Karma, Where Art Thou?

So it turns out I didn’t win the Powerball.

Again.

I really don’t mind paying the “Doesn’t Understand Simple Probability” Tax every once in awhile as long as the jackpot is over $300 Million dollars. Because anything less that would just be a complete waste of time, right? Winning the lottery, is in fact, part of my five year plan, but I still have a ways to go until then, so I’ll just keep sluggin’ it out at the office and hope I hit get hit by the Karma train like it hit Earl.

Whatever the lottery gods have in store for me in the future, I sure could have used those cool millions at the clubs in Phoenix this week.

The whole club scene is a relatively foreign concept to me, being from the Midwest. Especially being from Green Bay where talking to chicks only requires a modest sense of humor and the ability to hold your liquor more than the guy standing next to you. I can’t tell you how many girls I’ve met from making fun of my buddies passed out on the bar stool next to me. It’s like a really unhealthy version of Survivor.

But clubbing is a lot different because the stakes are a lot higher. At least in Phoenix it is because apparently Arizona State University is a breeding ground for the nation’s hottest women albeit unapproachablest women I have ever met. For one thing, the girls there don’t cut you any slack for adding any tundra pounds that are so prevalent in the carbohydrate hoarding winters of the North. And second, I get the impression that chicks outside of the Midwest are less impressed with how MUCH you can drink as opposed to your ability to PAY for those overpriced drinks.

All of these clubs have these things called VIP rooms which are swanky lounges that overlook the peons on the dance floor. In order to gain access to these bastions of affluence, you need to wear asshole attire which is basically any clothing that costs half a paycheck to assemble and would make you feel like a complete jackass if you wore them anywhere else in public. You also have to give the host a fat tip, and then buy a bottle of booze from their bar. But we’re not talking a bottle of Kessler at wholesale here; you have to buy Grey Goose or some shit like that and then pay $300 for it.

I have to admit, after going through all that trouble, it must feel pretty rewarding to have these women actually make eye contact with you. I can only imagine what it takes to have them maintain that eye contact with you, let alone bring them home. My guess is that you are either talking about the ups and downs of playing in the NBA or have access to all sorts of drugs. I wouldn’t know because I only made it up two steps before security was so kind as to escort me back to reality. Have no fear though, I vow to one day infiltrate a VIP room and find out the truth of what really goes on up there.

I hope I am dead wrong about my assumptions above and it’s actually just a bunch of people playing Monopoly. That would be sweet, I love that game.

In spite of my utter failure to communicate with ASU’s finest, I still had a good trip. My rental car for the week was a bright yellow Hummer, in which I took full use of its off-road capabilities on every available desert lot in Southeastern Phoenix. It was also especially gratifying to bask in the 80 degree weather while Wisconsin got dumped with 12 inches of snow and a wind chill I can’t even imagine.

Now that I think about it, the wind chill probably wasn’t nearly as cold as the shoulder I got from the Barbie Doll I tried to talk to on Wednesday night. Ouch.


The first thing I'll do when I win the Powerball is grow a huge moustache. Then I'm going to ask out Jamie Presley.