You’re all in my rearview mirror now

Dear losers,

I hereby submit my final column and official letter of resignation from this slave ship with padded chairs we call The Spokesman-Review.

It is Saturday afternoon as I compose these parting words. In a few hours, a drawing will be held for the $300 million Idaho Lottery Powerball jackpot.

After that it’s hello lifestyles of the rich and Douglas – so long to working for a living.

And as long as we’re in a goodbye mood, let me extend a hearty good riddance to that warren of bunny-brained editors whose mission in life was to bring me down.

Every day was a nagfest.

It was “Clark, you can’t compare Spokane’s suit-happy civic malcontent Steve Eugster to a dung-tossing monkey.”

Or “Clark, ‘Hey, Toots. Steal any elections lately?’ is not an appropriate way to greet visiting Governor Gregoire.”

Well, the torture is about to end because I have the winning Powerball ticket.

I bought it Friday night from a pasty-faced clerk in a Post Falls quickie mart.

One buck for $300 million. Not even the Met Mortgage hucksters offered that kind of return.

I know what you skeptics are thinking. You’re thinking that quitting my job before the numbers are even drawn is an insane act even for me.

True, from a cold mathematical standpoint, the odds of predicting a lottery win are up there with convincing Angelina Jolie to have my name tattooed on her ass.

Math, however, is just a class I ignored in high school. I have the Powerball of positive thinking on my side.

As you will see, a series of fortuitous circumstances has convinced me that Lady Luck is my call girl.

“After a bit of engine adjustment, the mileage on my ‘67 Vista Guzzler has improved from a dismal 5.8 miles a gallon to an environmentally friendly 10.3.

“My birthday number – lucky 13 – hit on my first spin while playing roulette at a casino the other night. I quit on the spot with more than enough cash to pay for the all-you-can-eat rib feed.

“Allow me to quote from my astrological section of the Saturday horoscope: “The moon in your sign gives you the green light. You have the planets working with you.”

We started the Iraq war with less incontrovertible proof than this.

And so I bought a ticket. I picked the following can’t-miss numbers: 5-6-7-8-22, plus the Powerball digit 13.

These numbers are all based on family birthdays except for 7 (Mickey Mantle’s jersey number) and 6, which is the date of my January wedding – the luckiest day of my life.

Being wealthier than most Third World nations won’t change the ol’ Dougster.

I plan to take the $146 million lump payoff and invest wisely in a few modest items: a press agent, armed security guards, a Dairy Queen franchise in my den and maybe that $10 million bejeweled Victoria’s Secret bra.

I will also set aside $6 million – for rehab.

Well, the drawing draws near. I’d better call the relatives now and tell them in advance to get lost.

But let me leave my co-workers with one final thought:

Don’t bother throwing me a party. You’re not getting a dime.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Moments after the Idaho Powerball drawing, a sobbing and barely coherent Doug Clark telephoned the city desk with the following statement:

My dearest friends and colleagues,

I hope you didn’t take any of my lottery malarkey seriously. I haven’t been well lately. I might even be coming down with bird flu because, you know, I’ve been feeling a little beaked.

Get it? Beaked?

Yeah, that’s me – always the funny man. Oh, gawd, I’m sorry. Take me back. I’ll even work weekends in the Sandpoint bureau. Just forget everything I said. Please. Just forget it.

Except for the Eugster monkey dung part.