Irrefutably Demented Megalomaniacs: A Preliminary Examination of my Hockey Pool

Introduction:

The act of exchanging $1 in the hope of earning $10 through the futile art of sports gambling is foolhardy. Not only that, - gambling is not a calculated risk - but the low art of believing, through the dark prism of half-developed minds and egos, that you're better than the next half-broiled ham with pineapples - is technically immoral and therefore a sin. Hence, the billion dollar industry it has spawned.

Anything that gives way to the possible attachment and addiction of a vice should be banned. Anyone caught betting should be stripped and chased by a hungry and angry pack of soused, sex starved Eskimo lesbians. Think about it.

Legislate against a vice? Bah.

As a covert sociological study for a government that shall remain nameless -ok, so it's for the Saskatchewan Wheat and Gaming Boards - I joined a hockey pool a few years to analyze what motivates normal and responsible individuals with high positions and seemingly stable families to engage in an utterly depraved and valueless activity. They spend hundreds of dollars that could otherwise be used to dress and take the kids out. They consume hundreds of hours researching, strenuously debating and pontificating about people they know little of. Why?

What I have learned so far:

The objective of the exercise is to pick players, through a draft in a poorly ventilated restaurant that serves suspect food for several hours, and subsequently hope and pray the players you chose bring you in barely one months rent or mortgage payment. Worse, the servers are rarely sexy women with big tatonka's. They are usually French speaking males who obviously want to take part rather than take orders.

All the while, an inordinate amount of time is wasted, as mentioned earlier, emailing nonsense, swearing, making terrible Muslim terrorist references, researching and begging someone to take one of your players in a barter system known as a trade. The goal of the trade is to sodomize your opponent. To rape and make him to feel like he is unfit to be part of an association of pool sluts. If he goes home in a depressed state and his wife questions his manhood then mission accomplished. "Dad, why is Sergei Gonchar a puke and a vomit that stinks like pig shit and eats dead ants?" "I do not know son. DAMMIT, Timmy I just...don't... know. Leave me alone!"

My first essay was titled "A most deprived and depraved group of mental cases that need to have more sex outside of marriage." While on the surface we are witnessing what seems to be a normal and functioning society of market oriented poolsters, deep within its layers we find a darker more sinister reality.

In this city of vice, there lay several internal factions struggling to gain recognition and power. Tribalism and decadent ritualistic practices have been detected; though I have yet to substantiate. I need to gain their trust first to be included inside their inner sanctum. One of their initiations, it is alleged by one source known only as Lennie, is to jerk off in a coffin while a monkey awaits to clean up.

What follows is a sample of some of the subjects:

One poolster, is a giggling mad fool who paints the walls of his house with the names of the players he is following. He is Exhibit A and I call him Frolov. Another, a doctor of some sort, though I have my suspicions that he is really a sorcerer, is plotting to inject vaccinations ladened with a strand of a viral infection into his enemies. He is also known to employ thugs to beat fellow poolsters should they turn down any deals. I call him Ninimaa. A draftsman from Kirgizstan concludes my first round of observations. He is Teemu. His intimidation abilities include employing an innocent smile while sonically sending wicked waves of dolphin squeals to his enemy. He insists he learned the trick from Arthur Curry - otherwise known as Aquaman.

Preliminary conclusion:

And so my experiment continues. My result will not be published for another year. But when I do, it promises to be of incredible social value of grand proportions. Legislators will clamor to my feet begging for guidance on how to eliminate and eradicate the pond scum that seems to constantly rise in our society. Only then will I be able to help those who have succumbed to madness. Now, if you don't mind, I have a call to make...to a poolster....about a...trade.