Last week I struggled to understand why I kept seeing news articles about long lines for Powerball tickets. The story was everywhere. But then I read the statistics involved: the chance of winning was only one-in-292 million, but the jackpot was 1.5 billion. And 1.5 billion is a way bigger number than 292 million, so it all made sense.
More interesting was a related article I read about “Quick Picks”. The article explained just how the computer at 7-11 generates numbers when you ask for a Quick Pick. It’s actually a pretty ingenious system: the lottery people know ahead of time what the winning number combination will be, so they take all the other possible losing combinations and make them available as Quick Picks.
These mega lotteries seem to bring out the best in people. One of the winning tickets was sold in a suburb of L.A. In a move guaranteeing his entry to Hell, a kid there texted his mom and told her she’d won, but it turned out he was pranking her. Two other winners were sold in Florida and Tennessee. I’m guessing that the ticket in Tennessee was bought by Rand Paul, who slipped across the border from Kentucky in disguise in hopes of shoring up funding for his flagging campaign.
Even if the winners try to remain anonymous, they usually reveal themselves – just watch your neighborhood for a residence undergoing a drastic lifestyle change. A friend of mine lived near a lottery winner in Indiana. The neighborhood was a modest one filled with small ranch houses. One day a guy on the street surrounded his entire yard with a tall wrought iron fence. Then a bunch of Greek statues appeared in the front yard. A company came in and installed a swimming pool in the back. A pair of luxury cars soon graced the driveway. Turns out he had won the lottery. And six months later there was an eviction notice on the front door.
Yes, winning a lottery is a mixed blessing. You instantly become a target for assassination by family members, especially those who will be included in your estate. But on the upside, your drug problem stops being a “problem” because you now have plenty of cash to pay for the goodies.
A house near where I lived in Mississippi underwent expensive expansion and renovation (though less ostentatious than what you describe). But the woman who lived there hadn’t won the lottery. It turned out that her son is Thomas Harris, author of “Silence of the Lambs.” We could tell when he visited because there would be a red Ferrari in the driveway. At least I think it was a Ferrari. All those sports cars that cost over $100,000 look alike to me.