Occasionally, the Partisan comes across jottings in other publications that contain powerful messages made with such force to bestir our minds and bodies — especially our mid-sections, which uncontrollably shake like large jars of jelly. Here is one:
By now some of the charmed and discriminating regular readers of this earnest news organ undoubtedly have heard the deleterious news that a resident of one of the far less charming outposts of our county received a substantial payout while participating in that sad spectacle known as the weekly Bingo game.
It is without doubt such information crossed the borders into this village by word of mouth among the help. Such a trifling occurrence in such a déclassé human endeavor would never be reported on the lily-white pages of our Bustle-Cone, unlike the rest of the gutter-raking journals that gleefully note such petty triumphs of lost and lucre-less souls.
Now some may defend these petty gambling games as worthwhile for several reasons: They teach largely unwashed members of the underclasses rudimentary lessons of letters and numbers; The trifling sums of tarnished coins and wrinkled dollars wagered on the cheaply printed cards employed in these “games” add to a parish church’s treasury and receipts from its quaint device called the poor box; A few hours spent in this perverted activity allows time for weary maids, cooks, gardeners, blacksmiths and shop clerks to rest and dream that Dame Fortune could somehow ever stoop to kiss their char-stained brows.
God save them, and Harrumph! we say.
O, dear reader, you will never, never be forced to choke on any mention in this journal of these trifling sums of money won and lost in these infernal games, which we sadly see, when our eyes are momentarily unaverted, attract those of meager means who would best spend their unfilled hours with prayer, sock-darning and personal hygiene.
Be assured, we will never even print that word, which rhymes with the daft stage name appropriated by the drummer of that silly bunch of lower-class Liverpudlians whose incessant caterwauling captured the misguided minds of the always misguided masses.
If you ask why, our response is simple yet refined. The game, which goes by the same title as the infernal sing-song taught to hand-clapping young urchins who would better spend their musical hours at the pianoforte, is an overweight LIE.
No doubt those who enter the game are under the misapprehension they will easily achieve the straight line of simple numbers on their tissuey cards needed to claim a few paltry dollars and odd cents.
Go figure, for the odds of any of these daft dullards achieving a reputable return on their meager investments pale in comparison to any of a number of financial undertakings with far greater returns.
Of course, any clipper of blue-chip bond coupons will earn 50 times more. And any flipper of high-end real estate will recoup 100 times more. Not to mention hedge-fund owners, CEOs with golden parachutes, heirs who pick their parents judiciously and beachfront property owners who rake in top dollar from government bonds to prevent ghastly homes from blocking the sunset views. Even the baccarat tables in Monaco avail the intelligent player a far greater chance for tidy winnings than these ragamuffins clutching —– cards will ever enjoy.
By way of illustration, for the great unlearned, if a million of these players played their entire lives, the most they could earn is 50 percent of all they spent as well as major circulatory problems in their hind quarters.
It beggars the imagination why these dolts don’t understand.
Nightly, they return to these halls of Hades, which are built on foundations of pure prevarication.
God, it makes us sick how silly and stupid such people can be.
On this be assured, dear readers, you will never see a lie printed in the Bustle-Cone, unlike every other news organ since the dawn of Gutenberg.
(Note to typesetter: Rearrange first words of some paragraphs. As written, they repeatedly spell the word never to appear in these page. Oops)
Partisan proprietor’s note for those who might have missed it. A weekly publication in our midst published an editorial last week, part of a series of editorials in which the publisher congratulates himself for not allowing his product to mention the California Lottery, chiefly because the gambling houses of Nevada and elsewhere offer considerably better odds. The editorial, which chastises other publications for not following his lead, was prompted by last week’s widely reported news that the husband of Monterey County Weekly Editor Mary Duan had bought a lottery ticket that had provided him with a jackpot of $2.7 million.