According to the Wall Street Journal, the new online gambling industry will explode in popularity.
This season, the NFL is allowing sports gambling companies to advertise during games for the first time.
I don’t envy the precarious position the league has placed itself in. Balancing them involves delicately rationing the number of commercials per game so they can make big money — while they stop just because of the alienation of NONGAMBLERS football dudes in their fan base.
If this fence fencing exercise succeeds, there will undoubtedly be more compromises by the NFL, NBA, MLB, NHL and others. (“Yes, we stand behind our decision to ban the offensive mascot – BUT there will be a constant surcharge on tickets so he can live his life happy and free on a farm on the upper coast.”)
I will not lose sleep because of receiving ads, because I am so confused and a person who “makes a living” that betting on sports is not disputable.
I know. “I miss”. A brain scan shows all the “pleasure centers” in the brain that light up when a gambler takes a risk (won or lost). I am more concerned about the YBD centers in my brain. (“Great lunatic! You could renew your magazine subscription with what you blew up in that fantasy sports league!”)
I guess I’m just connected differently than most people. Yes, I have the standard “fight or flight” instinct common to humanity, but I don’t add the instinct “or flush your Roth IRA into the toilet bowl”.
I realize I’m obligated to prove something to myself or my countrymen by placing expert bets, but all I’ve proven is that I can’t shove all those sports stats into my head and keep the ability to walk and chew gum at the same time.
Normal people tried to bring reason into me. (“Hey, you gamble when you eat a sausage you could suffocate in. You gamble when you get out of the driveway. You gamble when you show up at work where someone might go in the mail.”) Surprisingly, this “pointless conversation” doesn’t that I feel like a reborn poisonous male who should deposit $ 20 on the Bengals. That makes me feel more like a blonde little old woman pulling the handle of a vending machine.
I try to empathize with people who are addicted to adrenaline, but it’s not easy. Take a look at personal gambling. You can have a bounty hunter, a decorated Vietnamese veteran, a gender reassignment surgeon and a guy who claims to have died and spent 12 hours in the sky, all sitting at a poker table — but things don’t get interesting until someone adds a little more money to the pot! Tree forest, people!
One article I studied said the quiet part out loud: many sports “enthusiasts” aren’t particularly interested in games unless they have money on the line. Forget the millionaires who give each other a concussion, and the coaches a strategy of improvisation. Forget about supporting the host. It’s a bet.
Oooo-KAY. But if I lose interest in watching the paint dry, I’ll dare say I’ll move on to a promising party, instead of dreaming of some bells and whistles to add to the paint! But it’s just me.
Remember: watch gambling ads responsibly. And if you’re drinking, don’t drive over blonde little ladies.
Or I will go up the pleasure centers of your brain.
