Well, you might figure that, come Puppy Bowl IV, ol' Dan would've learned his lesson. And I thought I had -- I came up with a foolproof scheme. This year, I would avoid betting on the puppies entirely. No way to lose, right?
Instead, I decided to bet on the kitty halftime show.
Big mistake. I bet that the kitties wouldn't be furry and tiny and sweet as can be.
BUT THEY WERE ALL OF THOSE THINGS.
God, I'm so stupid. I thought I was being smart, spreading my money around a bit. Never put all your eggs in one basket, that's what I always say. So I bet ten grand that the kitties would be able to resist unraveling a whole ball of yarn that someone had carelessly left on the football field for some reason. BUT THEY COULDN'T. I bet twenty that they'd know better than to chase a laser pen all over the place, tripping and jumping and pouncing in the cutest way. BUT THEY DIDN'T. I put a cool fifty thou down that they'd resist scratching the scratching post, stretching their darling little bodies all the way up to the tippy top. NO DICE. I think there was some sort of cat drug inside that scratching post. Who even knew there was such a thing?
Okay, in retrospect, those may seem like bad bets. "Dan," you say, "Why on earth would you bet against a whole miniature football field full of kittens being cute?" Well, does a 1,000,000-to-1 PAYOFF mean anything to you? I took a shot. Dreamed the big dream. Sadly, it turns out those odds-makers know their business.
I just have one request. When they find me at the bottom of the east river--both kneecaps broken, after my bookie collects his debt in blood--don't blame the kittens. Their only crime was to be lovable.
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