The Perils of Winning a Sweepstakes

Photo by Rusty Boxcars

I keep receiving letters from Publishers Clearing House about this really great sweepstakes with a grand prize of $5,000 a week for life. That’s right, for life. I mean, you do the math; that’s $260,000 a year; and as my daddy would say, “That ain’t nothing to sneeze at.” Look at it this way: If a person wins the grand prize and he’s, oh, let’s say 30-years-old, and the average life expectancy is 78, then that person will receive $260,000 a year for 48 years, which, according to my trusty calculator, amounts to over 12-million smackeroos.. Of course, at my age I might be lucky to receive the money for only 30 years.; but, still, that’s a lot of money, and I was thinking the other day about what I’m going to do with all that money when I win it (How’s that for positive thinking?).

First, I thought, I’m going to retire. Second, I’m going to move back home to Georgia. Third, I’m going to buy a place in the country where I can have a horse or two and a vegetable garden. Fourth, I’m going to help other people, since what good is money if you keep it all to yourself? Of course, I’m also going to order several cases of wine from Eveningside Vineyard in New York State, since it’s “like drinking pure nectar” (Okay, Karen, there’s the plug; now send me some more wine.)  

As I sat there, however, envisioning what I was going to do with all that money when I won it, I had an epiphany (a moment of profound insight), at least one of sorts. “Okay, so what’s the catch,” I wondered. “Surely, after all, there has to be catch. I mean, is Publishers Clearing House really going to shell out that kind of money for someone’s entire lifetime? Hmm, but wait a minute—what if PCH can shorten a person’s lifetime?”

And that’s when I began having visions of hit men sneaking up on me when I least expected it (Does anyone ever expect it?). I could easily see these burly guys, dressed all in black, and looking amazingly like John Travolta in Pulp Fiction, lurking around corners, trailing me relentlessly, sneaking up on me in the dark or even in full daylight, just waiting to spring out and with a “Plop!”, since hit men’s guns are equipped with silencers, put an end to my guaranteed lifetime income.

So, what’s my point? Hmm, let me think a minute. Okay, I thought about it, and I think my point is that maybe I’d be better off not to win the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes. No, wait, that can’t be my point. After all, at least I’d be rich, which means that I could afford to install an electrified fence around my property; buy a pack of attack dogs, probably Dobermans and Rottweilers; and hire a body guard, preferably one that looked like John Travolta did in Pulp Fiction, because he sure looked intimidating in that movie—cute, too.