Time for another editon of Waxing Off; today's topic: Unfortunate "Mayors' Bets." Warning: May include description of Deadspin Managing Editor sucking a toe.
Never make a bet involving your own team. Especially when said team is not the world-beating superpower it once was, when the game involves a hated rival with a recent history of curb-stomping your boys each and every year, and when your buddy at the other end of the bet runs the finest college football site on God's green internet.
The whole business was undertaken with gleeful haste, executed with as much grace as I could muster, and everything was fine, for about four hours. That's about when my mother received an anonymous email (at her work account, TOP SCORE) telling her that her daughter was "selling herself" on a "pornographic website", signed, "I am sorry for you, and for her father, if she has one." I'd been blogging for seven years without her knowledge. She's not a fan of cursing. Or seeing her daughter's rack on the internet. And no amount of "Ma, it's Florida!" would persuade her this had been a hilarious idea.
(Swindle's response to all this was my favorite: "Porn sites make money.")
Over a year later, the whole thing seems pretty funny, looking back ... and I'm never gambling with my Vols again. At least not until we get an offense together.
— Holly is the associate editor of EDSBS, and will never, ever live this down.
In a bold breach of company softball etiquette and desperate for a win, I recruited A.J. Daulerio and Will Leitch to help out the reliably terrible team I was coaching. (Note: I am fairly certain that this was the one and only time that Will and A.J. were recruited to be ringers for anything). I was working for a British publishing house at the time, and despite the world renowned softball skills of stodgy English dictionary editors, we were regularly losing by mercy rule week after painful week. Once, a player who hadn't gotten a hit all season, finally made contact and ran as fast as he could to … third base. Another time, an infielder actually fielded a grounder and then proceeded to peg the base runner in the middle of his back, assuming that, as in dodge ball, this was an acceptable way to get a player out.
Eventually a wager began to take shape; if The Remainders (as we were aptly named) ever won a game, A.J. Daulerio would suck my big toe. Emboldened by the bet, I did everything in my power to secure a win, going so far as faxing out diagrams of potential softball scenarios every morning to all of the players. (Example: "What To Do If You Should Accidentally Catch The Ball"). And then finally, on an unusually hot August night, after a hard-fought defensive battle that somewhat resembled a bloopers reel for a Little League team from Uzbekistan, The Remainders finally got their miracle win. In a state of wild, confused euphoria, we headed to the bar to rejoice in the marvel of it all. Toasts were being made, people were hugging, and the bartender was handing out tequila shots like a regular Blair family Christmas.
The topic of the wager came up, and the exuberant Remainders cried out for the victory toe-sucking for Coach Blair. I pulled up a bar stool, took off my cleat, peeled off my sweaty sock and wiggled my damp toe seductively. Being the good sport that he is, A.J. owned up to the bet and gave my smelly toe the sucking of a lifetime. The Remainders cheered with pure, unadulterated joy, and for one night we were all ecstatic because we, The Remainders, could at last be called winners.
— Thrill to the Life & Times of Amy Blair at AmyBlair.tumblr.com.
By now, the mayors of Phoenix and Philly have settled on some ridiculous bet involving the exchange of either a chunk of John McCain's face or an AIDS-laced Tom Hanks depending on who wins. I'm pulling for the Cards because of my Commandment-melting love for Kurt Warner and am considering a wager with my Iggles lovin' neighbor so if I win, he'll stop with the pre-dawn Kraftwerk, but if he wins I won't mention the Hemi-powered vibrator his wife cranks up during All My Children.
Beyond that, the worst bet I've ever gone halfsies on was during a golf tournament. In high school, I was a pretty good golfer because having no friends, no sex, and no social life gave me plenty of time to spend practicing my short game. It also prepared me for blogging.
I was the guest half of an out-of-town member-guest tournament and before we'd even laced our FootJoys, my team made a side wager against the guys we'd be teeing off with for two days. We shot our way to second place and I won the long drive contest, ensuring that I'd have another several years of oversized visors, embroidered shirts, and androgyny to look forward to.
At the party that night - held at the kind of hotel with designs etched in the ashtray sand - I went to collect my pair of Benjamins from our opponents. The guy whipped out his wallet and in a voice loud enough to make Johnny Walker drop his cane, he said "Yeah, you played pretty well … for a hooker." It was true. Most of my tee shots were so so far to the left that they legalized weed before rolling into the rough. Anyway, dude's wife minced in just in time to catch this exchange and had apparently seen enough Law & Order to connect the unflattering dots between the cash, my overdone eyeshadow and undersized sundress. She stepped between us, slapped him and — pointing a diamond-encrusted finger in my face — screeched "You want him? You've got him," and stomped out, the scent of cigarettes and legal separation lingering in her wake.
I couldn't find any words. I kicked off both shoes so I could chase her to the parking lot, explaining that 'hooker' was a golfing word and that her husband was not playing my back nine. I'm not sure she bought it but I felt better for trying. I just hope this doesn't hurt my chances with Kurt Warner.
— J-Money has learned a lot about life by screwing up her own. She writes much longer at The Typing Makes Me Sound Busy and would thump #13's Bible any damn time.
Betting on sporting events? Is that legal? I guess there are different varieties…
• The small, trivial bets like, "If the Patriots win, you buy a round of drinks. If they lose, I'll buy."
• The vomit-inducing bets like, "If the Patriots lose, you have to drink a winebomb." (Winebomb = chardonnay + Jagermeister)
• The mean bets like, "If the Patriots lose, you have to flirt with any guy I choose for you. All night."
But the best bets are the ones with permanent effects. A friend of mine (we'll call him Mike) made a bet over the AFC Championship game in 2007 with his friend (we'll call him Matt). Mike was confident since the Colts had lost to the Patriots in the playoffs many years in a row and Peyton sported the Peyton Manning Face whenever he played against Tom Brady. So the bet: If the Colts lost, Matt had to bleach his hair. If the Patriots lost, Mike had to get a tattoo of Matt's choosing. Um yeah … Mike now sports a tattoo on his ass that reads "YOU KNOW IT" — a permanent reminder of the Patriots losing to the Colts on their way to a Super Bowl Championship.
— Ellie is a Patriots fan frozen and buried under snow in Chicago. If she cannot be thawed, please memorialize her through thewhoristorian.blogspot.com, but don't tell her mom about it.
It's a Sunday early in the NFL season, so I'm not too invested in any of the outcomes. Plus I'm more of a college football fan. Anyway, I go to a sports bar to watch the games with a friend and a couple of his friends and a couple of their friends, etc.
So this incredibly handsome friend of a friend of a friend sits across from me at the table. We are drinking pitchers of beer, and my mug keeps getting mysteriously refilled so I am not sure how many I have had. Most of the group are Redskins fans and are watching the game intently. Handsome and I are mostly talking and flirting, neither one of us is really paying attention to the game at all.
On one of the many TV's, the Bucs are playing the Cowboys. There are only a few minutes left in the fourth quarter. I can't even remember the score, but the Bucs are ahead. I mention I am kind of a Bucs fan, and that they should win since the Cowboys had been playing badly lately. So Handsome, who must have been paying more attention to the game than I thought, asks if I want to make a bet on it - the loser puts on a post-game show for the winner? Sure! We're just kidding around anyway, right?
Well, the Bucs choke, and Handsome picks up his coat and says, "Come on, I live right around the corner." Seriously? Wasn't it just a joke?
I won't say exactly what that first "show" included, but I will say it wasn't the last one. And, honestly, it's the only time I've been happy when the Cowboys won.
— Tess Phillips is really a nice girl. Honest!