See, here’s the thing about me and betting. I don’t lose bets. Say we were flipping a coin for two hundred nuggets. fifty-fifty odds, right? Nope, not when I’m playing. It’s a skill. I was born with it. Sometimes, it’s more of a burden than a blessing. For example, when I won that poker game with the Russian mobsters. That didn’t end well.
For some reason, my grandfathers (yes, both of them) still don’t seem to get it. We bet all the time. We bet on games of war, and we bet on if one elevator is gonna get to our floor before the other. And I win. Every time. But they keep betting. Jeez, they’d better watch it. Before they know it, I’ll be the one paying for the ski vacations.
My sister figured it out pretty early on. We once bet on something like if our mom would get berries at the market. I won, she didn’t get the berries. Too bad it was only a quarter.
Then there’s my dad. I see two possible explanations for the fact that he still makes bets with me:
- Even though he knows I always win, he doesn’t mind handing me some green stuff on the side, cause he knows how amazing I am as a son.
- He’s a complete and utter idiot.
That’s a tough one. I’m gonna go with…explanation 1. Just cause I’m such a good kid, ya know?
Sometimes, I even make bets with myself. For example, I told myself that if I didn’t put off my homework for another two hours, I’d get a bowl of ice cream, and if I did put it off, I’d get a bowl of ice cream. Yeah, pretty standard.
What’s that? My mom? Let’s just say she has piled up quite a lot of debt. Yep, mom, if you’re reading this, you still owe me those ten dollars from when I bet you whether or not the dog would drop a deuce when I took her out. Guys, I’m lying. She really did drop a deuce. I just didn’t pick it up. Don’t tell the boss.