Ruminations on the Lottery, and Bag Washing

Like most everyone, I occasionally find reason to bitch and complain about my life and what gets handed to me, but the fact is that I've been exceptionally fortunate so far, compared to the greater part of the rest of the world.  For the sake of redundance, I'm going to list a few of the ways in which I've already won the lottery:
1. I was born in Canada.  The advantages of this are beyond measure, and would take much too long to list here.
2. I was born white, and have never had to suffer racial discrimination.  I've never been refused a job, apartment, service, or anything else because of my race.  I've never been unfairly hassled by police or border agents.
3. I was born in Saskatchewan, and raised on a farm there.  Some don't see this as an advantage, but I do.
4. I was born to an amazing woman who never fails to inspire me with her wisdom.
5. I lucked into a job that pays me more money than I deserve, and has lasted far longer than I expected.
6. A beautiful and (very) tolerant woman consented to marry me.  She hasn't changed her mind yet, and God knows I've given her reason to.
7. I have a couple of great kids, and even a grandson.

So the short list looks pretty good, and I didn't do a thing to earn any one of them.  Most of them were beyond my control, and gave me tremendous advantage right out of the chute.

But here's the thing... I was in the shower yesterday washing my ball sack (never mind how fast) and thinking about the lottery ticket in my jacket pocket.  I was imagining all of the things I was going to do after I cashed that sucker in, going so far as to figure out what I was going to say to my boss about why I wasn't going in to work last night.  Then I thought - here I am, enjoying a hot shower and a lot of soap, something that the better part of the 7 billion souls on this rock don't have access to, preparing to go to a job that allows me to work only 14 days out of a month and often less than 40 hours per week on full salary, and I'm lusting after the big one.  WTF?

I stood there a moment, absently rubbing my loins, soap bar in hand, and thought about what I was contemplating.  It brought to mind something I had read the day before, in the Biography of Mark Twain, Vol. 1, an essay entitled "The Character of Man".  It begins like this:

"I desire to contemplate him from this point of view - this premiss:  that he was not made for any useful purpose, for the reason that he hasn't served any; that he was most likely not even made intentionally; and that his working himself up out of the oyster bed to his present position was probably a matter of surprise and regret to the Creator.  For his history, in all climes, all ages and circumstances, furnishes oceans and continents of proof that of all the creatures that were made he is the most detestable."

The essay goes on to point out the savagery and selfishness of the race in terms beyond argument.  I hung my head in shame.  Then I dried off, got dressed and went to check my lottery ticket.

It's important to note here that as I placed my ticket into the checker, I went through a series of emotional states.  In the one or two seconds it took for the machine to return it's result to me, I felt:  .25 seconds of anticipation.  .25 seconds of disbelief.  .25 seconds of surety that the owners of the store had rigged the machine and were cleaning all of the tickets out of the garbage slot at the end of each day and rechecking all of them in the REAL ticket checker in the back storage room.  .5 seconds of murderous rage, wherein I looked around for a weapon.

In all of the 7 billion or so moments that were experienced on earth at that time, none were any more self-serving or brutish - excepting only that no actual violence was done.  Without that tiny little bit of reserve I possess as a result of societal pressure, I would right now be in a very small room, possibly with a roommate, being told how pretty I am and worrying about my anal virginity.  If I could pry my feeble mind from myself for a second or two, I might give some thought to the bloody carnage left behind at the local Mac's store after I pulverized two clerks, a pimply teenager and an over-tanned, orange hued psycho-diva, with a can of Red Bull.

So I guess my point is this:  Mr. Twain is correct, we're all pathetic, self-serving dirt holes at our base; we never do anything at all unless it makes us feel good in some way; we're all selfish and desirous of more no matter how much we already have, and there is no other species of critter on the earth that couldn't do a better job of things.  Higher purpose?  Selfless sacrifice?  These things are the exception not the norm, and come about only when they satisfy an inner craving for some imagined - and illusory - idea of glory or admiration from our peers.

I know, fun huh?  I'll try not to be so negative next time.