Lottery Notifies Man!

You may or may not already know this, but money doesn't come out of nowhere.  It doesn't grow on trees...well, it does on our trees, but we had to do deplorable things to earn that.  For the common man, there are a few different ways of making money with little to no effort whatsoever.  Depending on the elasticity of your anus, you may have a few more options than others, but for those of you who would like to keep your digestive track on the inside, you could always try your hand at...the lottery!

Prepare to be power-balled in and around the face and neck.

Howie Frenchston was like any other man.  That was until the lottery changed his life.  Howie has worked at the same dentist's office for thirteen years.  Not as a dentist though.  He was lucky enough to get the high-paying position as Spit Technician.  And by "high-paying", we mean that he gets paid very little in the form of currency, but in terms of saliva, he is the richest man this side of...anywhere really because he's the only guy that actively collects spit.  Over the years, he has accumulated over 400 gallons of spit that he keeps in his basement and as of recently, his bedroom.  He has oil drums full of different varieties of spit, ranging from that watery pre-vomit, gag spit to the thick white goo that collects on the corners of your mouth when you're really thirsty or after you got done sucking a...we digress.  What we're trying to say is that this  dude really loves spit more than you'll ever know.

You have no idea how horny this picture makes him.

In recent months, Howie has discovered that no matter how hard he prays and no matter how hard he rubs everything in his home (no one ever told him where genies come from), spit simply does not pay the bills.  He knows because he has tried sending an envelope full of spit and it only ended in tragedy for everyone involved.  So he turned to alternative methods of making money.  More specifically, he turned to the lottery.  More specifically still, he decided to invest every last cent he had to his name into the lottery.

Because if there's anything we learned from these two gentlemen, half-baked, spur-of-the-moment ideas always work out.

He settled on buying the cheapest possible tickets, so he would be able to purchase more, thus increasing his chances of winning big.  Howie's logic appeared flawless.  What he could not comprehend is that the tickets cost $1.00 each, but the biggest prize he could possibly win was 90 cents.  It was the scam of the century that nobody, besides Howie, fell for.  The company fronting the scam was fined and forced to recall all of the defective tickets.  They were surprised when every gas station and convenience store across several states were entirely sold out of the bogus tickets.  This was because all 83,457 of the tickets were sitting in a pile in Howie's living room.  He spent the next three weeks scratching off that grey, metallic shit off of the tickets and breathing it directly into his lungs, which doctors have said results in a "euphoric state that lasts for only a few minutes before hours of nightmarish visions of death or terror that often result in suicide, homicide, or a combination of the two."

Officially replacing the intravenous injection of pizza sauce as the stupidest (coolest and safest) way to get high.

In a miraculous turn of luck, Howie managed to not be consumed by the lethal dosage of Lotto Dust, but in a miraculous turn of shit, not a single of the tickets awarded him anything.  He didn't win 90 cents, 9 cents, or a free ticket.  In fact, one of the cards made him pay the police a every week for protection against being raped.  He had to pay 100 dollars every week for each hole that he didn't want violated.

It sorta makes you reevaluate which holes matter most.

So Howie withdrew the last twenty dollar bill from his bank account.  He was officially penniless.  He decided to go out with a bang, so instead purchasing food or bullets, he purchased a ticket for the Mondo Megillions lottery.  The pot had gotten so high that billboards couldn't keep track.  All people knew is that whoever won would be set for life.  They'd be rolling in dough.

Lifestyles of the rich and famous.

Howie purchased the ticket from a gas station near his home.  He stared deeply into the eyes of the clerk as he took the last of his money.  He walked home with clenched buttcheeks and sweaty palms.  Part of him didn't want to find out if the numbers printed on his ticket were winners or not.  Part of him wanted to turn back and beg for a refund, but he continued home, sat down, and waited.  He turned the knob on his radio and closed his eyes tightly.  What he heard was not the winning lottery numbers, but an advertisement for cheap carpet cleaning.

Which in any other set of circumstances would've made Howie's day.

He looked at the clock and realized he had missed the reading of the lottery numbers.  Frantic, he attempted to use his computer to track down if he was in fact, a rich mother fucker, but soon realized that he did not own a computer and was simply ramming his fingers into a toaster, which thankfully was unplugged because he also didn't have any electricity source in his home.

Outlets, or "lightning holes" as Howie calls them, are but a mere fantasy in the Frenchston household.

Then, when all hope seemed lost...the phone rang.  Howie perked his head up.  He thanked God that he paid that Anti-Ear Rape fee, even though his other holes suffered dearly, so he was able to hear the chiming of his phone.  He answered it with great hesitation.  He was unsure if the lottery called people that won, but this was the only thing he had to believe in at that point.  A man's voice came on the other line.  We were able to get ahold of the conversation from the phone company.

Shown: Strange Times definition of "getting ahold of".

"Mr. Frenchston?"

"Yes?"

"Mr. Howie Frenchston?"

"Yes, that's me."

"This is Mondo Megillions lottery calling."

"Oh...oh my God.  Oh my God!"

"We're just calling to inform you that your numbers are not the winning numbers."

"Wha-"

"Again, I say that you did not win the grand prize or any of our thousands of equally extravagant consolation prizes.  You will be receiving nothing in the mail and nothing with be transferred to your bank account."

"So why...why did you call me?"

"Here at Mondo Megillions, we care about each and every one of our players, no matter how small and insignificant they may be."

"Well...who won then?"

"Our CEO.  He has decided to donate all of the money to his own personal team of scientists to discover a more efficient blowjob technique for all of his many, many mistresses."

"Oh..."

"Again.  You didn't win."

"Yeah, I...I got that."

"Just making sure.  Have a nice day, Mr. Frenchston...you didn't win."

That was the end of the conversation.  Howie stayed on the line for several hours, weeping and screaming.  Screaming and weeping.  We stopped listening around hour six, but we can only assume that somewhere out there, Howie is still on the phone, wishing that this was all just a horrible dream.

This article will also double as the screenplay for the next installment of the Hellraiser franchise.