Page 2 columnist
Gambling on football has never been really Good for you; but on some days, it can be serious Fun. That is how it works for some people; and on Monday night, I was one of them. I won big on Indianapolis, and came dangerously close to winning a mysterious woman from a visiting gambler. She almost went crazy when he said he would leave her here as collateral until he could pay off his losses in cash, which has been standard gambling procedure out here in the sporting West for 200 years, and nobody has ever called it White Slavery.
Hell. That went out with those creepy bamboo cages they used to have in Calcutta, where blonde slave-girls were auctioned off to savage Asian bandits, and never seen again.
Ah, but we stray into Racism, eh? But not really. No. It is just another way of wondering out loud how I came to be working at the same Sports Desk as Rush Limbaugh. It seems impossible, but it happened, and I found an odd humor in it, a childish kind of suicidal glee that is common to apes and hyenas.
But not for long. The next time I looked, that fool was gone from the organization. Whack! Just like that. One minute he was a famous football commentator, and the next minute he was gone.
Rush never knew much about football, anyway. He was dumb and loud, but he has never been anything more or less than a half-bright commentator with an agenda who wanted more than his 15 minutes of bitchy fame. He was greedy, and so was ESPN for hiring him.
Rush Limbaugh is a lame professional Swine and he makes a good living at it. He is like a hired Geek in some traveling backwoods carnival -- the freaks who bite the heads off Chickens -- but Limbaugh is a modernized Geek who thinks he can bite the heads off of people.
Ho ho ho, eh? Sure, let's hire Rush Limbaugh to rave on TV, so we can bump up our Ratings. Ah, we should be ashamed of ourselves. And I am. Sorry, we got stupid for a minute. It won't happen again.
Which brings us back to Monday Night Football. We are pigskin people. We worship the football god, and we don't mind admitting it. Most of us like it. Actually, being addicted to football is good for you.
After the game, I called Colts owner James Irsay, and thanked him for winning.
He was gracious, as always, saying, "this is the best team we've ever had here."
"Nonsense," I said. "You were Lucky."
He laughed and quickly hung up.
Monday had been a long day, and I was tired. So I went to bed and had ugly dreams about Arnold Schwarzenegger wandering around naked in Hollywood. Who knows why?
Not me, bubba. I'm out of here. Mahalo.
Dr. Hunter S. Thompson was born and raised in Louisville, Ky. His books include "Hell's Angels," "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," "Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail '72," "The Great Shark Hunt," "The Curse of Lono," "Generation of Swine," "Songs of the Doomed," "Screwjack," "Better Than Sex," "The Proud Highway," "The Rum Diary," and "Fear and Loathing in America." His latest book, "Kingdom of Fear," has just been released. A regular contributor to various national and international publications, Thompson now lives in a fortified compound near Aspen, Colo. His column, "Hey, Rube," appears regularly on Page 2.