Roanoke Times
                 Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.

DATE: SUNDAY, March 25, 1990                   TAG: 9003262198
SECTION: VIRGINIA                    PAGE: C-1   EDITION: METRO 
SOURCE: BEN BEAGLE STAFF WRITER
DATELINE:                                 LENGTH: Medium

IF RUBY COULD READ THESE GUYS, SHE'D CRY

I mean, you can tell that silly tiger on Mill Mountain that I am just having real fun. Ha. Ha.

I have been sending Ed Shamy these really neat electronic messages that begin: "Tiger, tiger, burning bright/In the forests of the night . . . "

This guy has no sense of humor, though.

Actually, I did this to keep sane. You scratch off all these tickets and this black stuff gets all over your desk and it gets you a little crazy.

There was a fleeting moment, when I became obsessed with rubbing these tickets and considered blowing all of my money on them at one time.

"Aha," I said. "I am being normal at last. This is why normal people keep buying lottery tickets."

The medical writer, in the office briefly between trips to discover various disabling diseases, said he doubted this would be true if I were spending my own money.

So much for being normal.

I have to say this up front to the tiger: We ain't got a whole lot to show for 50 bucks spent, Ruby, baby. And if I were you, I wouldn't depend on yours truly here to do much about helping you get a new cage.

Put another way, Ruby, I spent $45 this first week and won $15.

However, this is being written before the Lotto drawing Saturday night in which I could win $3 million. I have five $1 tickets, but don't start ordering new drapes yet.

Likewise, I also would not depend too much on Ed Shamy, the thudball who got us into all of this.

This clown, who misrepresents me every chance he gets, has been running around the countryside - buying tickets in quaint places and stuff like that.

You know. He comes in and tells the big bosses: "Gosh, I bought some Play TV ruboffs in Body Camp today."

Or: "Whoa. I bought into the Pick-3 drawing in this really quaint place in Vinton."

And the editors are supposed to say: "That Shamy really knows the heartland, doesn't he? Keeps his fingers on the heartbeat of the ordinary people who make this nation great."

I have gone out of my way not to buy tickets in quaint places.

Listen, if I wanted quaint, I'd find me a ruboff game in or near Mouth of Wilson.

Leaving Shamy's revolting pandering behind, I would have to say that this past week has done nothing to make me less afraid of numbers.

I was so afraid of the Pick-3 and Lotto games that I let the computer pick the numbers for me.

Professional lottery players, who can get on your nerves, consider this a perfectly loathsome, degrading, debased and vile thing to do.

They use combinations like their wedding anniversaries, the date their mothers-in-law moved out or numbers that mark other big events in their lives.

One of these players - if I mentioned his name it would blow the lid off this town - suggested I buy this book that shows you how to pick the right numbers by analyzing your dreams. I frankly thought this was a little kinky.

Then there was Wednesday when the Pick-3 drawing on television was challenged. It really scared me when this guy yelled "Foul!"

It made no difference. I had five tickets on Pick-3, which are now in this file I have marked "Losers."

Also in this folder are 34 expertly-scratched instant tickets that did absolutely nothing for the tiger.

I now bravely face the next week of reckless gambling in the lottery and will report again next Sunday.

Unless, that is, I win $3 million in the Lotto game, after which I would adopt a tiger and buy her a real nice cage in my backyard.