking their bets with a nod, and most were certain he was just a fraud. There were others betting on someone named Manning. This ensured the stranger that his wife could afford tanning.
There were chips, chops and dip, a chicken wing or fifty, but to describe what happens next, can delicately be described as not nifty.
Those friendly gamblers would eventually lose all their money. This didn’t place them at great odds with their honey. Remotes were tossed aimlessly with no care, several gamblers fell on the floor just pulling their hair.
The stranger left with a pile of cash, and he was the only one who didn’t need it stashed. He strolled back to his house with this satchel of dough, presented it to his wife, whose name happened to be Flo. Of course, with that name, clearly she worked at a diner, and with that money, life would certainly get finer. Yet, although realizing that money is not the root of evil, sometimes the “love” of money makes you act like a weasel. This is precisely why this woman named Flo, could feel in her head her brain starting to grow. She decided to proclaim with great clarity, “I think I’ll give this satchel of cash to a worthy charity.”
Her husband understood (sort of), and slowly exited the room, threw a few F bombs and picked up a broom. He knew that was the only way he could honestly make money, and that was just perfectly fine with his honey.
Be wise, my gambling friends, on this day.
Have a fun day thinking about the SuperBowl at church this Sunday. And although his wife, Gazelle, wishes for you to pray for him, I believe Tom Brady has enough of everything. Rooting, I believe, should be kept separate from praying.