Today Betting Tips: Today's Football Predictions

Super6_Predictions

Super 6 is a free game which allows players the free opportunity to win £250,000, all you have to do is correctly guess the score line to 6 football/soccer games to be in with a chance to win! This subreddit allows players to discuss their guesses and opinions in order to have a more accurate chance of winning.
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Soccer Betting Guide

A community for sharing and discussing your favourite vice.
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r/GuidetoMatchedBetting | THE Matched Betting Subreddit on Reddit

This is THE place to discuss matched betting on Reddit. Matched betting allows people to make risk-free earnings by eliminating the gambling aspect of betting, guaranteeing profits. For advice, guides & more, visit beatingbetting.co.uk
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Maxbet Tips | 2 Best Strategies For Betting On Soccer

Maxbet Tips | 2 Best Strategies For Betting On Soccer submitted by Rescue_bet to u/Rescue_bet [link] [comments]

Why doesn't r/soccer have a tip section for betting on games?

Majority of the people I know that watch football bet on it too. I'd imagine it would be a similar thing on soccer. Why don't we have a tip section or something. Or a thread that appears on the day a number of games are to be played. People can up/downvote the tips in the thread and that way the most popular tips can be seen. Or, a group of soccer users selected by mods give tips before the games.
Just an idea. Thoughts?
submitted by Caledonian_Scot to soccer [link] [comments]

I Don’t Think I Killed Myself

I grew up a skinny little introvert in the suburbs. I had a few friends but usually just got lost in books. I went to summer camps, took piano lessons and enjoyed playing soccer. I did OK at school and the 4th, 5th and 6th grades all passed by as I grew into larger clothing and shoe sizes. My reality would splinter into unfixable fragments one summer when I was ten years old.
I was playing soccer at the park with Jason, the one friend from school who seemed to take a liking to me. He was a stocky redhead who couldn’t get enough fart jokes and videogames. He had some crazy system that was very advanced, but I can’t recall the name. I had to twist his arm to actually get outdoors to play soccer with me.
One day, Jason and I were out kicking the ball for about twenty minutes before he hunched over out of breath. He complained about being tired of playing and punted it hard and it soared over my head. “Asshole!” I shouted and I ran to get it, watching as it bounced high and barreled towards the road.
I ran fast enough to catch up to it before it went into the street, but I tripped. By the time I heard the loud music, it was too late. I saw the chrome fender of a fast-approaching black car that was about to hit me. There was no way to avoid its course. Time slowed as I soared into the street and in front of that speeding car.
There was an awful crunch and my ribs and skull pulsed with a shocking amount of pain. I felt a pressure inside my head, it felt like it had burst. I never felt such agony, and I wanted it to end. The world went black, and screams erupted before it all clicked off with a snap.
I awoke to a telephone ringing, I was confused as to where I was. I was in a small strange room I did not recognize, and the stink of stale cigarette smoke and bourbon made me wrinkle my nose.
“Jesse, take out the fucking trash!” The booming, gruff voice slurred the consonants. I sat up on the couch, feeling my head with my small fingers in confusion at the length and texture of my hair. I thought I must’ve been in a weeks-long coma. But I was alive.
“Jesse, I said TAKE OUT THE TRASH you idiot!” I felt a sharp smack on the top of my head and yelped. I held my throbbing head and locked eyes with the strange man looming over me. He was talking to me.
“Where am I, who are you?” I asked, feeling tears glaze my eyes. The red-faced man with gray-peppered stubble smirked an awful smile as he stooped to look into my eyes. His were bloodshot, bulging orbs above a bulbous nose and yellow-toothed grin.
“You want me to put you back in a cast you little shit?”
I rose and quickly scanned the interior of the trailer I found myself in, soon finding the overflowing garbage which was filled with crushed PallMall packs, empty flasks and styrofoam containers. I kneeled to the stained carpet and brushed stinking cigarette butts and food debris into the bag, twisting the top as I made my way outside the flimsy door.
The sun was oppressive in the circle of old trailers rusting away. Was I kidnapped? I thought maybe there’d been a mixup at the hospital, and my mom was devastated and looking all over for me. I dumped the reeking trash into a dumpster buzzing with flies and then looked around. I needed to get help. I decided I was going to make a break for one of the other trailers to ask for a phone when I caught a glimpse of myself in the pane of a door window. I stopped dead in my tracks.
There, staring back at me, was the face of a child who looked nothing like me. A shaggy-haired kid with freckles and scared eyes. I held up my hands as my brain swirled in confusion. I tried to think of my mom and only saw a chain-smoking woman with blue eyeshadow who was yelling at the red-faced drunk in the trailer. My head hurt as I struggled to remember what she looked like in the suburban house I grew up in. I could see her blonde ponytail, but her face was a blank oval of flesh. The house was a faint memory that degraded with each detail I fought to remember, like some dissolving recollection of a dream.
My last name—previously on the tip of my tongue—slipped away from me entirely. I couldn’t remember it. All I could remember was the name Nelson. My name; Jesse Nelson. I then remembered trips with my drunk dad to the lake to go fishing, and Christmases with I.O.U’s written in folding cards under a plastic tree. Every sliver of clear memory was lost in a hazy cloud; fine brushstrokes of details lacking the big picture or even the canvas beneath.
I kept a journal as I transitioned into this childhood as another person. I tried to recollect as many details as I could, thinking if I could piece it together, I might be able to get home. I endured my father’s endless insults as well as the negative attention from kids at school. I quickly learned if you can’t afford name brand clothing, you are a magnet for bullies.
The insults were endless; Trailer trash. Thrift store reject. Redneck. Hick. School was hell, and home life was not much better. No video games, no TV. This new dad would bet on horses, and he’d usually lose. He’d then get really angry, and I quickly learned to leave and take walks along the highway to avoid getting hit.
I struggled in school. The school system I was enrolled in was teaching different courses than my previous one. Despite the difficulty and distraction, I managed to do alright in high school. Flashes of a previous life would still occasionally come at odd moments. Memories of the metronome’s ticking as I sat still for piano lessons, or ice cream Sundays with a smiling set of parents. A grinning man behind a steering wheel. Each time the memories flashed into my head they would burn out, soon replaced with the new ones. Fresher memories of throwing rocks at beer bottles and my pop’s shouting matches with Mr. Nash; the nasty man at the end of the trailer park. They both argued about a woman. My missing mother, I presumed.
Still, I learned to enjoy what I had in my new life. I even grew accustomed to my new face and modest new home. The bullying also became less intense the less I seemed to care.
I developed different sets of interests which grew as time passed. I knew a bunch more about cars than I thought I did, as if the memories of this child and my own had merged in some slurry that was slowly taking form. I graduated from high school, and with a sweaty hug from my pops, I knew that was as far as my education would go.
My grades were not good enough for a scholarship and dad was dead broke. I picked up a job at the gas station. That’s where I met my maniac of a best-friend; Ron. He was a few years older, a metalhead with a ratty mustache and a hilariously twisted sense of humor. He made life there manageable, actually pretty fun a lot of the time.
I would drink beers with him and his buds on the weekend and worked hard, making my fingers calloused as I removed stripped bolts and struggled to save money. I eventually moved out of my pop’s place and into a small, cockroach-riddled apartment in the nearby town. I grew into a young man, having fun and enjoying my freedom as I saved up for a car.
Something drew me to it, but I couldn’t quite say what. Its sheen and luster, the black powerhouse was in my sights for months before I put down that initial payment. “You get the car then you get the girls,” Ron always said. I soon was at the dealership shaking hands with a smiling salesman. I hopped into the new vehicle and smelled the fresh leather interior. I turned her on and my heart purred with the revving of the engine. My new black Mustang.
I shouldn't have been drinking, and I know that. Ron had won $1000 from a scratch-off card, and I was now 21 and had my very own car; he wanted to party. I picked him up and we drank at a new spot downtown where he insisted all the ladies frequented. He was slurring, wagging a finger at the bouncer until we were kicked out. It was only around four in the afternoon and we were tanked.
I was driving too fast, metal blasting as Ron shouted “RIGHT, take this RIGHT!” and the tires skidded as I pulled past a park. He lit a cigarette and I yelled at him, screaming not to smoke in my car. A glowing ember hit my arm as he tried to toss it. I didn’t see the kid tripping into the road before it was too late. I saw his face. A face I recognized immediately.
My heart broke into a thousand pieces before the impact. I knew as soon as I stepped out of the car and saw his bloody head and twitching, broken fingers. He was pronounced dead at the scene. The sirens approached and I wept into my hands before the cuffs twisted my arms behind my back. It was me dead on the street. The real me.
I’ve been in prison a few weeks now. Every day is the same. It’s rough here, but if you act tough and fight back, you don’t get eaten alive. But I can't unsee my own youthful face staring up at my fast-approaching car. I swear to it, just before the impact I saw it. That little boy was grinning a wicked little smile at me like I'd just lost a bet.
submitted by mrmichaelsquid to nosleep [link] [comments]

The truth behind Puskás Akadémia FC - How Hungarian PM Viktor Orbán stole a legend, built a stadium in his backyard and guided his team to Europe

The 2019/2020 season of the Hungary’s National Football League (NB1) – being one of the first leagues to restart play - came to an end on 27 June. If a casual observer (for whatever reason) decides to check out the final standings, he would be not surprised at the first two positions: record-champion Ferencváros defended their title, while regional powerhouse Fehérvár (Videoton) came in second. However, the third place team, Puskás Akadémia FC might seem unusual and one could think that there is a story behind that. Is there a team named after Ferenc Puskás? Did some academy youths make an incredible run for the Europa League qualification? Well, the observer is right, there is a story behind all this, but it’s absolutely not a fun story. It’s a story about how one powerful man’s obsession with football stole a legend, misused state funds and killed the spirit of Hungarian football. (Warning: this is a long story, feel free to scroll down for a tl;dr. Also, I strongly advise checking out the links, those images are worth seeing).
Naturally, political influence in football has been present ever since the dawn of the sport and we know of numerous state leaders who felt confident enough to use their influence to ensure the successful development of their favored clubs – Caucescu’s FC Olt Scornicesti and Erdogan’s Basaksehir are well-known examples of such attempts. However, I fear that very few of the readers are aware of the fact that Puskás Akadémia FC is nothing but Hungarian PM Viktor Orbán’s grandiose project for establishing his hometown’s club as one of the country’s top teams. Considering that Orbán managed to achieve this goal using state funds in an EU member democracy in the 2000s, one might even say that it might be one of the most impressive attempts of cheating your way through Football Manager in real life. Now that Puskás Akadémia FC escaped the desolate football scene of Hungary and is getting ready for the European takeover, I feel that it’s high time to tell its true story.

Part 1: Part time striker, part time PM

Our story begins in 1999 when the 36-year-old striker Viktor Orbán (recently elected as the country’s Prime Minister) was signed by the sixth-tier side of Felcsút FC residing in rural Fejér County. It might sound surprising that an active politician would consider such a side job, but given that Orbán has been playing competitive low-level football throughout his whole life and has always been known as a keen football enthusiast, people seemed to be okay with his choice for a hobby. Orbán spent most of his childhood in the village of Felcsút (population: 1,800), so it seemed only natural that he would join the team after one of his old-time acquaintances became team president there.
Orbán’s arrival to the club seemed to work like a charm as Felcsút FC immediately earned a promotion to the fifth league. The Prime Minister’s busy program did not allow him to attend every training session and game but Orbán did make an effort to contribute as much as possible on the field – there is a report of a government meeting being postponed as Orbán was unavailable due to attending Felcsút FC’s spring training camp. The 2001/2002 season brought another breakthrough for the side as Felcsút was promoted to the national level of the football pyramid after being crowned the champion of Fejér County. Sadly enough for Orbán, he suffered a defeat on another pitch – his party lost the 2002 election and Orbán was forced to move to an opposition role.
No matter what happened on the political playing field, Orbán would not abandon his club. Just before the 2002 elections, Felcsút was surprisingly appointed as one of the regional youth development centers by the Hungarian FA. Orbán continued contributing on the field as well (he had more spare time after all) but his off-the-field efforts provided much more value for the team as he used his political influence to convince right-wing businessmen that they should definitely get sponsorship deals done with the fourth-division village team.
Club management was able to transform the influx of funds into on-field success: Felcsút FC was promoted to the third division in 2004 and achieved promotion to the second division in 2005. Although these new horizons required a skill level that an aging ex-PM is not likely to possess, Orbán regularly played as a late game sub and even appeared in cup games against actual professional opponents. The now-42-year old Orbán did not want to face the challenge of the second division, so he retired in 2005 – but this did not stop him from temping as an assistant coach when the head coach was sacked in the middle of the 2005-2006 season.
Success on the playing field did not translate to political success: Orbán lost the elections once again in 2006. However, this was only a temporary loss: the ruling party committed blunder after blunder and by early 2007 it became absolutely obvious that Orbán would be able return to power in 2010. Now confident in his political future, Orbán opted for the acceleration of football development in Felcsút – by late 2007 he took over the presidency of the club to take matters in his own hands. Sponsors seeking to gain favor with the soon-to-be PM were swarming Felcsút FC, so the club was able to stand very strong in an era where financial stability was a very rare sight in the Hungarian football scene, accumulating three medals (but no promotion) between 2007 and 2009.
On the other hand, Orbán realized the value of youth development as well, and started a local foundation for this purpose back in 2004 that gathered funds for the establishment a boarding school-like football academy. The academy opened its doors in September 2006 (only the second of such institutions in the country) and Orbán immediately took upon the challenge of finding an appropriate name for the academy.
He went on to visit the now very sick Ferenc Puskás in the hospital to discuss using his name, but as Puskás’ medical situation was deteriorating rapidly, communication attempts were futile. Luckily enough Puskás’ wife (and soon to be widow) was able to act on his incapable husband’s behalf and approved the naming deal in a contract. According to the statement, naming rights were granted without compensation, as “Puskás would have certainly loved what’s happening down in Felcsút”. However, there was much more to the contract: Puskás’ trademark was handed to a sports journalist friend of Orbán (György Szöllősi, also acting communications director of the academy) who promised a hefty annual return for the family (and also a 45% share of the revenue for himself). Ferenc Puskás eventually died on 17 November 2006 and on 26 November 2006 the football academy was named after him: Puskás Academy was born.
Orbán shared his vision of the whole organization after the opening ceremony: “It’s unreasonable to think that Felcsút should have a team in the top division. We should not flatter ourselves, our players and our supporters with this dream. Our long term ambition is the creation of a stable second division team that excels in youth development and provides opportunity for the talents of the future.” Let’s leave that there.

Part 2: No stadium left behind

Orbán became PM once again in April 2010 after a landslide victory that pretty much granted him unlimited power. He chased lots of political agendas but one of his policies was rock solid: he would revive sports (and especially football) that was left to bleed out by the previous governments. The football situation in 2010 was quite dire: while the national team has actually made some progress in the recent years and has reached the 42nd position in the world rankings, football infrastructure was in a catastrophic state. Teams were playing in rusty stadiums built in the communist era, club finances were a mess, youth teams couldn’t find training grounds and the league was plagued by violent fan groups and lackluster attendance figures (3100 average spectators per game in the 2009/2010 season).
Orbán – aided by the FA backed by business actors very interested in making him happy – saw the future in the total rebuild of the football infrastructure. Vast amounts of state development funds were invested into the football construction industry that warmly welcomed corruption, cost escalation and shady procurement deals. In the end, money triumphed: over the last decade, new stadiums sprung out from nothing all over the country, dozens of new academies opened and pitches for youth development appeared on practically every corner. The final piece of the stadium renovation program was the completion of the new national stadium, Puskás Aréna in 2019 (estimated cost: 575 million EUR). Orbán commemorated this historic moment with a celebratory video on his social media that features a majestic shot of Orbán modestly kicking a CGI ball from his office to the new stadium.
Obviously, Orbán understood that infrastructure alone won’t suffice. He believed in the idea that successful clubs are the cornerstone of a strong national side as these clubs would compete in a high quality national league (and in international tournaments) that would require a constant influx of youth players developed by the clubs themselves. However, Orbán was not really keen on sharing the state’s infinite wealth with private club owners who failed to invest in their clubs between 2002 and 2010. The club ownership takeover was not that challenging as previous owners were usually happy to cut their losses, and soon enough most clubs came under Orbán’s influence. Some clubs were integrated deep into Orbán’s reach (Ferencváros and MTK Budapest club presidents are high ranking officials of Orbán’s party) while in other cases, indirect control was deemed sufficient (Diósgyőri VTK was purchased by a businessman as an attempt to display loyalty to Orbán).
Pouring taxpayer money into infrastructure (stadium) projects is relatively easy: after all, we are basically talking about overpriced government construction projects, there’s nothing new there. On the other hand, allocating funds to clubs that should be operating on a competitive market is certainly a tougher nut to crack. The obvious solutions were implemented: the state media massively overpaid for broadcasting rights and the national sports betting agency also pays a hefty sum to the FA, allowing for a redistribution of considerable amounts. However, given that the income side of Hungarian clubs was basically non-existent (match day income is negligible, the failed youth development system does not sell players), an even more radical solution was desperately needed. Also, there was definite interest in the development of a tool that would allow for differentiation between clubs (as in the few remaining non-government affiliated clubs should not receive extra money).
The solution came in 2011: the so-called TAO (“társasági adó” = corporate tax) system was introduced, granting significant tax deductions for companies if they offered a portion of their profits to sports clubs – however, in theory, funds acquired through TAO can be only used for youth development and infrastructure purposes. Soon enough, it became apparent that state authorities were not exactly interested in the enforcement of these restrictions, so some very basic creative accounting measures enabled clubs to use this income for anything they wanted to. Companies were naturally keen on cutting their tax burdens and scoring goodwill with the government, so TAO money immediately skyrocketed. Opportunistic party strongmen used their influence to convince local business groups to invest in the local clubs, enabling for the meteoric rise of multiple unknown provincial teams (Mezőkövesd [pop: 16,000], Kisvárda [pop: 16,000], Balmazújváros [pop: 17,000]) into the first division.
Although it’s not the main subject of this piece, I feel inclined to show you the actual results of Orbán’s grandiose football reform. While we do have our beautiful stadiums, we don’t exactly get them filled – league attendance has stagnated around 3000 spectators per game throughout the whole decade. We couldn’t really move forward with our national team either: Hungary lost 10 positions in the FIFA World Rankings throughout Orbán’s ten years. On the other hand, the level of league has somewhat improved – Videoton and Ferencváros reached the Europa League group stage in 2019 and 2020, respectively. Too bad that the Instat-based top team of 2019/2020 Hungarian league consists of 10 foreigners and only 1 Hungarian: the goalkeeper.

Part 3: Small place, big game!

As seen in the previous chapter, Orbán did have a strong interest in the improvement of the football situation Hungary, but we shouldn’t forget that his deepest interest and true loyalty laid in the wellbeing of Felcsút and its academy. Now that Orbán had limitless means to see to the advancement of his beloved club, he got to work immediately. Orbán handed over formal club management duties to his friend / protégé / middleman / businessman Lőrinc Mészáros in 2010, but no questions would ever arise of who is actually calling the shots.
First of all, no club can exist without a proper stadium. Although in 2011 Orbán explicitly stated that “Felcsút does not need a stadium as stadiums belong to cities”, no one was really surprised in 2012 when the construction of the Felcsút stadium was announced. Orbán was generous enough to donate the lands just in front of his summer home in the village for the project, locating the entrance a mere ten meters away from his residence. Construction works for the stunningly aesthetic 3,800-seater arena (in a village of 1,800 people) started in April 2012 and were completed in April 2014, making Felcsút’s arena the second new stadium of Orbán’s gigantic stadium revival program.
The estimated budget of the construction was 120 million EUR (31,500 EUR / seat) was financed by the Puskás Academy who explicitly stated that they did not use government funds for the project. Technically, this statement is absolutely true as the construction was financed through the TAO money offered by the numerous companies looking for tax deduction and Orbán’s goodwill. However, technically, this means that the country’s budget was decreased by 120 million EUR unrealized tax revenue. Naturally, the gargantuan football stadium looks ridiculously out of place in the small village, but there’s really no other way to ensure that your favorite team’s stadium is within 20 seconds of walking distance from your home.
Obviously, a proper club should also have some glorious history. Felcsút was seriously lagging behind on this matter as though Felcsút FC was founded in 1931, it spent its pre-Orbán history in the uninspiring world of the 5th-7th leagues of the country. Luckily enough, Orbán had already secured Puskás’ naming rights and they were not afraid to use it, so Felcsút FC was renamed to Puskás Academy FC in 2009. The stadium name was a little bit problematic as the Hungarian national stadium in Budapest had sadly had the dibs on Puskás’ name, so they had to settle with Puskás’ Spanish nickname, resulting in the inauguration of the Pancho Arena. But why stop here? Orbán’s sports media strongman György Szöllősi acted upon the contract with Puskás’ widow and transferred all Puskás’ personal memorabilia (medals, jerseys, correspondence) to the most suitable place of all: a remote village in which Puskás never even set foot in.
While the off-field issues were getting resolved, Orbán’s attention shifted to another important area: the actual game of football. Although academy players started to graduate from 2008 on, it very soon became painfully obvious that the academy program couldn’t really maintain even a second division side for now. In 2009, Orbán reached an agreement with nearby Videoton’s owner that effectively transformed Felcsút FC into Videoton’s second team under the name of Videoton – Puskás Akadémia FC. The mutually beneficent agreement would allow Videoton to give valuable playing time to squad players while it could also serve as a skipping step for Puskás Academy’s fresh graduates to a first league team. The collaboration resulted in two mid-table finishes and a bronze medal in the second division in the following three seasons that wasn’t really impressive compared to Felcsút FC’s standalone seasons.
It seemed that the mixture of reserve Videoton players and academy youth was simply not enough for promotion, and although Orbán had assured the public multiple times that his Felcsút project was not aiming for the top flight, very telling changes arose after the 2011/2012 season. Felcsút terminated the Videoton cooperation deal and used the rapidly accumulating TAO funds to recruit experienced players for the now independently operating Puskás Academy FC (PAFC). The new directive worked almost too well: PAFC won its division with a 10 point lead in its first standalone year which meant that they would have to appear in the first league prior to the completion of their brand-new Pancho Arena. Too bad that this glorious result had almost nothing to do with the academy - only two players were academy graduates of the side’s regular starting XI.
Orbán did not let himself bothered with the ridiculousness of an academy team with virtually no academy players being promoted to the first division as he stated that “a marathon runner shouldn’t need to explain why the other runners were much slower than him”. Orbán also displayed a rare burst of modesty as he added that “his team’s right place is not in the first league, and they will soon be overtaken by other, better sides”.
The promotion of PAFC to the first division made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move. Supporter groups were united in hatred all along the league and not surprisingly, away fans almost always outnumbered the home side at PAFC’s temporary home at Videoton’s Sóstói Stadium (demolished and rebuilt in its full glory since then). One of the teams, however, possessed an extraordinary degree of anger against PAFC: supporters of Budapest Honvéd – the only Hungarian team in which Ferenc Puskás played – felt especially awkward about the transfer of their club legend’s heritage to Felcsút. Tensions spiked at the PAFC – Honvéd game when home security forced Honvéd supporters to remove the “Puskás” part of their traditional “Puskás – Kispest – Hungary” banner – the team answered the insult with style as they secured a 4-0 victory supported by fans chanting “you can’t buy legends”.
Despite Orbán’s prognosis, other better sides did not rush to overtake his team, so PAFC, now residing in their brand new Pancho Arena, came through with a 14th and a 10th place in their first two seasons. Naturally, conspiracy theories began to formulate, speculating that government-friendly owners would certainly not be motivated to give their best against PAFC. However, as the league size was reduced to 12 for the 2015/2016 season, PAFC found themselves in a dire situation just before the final round: they needed a win and needed rival Vasas to lose against MTK in order to avoid relegation. PAFC’s draw seemed to be unlucky as they faced their arch-enemy Honvéd at home, but Honvéd displayed an absolute lackluster effort – fueling conspiracy theories – and lost the fixture 2 to 1 against a home side featuring four academy players. Vasas, however, did not disappoint, their 2-0 victory resulted in PAFC’s elimination and a very relaxed sigh all over the football community.
PAFC’s relegation seemed to be in accordance with Orbán’s 2013 statement, so public opinion supposed for a while that Orbán’s project came to a halting point and the Academy would go on to actually field academy players in the second division (especially as rostering foreign players was prohibited in the lower leagues). However, if you have read through this point, you know better than to expect Orbán to retreat – obviously, PAFC came back with a bang. With a ballsy move, PAFC didn’t even sell their foreign players, they just loaned them across the league, promising them that they would be able to return next year to the newly promoted team. The promise was kept as PAFC went into another shopping spree of experienced players (easily convincing lots of them to choose the second division instead of the first) and easily won the second league.
Orbán – now aware of his negligence – opted for the doubling the team’s budget, making PAFC the third most well-founded club in the whole country (only coming short to his friend’s Videoton and his party minion’s Ferencváros). With an actual yearly influx from TAO money in the ballpark of 30-40 million EUR, PAFC management had to really work wonders in creative accounting in order to make their money look somewhat legitimate. The books were now full of ridiculous items like:
Naturally, in the country of no consequences, absolutely nothing happened: PAFC went on with its spending and signed 35 foreigners between 2017 and 2020. They did so because they could not hope to field a winning team in the first league consisting of academy players, despite the fact that Puskás Academy has been literally drowning in money since 2007. This seems to somewhat contradict Orbán’s 2013 promise, stating that “Puskás Academy will graduate two or three players to major European leagues each year”. To be fair, there have been players who managed to emerge to Europe (well, exactly two of them: Roland Sallai plays at Freiburg, László Kleinheisler played at Werder Bremen) but most academy graduates don’t even have the slightest the chance to make their own academy’s pro team as it’s full of foreigners and more experienced players drawn for other teams’ programs.
Despite their unlimited funding, PAFC could not put up a top-tier performance in their first two years back in the first division, finishing 6th and 7th in the 12-team league. Many speculated that the lack of support, motivation and even a clear team mission did not allow for chemistry to develop within the multinational and multi-generational locker room. Consistency was also a rare sight on the coaching side: club management was absolutely impatient with coaches who were very easily released after a single bad spell and there were talks of on-field micromanagement request coming from as high as Orbán.
Even so, their breakthrough came dangerously close in 2018 as PAFC performed consistently well in the cup fixtures and managed to reach the final. Their opponent, Újpest played an incredibly fierce game and after a 2-2 draw, they managed to defeat PAFC in the shootout. Football fans sighed in relief throughout the country as ecstatic Újpest supporters verbally teased a visibly upset Orbán in his VIP lounge about his loss.
Obviously, we could only delay the inevitable. While this year’s PAFC side seemed to be more consistent than its predecessors, it seemed that they won’t be able to get close to the podium - they were far behind the obvious league winner duo of Ferencváros and Videoton and were trailing third-place Mezőkövesd 6 points just before the pandemic break. However, both Mezőkövesd and PAFC’s close rivals DVTK and Honvéd fall flat after the restart while PAFC was able to maintain its good form due to its quality roster depth. PAFC overtook Mezőkövesd after the second-to-last round as Mezőkövesd lost to the later relegated Debrecen side. (Mezőkövesd coach Attila Kuttor was fined harshly because of his post-game comments on how the FA wants PAFC to finish third.)
PAFC faced Honvéd in the last round once again, and as Honvéd came up with its usual lackluster effort, PAFC secured an effortless win, confidently claiming the third place. PAFC celebrated their success in a nearly empty stadium, however neither Orbán, nor Mészáros (club owner, Orbán’s protégé, now 4th richest man of Hungary) seemed to worry about that. While Orbán high-fived with his peers in the VIP lounge, Mészáros was given the opportunity to award the bronze medals (and for some reason, a trophy) to the players dressed up in the incredibly cringe worthy T-shirts that say “Small place, big game!”. Big game, indeed: in the 2019/2020 season, foreign players’ share of the teams playing time was 43.6% while academy graduates contributed only 17.9%.
On Sunday evening, less than 24 hours after PAFC’s glorious success, György Szöllősi, now editor-in-chief of Hungary’s only sports newspaper (purchased by Orbán’s affiliates a few years back) published an editorial on the site, stating that “the soccer rebuild in Felcsút became the motor and symbol of the revitalization of sport throughout the whole country”. Well, Szöllősi is exactly right: Felcsút did became a symbol, but a symbol of something entirely different. Felcsút became a symbol of corruption, inefficiency, lies and the colossal waste of money. But, hey, at least we know now: you only need to spend 200 million EUR (total budget of PAFC and its academy in the 2011-2020 period) if you want to have a Europa League team in your backyard. Good to know!

Epilogue: What's in the future?

As there is no foreseeable chance for political change to happen Hungary (Orbán effortlessly secured qualified majority in 2014 and 2018, and is projected to do so in 2022 as well), PAFC’s future seems to be as bright as it gets. Although consensus opinion now seems to assume that Orbán does not intend to interfere with the Ferencváros – Videoton hegemony, we can never be really sure about the exact limits of his greed. One could also argue that entering the European theater serves as a prime opportunity for making splashy transfers who could be the cornerstones of a side challenging the league title.
However, as all political systems are deemed to fall, eventually Orbán’s regime will come apart. Whoever will take upon the helm after Orbán, they will certainly begin with cutting back on the one item on Orbán’s agenda that never had popular support: limitless football spending. Puskás Academy, having next to zero market revenue, will not be able to survive without the state’s life support, so the club will fold very shortly. The abandoned, rotting stadium in Felcsút will serve as a memento of a powerful man who could not understand the true spirit of football.
But let’s get back to present day, as we have more pressing issues coming up soon: PAFC will play their first European match in the First qualifying round of the Europa League on 27 August. We don’t have a date for the draw yet, but soon enough, a team unaware of the whole situation will be selected to face the beast. I hope that maybe one of their players does some research and maybe reads this very article for inspiration. I hope that the supporters of this club get in touch with Honvéd fans who would be eager to provide them with some tips on appropriate chants. I hope that other teams gets drawn as the home team so Orbán wouldn’t get the pleasure of walking to his stadium for an international match. But most importantly, I very much hope that this team obliterates PAFC and wipes them off the face of the earth. 5-0 will suffice, thank you.
And if this team fails to do that, we don’t have to worry yet. Due to our shitty league coefficient, PAFC would need to win four fixtures in a row. And that – if there’s any justice in this world – is a thing that can’t, that won’t happen. Ball don’t lie – if I may say.
TL,DR
Hungarian PM Viktor Orbán redirected some 200 million EUR of taxpayer money over 10 years to fuel his ambition of raising a competitive football team in his hometown of 1,800 people. He built a 3,800-seater stadium in his backyard, expropriated football legend Ferenc Puskás’ trademarks and heritage and built up a football league where almost all clubs are owned by his trustees. His team, Puskás Akadémia FC was originally intended to be a development ground for youth players graduating from Orbán’s football academy, but eventually the team became more and more result-orianted. Finally, a roster full of foreign and non-academy players came through and finished third in the league, releasing this abomination of a team to the European football theatre. Please, knock them out asap!
submitted by pogacsa_is_life to soccer [link] [comments]

Top Ten Greatest Male Players in Challenge History - No. 7 - Derrick Kosinski

Honorable Mentions Pt. 1 - Wes, Jamie Murray, Brad
Honorable Mentions Pt. 2 - Theo, Dan, Abram, The Miz, Turbo
No. 10 - Alton Williams (Real World: Las Vegas)
No. 9 - Mark Long (Road Rules: USA - The First Adventure)
No. 8 - Darrell Taylor (Road Rules: Campus Crawl)
No. 7 - Derrick Kosinski (Road Rules: X-Treme)
 
If The Challenge had a Player Efficiency Rating system, Derrick’s Career PER would be at the very top. He’s one of the most consistent elite challengers ever.
 
Derrick has participated in 10 challenge seasons. He’s either made the final challenge or lost right before the final eight out of ten times. The other two times, he was sent home fifth. If you go back and analyze every individual Derrick performance, you’ll soon come to realize that he’s never had a bad season under his belt.
 
Missions Performance-Wise, Derrick was: 2nd best on Fresh Meat (after Evan), 2nd best on Cutthroat (after Abram), 3rd best on Inferno II (after C.T. and Landon), 3rd best on Gauntlet II (after Landon and Alton), 3rd best on Dirty Thirty (after C.T. and Nelson), 4th best on Inferno III (after Abram, Alton, and Johnny), and 5th best on the Duel (after Evan, C.T., Wes, and Brad). The Island had no missions, but Derrick was the clear-cut number one competitor (Ring Wrestle and Ball Buster are cold hard evidence). The missions on the Ruins were too team-oriented to determine a ranking system, but Derrick was at the very least top five and you can make an argument he was in the top three. That’s 9 out of 10 seasons where Derrick was a top five male performer.
 
The only season where Derrick wasn’t a top 5 male competitor was on his rookie season, Battle of the Sexes II. But even on that season, Derrick still left his fans with a career highlight moment in his short stay. And it was in his the first mission he’s ever participated in, Dangle Drop. In this mission, competitors had to hold on to a punching bag dangling above a lake for as long as possible. Derrick (alongside Abram) won the competition for the Guys, by outlasting everyone in his preliminary heat and then beating Coral and Rachel in the final heat. Young Derrick’s cockiness and drunken behavior didn’t rub off too well within the males team on the first day of Sexes II. If he would’ve just performed average in Dangle Drop, he was potentially the first boot. But Derrick proved to the rest of the team that he was a worthy competitor with a whole lot of fight in him. Derrick became a victim of Elimination Hill on Sexes II after the fifth mission (regardless of having outperformed Mike the Miz up to that point). Mike was an established veteran who had strong social ties to the Men’s team upper echelon, and because of this, he was saved.
 
Derrick’s showing on Dangle Drop (Sexes II) was a sneak peek to his ATG mental strength, Surf Torture (Inferno II) cemented it.
 
Surf Torture was the premier mission of Derrick’s sophomore season. In Surf Torture, pairs made within both the Good Guys and Bad Asses teams had to endure physical tests that were assigned to them by highly trained navy seals. The series of physical tasks ranged from wheelbarrows to having to lift heavy logs up and down the shore of a beach. When physical fatigue kicked in and the pairs were no longer performing the exercises in a sufficient manner, they were eliminated from the competition.
 
When Surf Torture commenced, pairs dropped left and right because of how physically demanding the tasks were. The final 2 pairs came down to Abram/Derrick (Bad Asses) and Landon/Mike The Miz (Good Guys). You couldn’t have written a better final showdown for a mental strength competition. Determination. Drive. Heart. Those four guys embody those intangible qualities better than anyone else in Challenge History.
 
Here’s what the four mental strength titans had to say during Surf Torture’s final showdown: “I’m dying, so I know they’re hurting just as bad as I am” (Abram). My hamstrings are starting to cramp up and I’m trying to get myself away from thinking about [the pain]” (Landon). “[My] whole mind is saying ‘I can’t do this, I can’t do this anymore” (Mike The Miz). “It’s coming down to the wire. As much as this mission is torturing us, as much as I’m hurting, I’m not gonna give up to the Miz or Landon” (Derrick).
 
The last physical exercise of Surf Torture was the upper body decimator, the wheelbarrow. The first mission of the season literally weighed on Derrick and Mike’s shoulders, chest, and arms (All Abram and Landon had to do was hold onto their partners legs). Derrick was far from an empty gas tank. He was maneuvering up and down the shore with at least a quarter of his inner drive left, nodding his head from side to side whenever the navy seal asked if he was ready to quit. The Miz was a whole another story. He was running on fumes. Derrick was on his hands in a push-up position, meanwhile Mike was dragging his entire body through the sand (elbows and belly touching the floor). Mike’s engine eventually shut down and the navy seals eliminated him and Landon, giving Derrick, Abram, and the rest of the Bad Asses the first mission win of Inferno II. Derrick’s drive in Surf Torture is a frontrunner for greatest display of mental strength in a Challenge ever.
 
Other than Surf Torture, Derrick was the shining star of two other Inferno II missions. (1) Time To Ride: Players had to drive miniature motorcycles through a zig zag course above water. Derrick posted the fastest time out of all seven males and the times weren’t close. Derrick - 57 seconds, Landon - 1 min. 49 sec., C.T. - 2 min. 50 sec., Darrell - 3 min. 16 seconds, Abram and Mike Mizanin DQ’ed. Derrick put on a clinic for other all-time greats. (2) Dodge Yer Balls: Derrick and C.T. looked like professional dodgeball players, whereas Brad, Darrell, Landon, and Mike Mizanin performed as they had just picked up a dodgeball for the first time. Derrick and C.T. wiped out the entire Good Guys Team all by themselves in easy fashion. Although it was a joint effort, production made an error in giving C.T. the life shield. Derrick deserved it as he eliminated four Good Guys as opposed to C.T. eliminating three, and Derrick also had two game winning catches (C.T. had none). So, in actuality, the life shield ratio between C.T. and Derrick on Inferno II should’ve been 5 to 3.
 
On the Gauntlet II, Derrick makes it known that when all is said and done, he’ll go down as pound for pound the greatest challenge player ever in America’s Fifth Sport.
 
For about the entire first half of his career, Derrick weighed in at about 150 lbs. In the Challenge, that’s the lightest weight to ever exist in the men’s division. The other notable names I can think of within Young Derrick’s weight class are Adam King, Ryan Kehoe, and Luke Wolfe. None of these guys hold a candle to what Derrick has gone on to accomplish in the first half of his career. The club of 150 pounders is always viewed as the bottom of the food chain for Challenge heavyweights to devour. The smallest guys every season are always called into elimination first and are picked off rather easily. Young Derrick was an exception to this design within the game. More times than none, he wasn’t the heavyweights prey. It was the complete opposite. He was the one who preyed upon those bigger and stronger than him.
 
On the Gauntlet II, Derrick went into five physical eliminations. Derrick was victorious in the first four. The opponents he feasted on were: 170 lb. Brad, 180 lb. Adam, 190 lb. Ace, and 220 lb. Syrus. He defeated Adam Larson and Brad in Name That Coconut (a trivia game and a physical battle mixed into one) and beat Ace and Syrus In Beach Brawl (a sumo wrestling contest on sand). The Derrick vs. Syrus elimination was highly believed to be “Derrick’s swan song”. However, the combination of Derrick’s drive and wrestling experience helped him shock the world as he came out on top against Syrus, 3-1. Derrick suffered season-ending defeat in his fifth elimination, versus a 200 lb. Timmy in the final male gauntlet before the final challenge.
 
Derrick’s one hell of a regular season on Gauntlet II earned him nickname “The Pitbull”. He also received a nod of approval from the most respected veteran in the game, Mark Long. Mark praised Derrick for “[having] so much heart, and being the guy who went against the monster every time and [slaying] the monster”. Mark Long declared retirement at the G2 reunion, but as he was doing so, he passed his signature bandana over to Derrick (to represent a passing of the torch). “From the First Road Ruler to the Last Road Ruler”, Mark knew that Derrick was ready to be at the front and center of the Challenge’s future.
 
After Gauntlet II, it was just a matter of time before “The Pitbull” would get his first challenge victory. The only question was when.
 
On Fresh Meat, Derrick was paired with Diem and they placed 4th overall out of 13 teams. Together, they won three missions (the second most out of any team behind Coral/Evan). They won Batten Down The Hatches (agility based), Jump Down Under (swimming based), and Deep Blue (tested ability of holding breath under water). Derrick continued to prove how well rounded of a competitor he was to add to his bulletproof mental strength and tip-top wrestling ability.
 
Derrick’s fifth challenge was The Duel. Although he was eliminated at the halfway point, he still gave us some moments to be proud of. Derrick did something we thought he would never do and that’s win a puzzle elimination. Derrick’s intelligence has always been his biggest weakness, so him winning Ascender vs. Tyler is a nice outlier experience we can appreciate in his long line of work. We also got traditional Derrick in Push Over, a mission where players, having their hands tied together, had to wrestle one another off a large plank that was attached to the end of the boat. Derrick did what Derrick knows best and that was get low and use leverage to push his opponents off. The mission was done tournament style with 8 male participants. Derrick managed to take out C.T., Big Easy, and Brad to win Push Over. I have Derrick’s low man execution in Push Over as the third best mission highlight of the Duel (behind C.T. in Flying Leap and Wes in Sunken Treasure).
 
On the next season to take place, Inferno III, Derrick gets called in as a replacement for C.T. who punched Davis the first night in South Africa. Derrick didn’t expect to be on the season, which probably means he didn’t do any prep training in the off-season and it best explains why his mission performances on the Inferno III were teetering more towards middle-of-the-road than being the number one guy on his team. He didn’t win a single life shield, but still managed to put up solid numbers in the mission stat sheet. Derrick’s finest showing on I3 was his Cornerball win vs. Davis, where he roughhoused Davis in a 1-on-1 game of rugby. After six valiant efforts, Derrick finally got his long awaited championship on Inferno III.
 
Throughout his career, Derrick’s pitbull mentality has piled up a phenomenal highlight reel. On the flip side, Derrick’s social mechanics are one of the best the game has ever seen.
 
In his ten season career, Derrick only had 2 seasons where he was at the bottom in terms of social positioning (Sexes II and Gauntlet II). The other 8 seasons Derrick has been on, he was at the top of the totem pole in terms of alliances. For example, on I2, Derrick/C.T./Brad/Darrell kept each other safe from ever calling one another out for the elimination. Three of four of these guys never saw an elimination and made the final (Derrick was one of them). This was the only secret alliance on the I2, as alliances were considered taboo during the Golden era. On Fresh Meat, the main alliance that ran the entire second half of the game was Derrick/Diem, Darrell/Aviv, and Theo/Chanda. On Cutthroat, Derrick was the most well-connected player on the Blue team, and could’ve gone without seeing an elimination the entire season had Ty never been such a catastrophe.
 
Derrick’s social game on his second and third championship seasons (The Island and The Ruins) were perfect.
 
On The Island, from the public perception, there were village leaders (Kenny, Johnny, Paula, Johanna, Dunbar) and the rest of the village were outsiders. Derrick was the only player on the entire island who was happily welcomed by the leaders group, but also had a great relationship with the rest of the outsiders. Derrick was great friends with Kenny and Johnny, but unlike the two of them, he never bullied Robin, Tonya, or Evelyn. These people were his actual friends who thought highly of him. For this reason, Derrick’s key was never in consideration to get taken throughout the entire season. You couldn’t say the same for Kenny, Johnny, Dunbar, and Paula (all of whom either had their key stolen or were in danger of getting it stolen). Derrick’s untouchable social game on the Island is best highlighted when he threw a face-off just to give Johnny a key. Late in the season, people without keys were jumping at each other throats to get into the face-off, but yet, no one batted an eye when Derrick who already had a key volunteered for a second time. Had anybody else done this, it would’ve been seen as cynical, but because it was Derrick, people genuinely didn’t seem bothered by it. The plan of Johnny getting his key worked, and Derrick won a 10-1 landslide vote versus Cohutta. Derrick was respected so much that Cohutta’s plea was him essentially telling everyone that Derrick was a better fit for the final boats.
 
On the Ruins, Derrick was the third member to the J.E.K. coalition. He was the silent partner in crime (hence his first name initial not being included in the alliance name). Derrick benefited from all of Evan and Kenny’s political moves without being seen as a member of the alliance. Derrick had the strongest social ties in the game (Along with J.E.K., he was great friends with all the old schoolers - Syrus, Darrell, Katie, Tonya, Veronica, and Ibis). Derrick had to conform with the J.E.K. political movement by sacrificing old school friends in order to get his way to the end. Derrick, however, was not punished for his actions, because after all he was just doing what was best for his game (Derrick was a respectful sportsman to everyone unlike the rest of his J.E.K. associates).
 
Derrick’s overall player qualities stood the test of time on Dirty Thirty.
 
When our beloved all-time greats come back from a grand layoff (5 season break or more), the narrative arc in their comeback season is always the same: They fall short of the final challenge. We seen it with Darrell on Invasion, Mark on Exes, Alton on Seasons II, and Brad on Vendettas. Derrick broke the curse on Dirty Thirty. Although he had been missing in action for nine seasons, Derrick made it all the way to second place behind his all-time great comrade Jordan.
 
Dirty Thirty was an extremely mentally strenuous season with all types of twists and turns. The season also has one of the most stacked male casts of all-time, but this didn’t seem to bring out a single ounce of ring rust in Derrick. He was the only male to never be sent to the redemption house. Derrick won three missions, an elimination, and was apart of the top alliance of the house (with Bananas/C.T./Jordan/Tony/Leroy). Derrick’s well-connected social game was best highlighted in Veronica going to bat for him by turning the vote towards Leroy in the greatest political move of the season.
 
Derrick is the true elimination king, not Wes.
 
Wes’ 14-8 elimination record is the most padded and highly overrated statistic in Challenge history. His win against Derrick in Pole Wrestle is praiseworthy, but his best wins after that are beating Zach/Zahida in Lights Out or Jamie in blindfolded soccer (those victories aren’t much to write about for a second and third best of a hailed “elimination king”). He also has five exile wins that are basically non-canon in these debates (as him and Casey had 40 lbs. less luggage to carry, per average, than their opponents). Wes’ seven other victories were versus: Chet, Nick Brown, Davis/Tyrie, Brandon/Ty, Nate/Priscilla, and Nate/Christina. In Wes’ 8 losses, he was dominated four times: twice to Leroy, once to Bear, and once to Big Easy (although he was at a large weight disadvantage). His four other losses were versus Bananas in a crapshoot, Dario in an agility contest, Cohutta in a strategy based elimination, and his stamina failed him in an exile where the luggage factor was no longer benefiting him (versus Luke/Evelyn).
 
Derrick, on the other hand, is 8-4, arguably 9-4 (if you count his mercenary win against Joss in Vendettas as an official elimination). Derrick’s three best elimination wins are (1) vs. Joss in Crazy Eight: The Pitbull came out of the doghouse one last time and it’s jaw was locked to the 8-figure that him and Joss were fighting for. There was no letting go, and after 20 rounds of back-breaking battle, Joss’ mental fatigue kicked in and Derrick prevailed in the Vendettas death match. (2) versus Syrus in Beach Brawl (3) and versus Bananas in Reel World. The other opponents Derrick has knocked out throughout his career were Adam Larson, Ace, Brad, Brandon, Davis, and Tyler.
 
Derrick’s four losses are the most honorable Challenge deaths imaginable and take nothing away from him as a competitor. (1/2) He lost to Timmy and Tyler in strictly weight based eliminations (otherwise known as eliminations that hold the least amount of weight in judging competitors, no pun intended). Derrick was at a 50 lb. disadvantage in both contests, and there was nothing he could’ve done to win. No physical contact was allowed. It was just push or pull with all of your body weight. (3) Derrick/Diem lost to Darrell/Aviv on FM1 exile. Derrick/Diem had 75 more lbs. of luggage to carry than Darrell/Aviv. They stood no chance before the elimination even began. Fresh Meat exiles, in general, are considered unlawful in all-time great discussions. (4) Derrick lost to Wes in what people call today, the most memorable elimination to ever go down in Challenge history. Derrick’s performance here is a moral victory. Wes, in his post-elimination confessional, said he wanted Derrick to be The Godfather to his first child because of how much respect he had for Derrick after their elimination.
 
Although a prime Wes beat Derrick head-to-head, Derrick is not only the one to have knocked out the bigger names throughout their elimination career, but he’s also won more beautifully and lost more honorably. This is why Derrick rightfully deserves to sit on the throne for Elimination King (only C.T. and Darrell challenge him for a seat).
 
Derrick’s Overall Assessment.
 
In the league of Challenge legends, Derrick is seventh best. Most challenge fans would probably disagree with having Derrick one spot ahead of Darrell. But in my eyes, the only thing Darrell really has over Derrick is championship belts. Derrick has had a more consistently efficient career with more competitive highlights. When you break down their careers side-by-side: Derrick’s best competitive seasons (Inferno II, Gauntlet II, Fresh Meat) are greater than Darrell’s best (Inferno, Fresh Meat, Invasion). Derrick’s best social game performances (Island, Ruins) are better than Darrell’s best social game seasons (Inferno, Inferno II). Derrick’s worst showings (Sexes II, Duel) are a whole lot more memorable than Darrell’s (Fresh Meat 2, Dirty Thirty).
 
Derrick has ATG mental strength, aggression, and wrestling ability, whereas Darrell has ATG physical strength and stamina. Both have poor intelligence. Although they’re both close competitively speaking, Derrick edges out Darrell by being more well rounded in other areas such as agility and balance (two areas Darrell is inconsistent in, since he’s afraid of heights).
 
In eliminations, you can’t go wrong with picking either or. In missions, I’d take Derrick. In a final challenge, I’d take Darrell, but the question is would Darrell even get there? Derrick has shown time and time again he’s in for the long haul, whereas Darrell has been sent on the first flight home one-fourth of his career. This, along with a more well-connected social game is why I believe Derrick is the slightly safer choice between the two.
 
Derrick’s ceiling is the 7th position. His highly questionable intelligence molds him as a second place finisher in Challenge finals today (Dirty Thirty is proof of this). To be in consideration for the Challenge Mount Rushmore, you have to be a betting favorite to not only make it to the end, but also win a modern final all by yourself. The rest of the six legends that have yet to be revealed have all shown to be more than capable of enduring an entire season and accomplishing a first place finish. They’re also a lot more independent in constructing their own destinies from beginning to end, whereas you can always argue Derrick’s winning legacy might’ve not been as decorated if he never would’ve joined forces with Kenny Santucci (Derrick’s three championships have all been with Kenny on his team, who was always politically in charge of the game’s operations).
submitted by futurepoet to MtvChallenge [link] [comments]

My brother (18 M) got scammed for 1800 €

Hello everyone, i thank you anticipated for your attention and help. Please bear with me since my English is garbage. I am from Europe, Romania.
I am here because my father clearly told me to not contact any lawyer but i refuse to let this go without at least learning something from it.
My brother (18 M) is a big fan of football (soccer). Since he was 14y he took football referee courses and sometimes gets to referee on tier 3-4 games. He watches tons of games, to the point it affects his education and social life. None the less, he seems to enjoy this.
When i got home today i found out things are pretty loud. My father scolding one fool for losing over 3800 € . He was hiding this thing from us for a whole month. Only he and our sister knew about it, until today when our sister decided to speak out.
What really happened, he got in contact with someone selling betting tickets for football games in European leagues. It had a facebook profile saying he's a former professional analyzing games. Basically you pay him 50-100 € money to get a ticket with the best chances at winning. Make no mistake, you can bet that ticket anywhere you want, like a specialized institution, with your own money. He bought one ticket for 100 € that he won next day by betting 75 € on it. He won 380 € by spending 175 €.
Then the scammer got him into buying a monthly subscription for 1200 € . The subscription means that my brother would receive tickets every day for a whole month. My brother thought that 'since this guy has so much knowledge about football, if he follows his winning tips he may make more than he spend.'
WRONG.
First day in the subscription, the ticket was shit and it failed. Same goes for the second and third day. Then the tickets stopped coming in the fourth day. The scammer sends a message "i have some problems in my life, i made some mistakes and now i am out of money to buy such tickets send me 800 € more". My brother didn't want the 1200 € to be for naught and he sends 800 € more. This after they agreed it's just a loan and that as soon the scammer makes more money, he'd send them back. The scammer starts ghosting instantly. Wait one day, wait 10 days, send messages on messenger, no response. After over 2 weeks, the scammer responds with, "do you have more many in your account", that's all. I got so triggered when i read this message earlier.
So, 1. the scammer did not respect his subscription agreement to send tickets everyday, even if they are shit he sent none so he broke that.
  1. the scammer loaned 800 € from a boy that just turned 18 three months ago and now he won't give back shit.
There was no contract signed, no papers made. Only messenger chat discussion.
There is the proof of the transfers through bank receipt, bills and everything else. There are all the payments made through credit card.
We are a poor family. Terribly poor. 1800 € could be used to pay for his high school accommodation for 6-8 months. That's exactly what we saved all those money for. So he and our sister could get to high school in good conditions.
Even worse he panicked and tried to recover the money by doing more betting, losing another 2000 € + before we found it out. That's of no consequence, but i want you to know this, he has a problem with betting. He is addicted. I am not excusing him no matter what. He will pay for his mistakes.
I want to take legal action against this scammer first.
My father wants to mark this thing as done and gone. It would shame his name and make everyone who helped us so far (like his boss) take us for fools. Even worse this person could be tied with dangerous people and having relations with corrupt police and politicians. That's a lot of danger to be exposed here. The system is really that bad.
I would like to recover the money at best. Since the scammer did not respect the agreement of sending him tickets every day. And because he borrowed those 800 € and now it's ghosting never intending on giving them back. At least 1800 € . The subscription refund and the 800 € loan, minus 3 days in which tickets come.
If that's not possible we already decided to give up on it. Instead i want the mdfkr who does these things to get caught and served, maybe our legal action could save some other fools. Because the scammer is still doing this kind of stuff on facebook with a different account. We know his face and name, they talked through a video call.
Opinions and thoughts. What can I (21, M), legally do? If it happens to run in such cases later, what can i expect from the law?
submitted by salphaKd to LegalAdviceEurope [link] [comments]

OBLIGATORY FILLER MATERIAL – BAR FIGHT? NOT WITH DOC BIONICFINGERS! Part one.

That reminds me of a story.
I’m going cooped-up crazy. Shacky-wacky. Hotel doldrums have set in.
Yes, I know. Es and I just got back from a resounding tour of a shipbreaking yard in India.
Flew way above First Class.
Never had to even touch our luggage.
♫Oh, what fun it is to charter flights. Limos all the way. Hey! ♫.
But, the hotel bars here are paling quickly. Quiet. Too quiet. Same old, dull, dazed, and dormant crowd. The Expat population in Dubai is dwindling mightily. The COVID craziness is a madness that is taking a heavy toll. Everything’s shut down. Everyone’s staying at home.
I’m almost nostalgic for a good old Dubai 35 car pile-up and traffic jam.
Es sees that I’m in a quandary. She had quite a few friends here in Dubai. The ones I had have all left due to cratering oil prices or they’re what’s considered an ‘essential employee’, and thus unavailable.
“ROCK! QUIT YOUR PACING!” Es says in her most inimitable manner. “YOU’RE MAKING ME CRAZY!”
“A thousand pardons, my darling. But, Boditek. I suffer! Klytus, I’m bored. Bored out of my fucking mind. I can only write so much on the Precambrian Hydrocarbon reservoirs of Eastern Siberia. Television’s a bust, there’s no Netflix, even Pirate Bay is blocked here, and I’m going spare!” I whimper.
“Go then. Begone with thee. Go find a dark bar and grab a seat on Mahogany Ridge. You need a night off. Just take your fingers with so you won’t scare the locals. And be home before they open the borders. We want to be first in line when that happens” she says.
“By your command!”, I say, grab her around the waist, give her a spin, a quick smooch on the cheek, and pat on the backside before I hit the stairs in our suite in a flat-out gallop to retrieve my now charged digits from their charging port on my nightstand.
A few minutes later…
Stately, plump Dr. Rocknocker came from the stairhead bearing three incredibly expensive technologically-derived Kevlar-ed digits. He was clad in his finest Desert Fox chino shorts, freshly cleaned and oiled field boots, a new pair of jade Merino Rannoch Luxury Country Socks, best new Hawaiian drinking shirt, a Blasting technician T-shirt and black, recently blocked, Stetson.
He was so full of himself, that he actually stopped talking about his own self in the narrative in the third person.
“Esme? Darling? I’m off!” I say with a lilt in my voice and a cheeseburger in my pocket.
But that’s another story.
“You’re off, all right”, Es chuckles. “Now Rock, remember. This is the first time in a long time I’m letting you off the chain, out unsupervised among the general population. Don’t break anyone if you can avoid it and even if someone needs a quick killing, remember, you’re on vacation. OK?”
“Oh, my dear!” I chuckle and snicker, “You know me. I wouldn’t kill anyone here in Dubai. There’s no money in it.”
“Still. Best behavior?” She admonishes.
“I can’t guarantee anything, but I will try,” I reply.
“Pinkie promise?” she requests.
Damn. One of the few fingers of which left I have a natural set.
Now I can’t say that it was just a Kevlar-coated contract.
“But of course”, I say as we entwine pinkies. Hers nice, clean, and pink; mine keloidal, gnarled, and scarred.
Yeah, it about makes me retch. But Es sort of enjoys these silly things now and again.
I’m waiting in the hotel bar for my cab to arrive. I have a quick Long Island Iced Tea or three before I hit the streets. I’ve got this weird hankering for a sports bar. Don’t know why. I hate football, i.e., soccer, cricket, and those other weird forms of ball chasing they call sports over here.
But I yearn to be in a bar full of leather, hewn wood, and smoke. Attended by the smell of manly men drinking as they see fit.
In Dubai? Fat chance.
I ask my driver, who has just arrived, and who will be with me all night; if he minds me smoking, having a drink in a plain brown wrapper, and if he knows of a decent sports bar in Dubai.
No.
Nope.
Quantum Sports Bar.
“It’s sort of pricey”, he tells me.
My driver for the duration is one Roy Toisuta, an Indonesian chap who looks like he fell off a charm bracelet. In reality, I could make up three of him. But he’s affable, quick on the gas and bound to be a boon companion.
He is wiry in that whipsaw sort of kill-you-with-a-paperclip-1000-different-ways sort of manner. Like the human personification of a gaunt wolverine.
We’ll get along famously.
He tells me he doesn’t drink for whatever reason. He announces that he would wait for me out in the car while I go in and do whatever one does in a Sports Bar in Dubai for a few hours.
“Look, Roy”, I say, “I’m on retainer. C’mon in and I’ll buy you dinner and all the coffee, tea, or fizz water you could want. I just need someone non-judgmental. See, I have this affliction. I’m an alcohol-fueled carbon-based organism. I tend to drink a lot, but only to excess. You have any sort of problem with that?”
“Well, Rock”, he says, “As long as we’re being honest, I have no problem. The way I see it, the more you drink, the looser your wallet becomes.”
“I don’t suppose you’d care to lay a small wager on that conclusion?” I ask, leerily in that strange way I have that makes Komodo Dragons gulp in disbelief.
“I’ll bet, after what you told me about your recent confinement, that I’ll be dragging and/or carrying you out of the bar tonight. “ he snickers, dreaming of my very loose wallet and its contents. “You’re going to be tying one on, I can see that.”
“You can see me. But you can’t see my past” I think.
“Well, you’re not drinking, so what’s in it for me if I win?” I ask.
“A free driver for the next week?” he asks.
“Want to make it a month? I’m really, really thirsty.” I sneer.
“Make it a fortnight.”, he laughs. “Easiest money I’ve ever made. I can barely hold you back.”
“Deal”, as we shake hands. He notices my gloves for the first time.
“What’s that all about?” he asks.
“Industrial accident years ago. Not terribly pretty.” I say.
“Oh. OK. Ready to go?” He asks.
“Gentlemen”, I announce, “Forward. Drink!”
Roy accepts a cigar from one of my travel pocket humidors and we walk up to the entrance.
“You be who?” asks the doorman.
“Well, my good man, I am the Motherfucking Pro from Dover, and this is my able-bodied companion, Kato”, I say in my most affected Elliott Gould imitation.
“What?” he asks trying to corral at least two functioning synapses.
“Pardons. I’m Dr. Rocknocker and this is my trusty driver, Roy.” I continue.
“Ah. What? Hmm? Who?” was the response.
“Oh, I am sorry. Which word confused you?” I asked, most deferentially.
“You trying to be smart?” he asks.
“Well, I reckoned that at least one of us should,” I replied.
He sat there and fumbled with that reply like a nun in a warm bathtub fumbles with a bar of soap. You know the type, she has hope in her soul…
As he struggles to come up with an answer, I offer him a cigar the likes of which I’m certain he’s never seen outside of a Hollywoo movie.
“Here, my good man. My card.” I say as I hand over a large example of the perfection of the tobacconist’s art.
He gratefully accepts the cigar and removes the rope barrier.
“Have yourself a good time, gents.” He says.
“Oh. We intend to”, I reply.
“Ever need anything, just ask for Sandeep” the towering Nepali remarks with a smile.
“Thanks. Have a night yourself…”, I reply and stuff another cigar in his shirt pocket for later.
He grins wide as Dubai Creek and just as brown. He shoots me a wide smile and a universal thumbs-up sign.
“Best to make friends rather than antagonize the locals”, I muse.
“You’re an odd bird, Doctor Rocknocker.” Roy chortles.
“Roy, it’s just ‘Rock’, OK? It’ll save both time and cuts down on CO2 exhalations. And I’m all for protecting the environment.” I smiled back.
Roy chewed on that one for most the rest of the night.
The Sports Bar was quiet. Fairly empty, with probably more wait-persons than patrons.
One particularly buxom specimen of the female side of the equation welcomed us in an overtly and obviously affected mien. She wanted to show us to a table that was within the sphere of her waitressy influence.
“No, thank you”, I said as I spied acres and acres of glistening unoccupied Mahogany with tens of unoccupied seats that both faced the long bar and the several large-screen televisions there.
Seemingly bereft of people to wait and prey upon, she ignored us roundly. To her financial detriment as we would all find out during the course of the evening.
I chose a likely looking seat at the bar and Roy joined me, cautiously, a seat or two away.
“I don’t bite, Roy”, I said.
“Social distancing”, he replied.
“Ah. Well, I have a fully functional immune system as well as the hardest working liver in the galaxy. I assure you I’m in no way communicable.” I replied, slightly miffed. “Besides, after that cab ride here, whatever ætiology I have, you have as well, and vice versa.”
He scooted over one seat but shuttled that seat back to the right about 15 more centimeters.
“Some folks just don’t like their personal space invaded”, I surmised.
I pulled out one of my cigar cases, a cutter, lighter, and a stack of currencies that I was going to try and get rid of that night.
I had freshly minted UK Pounds, Euros of many nations, Indian Rupees, Russian Rubles, Japanese Yen, Chinese Renmimbi, some Uzbek Som, Afghani Afghans, Argentinian Pesos, down under Ozzian Dollarydoos, Mongolian Tugriks, Omani Rials, a few Samoan Tālā, and a bunch of US dollars.
How I ended up with that last group remains a mystery.
Roy goggled at the stack of weirdly colored and weirdly wonderful currencies of many nations.
“Sorry, Roy”, I said, “No Indonesian rupiah. Haven’t been to Jakarta in a long time.”
“What the hell are those weird ones there?” he asked.
“Which ones?” I chuckled back.
It was at that time our reverie was broken.
The bartender, one Zac O'Madden, an Irish national currently working for the hotel to which this bar is attached, interrupts our nascent debauch and asks for our drink orders.
“Not so fast there!” I say. “Introductions first. We’re not savages here.”
Zac chuckles. “You’re obviously American.”
“Вы уверены в этом? [Are you certain of that?]”, I say in return.
Zac just stands there and laughs.
“Та үнэхээр итгэлтэй байна уу? [Are you really certain?]” I ask in Mongolian. “Ĉu vi vere certas? Bạn có thực sự chắc chắn?”
“You’re as Russian or whatever that was as I am Kenyan. Now I know it. You’re American.” He says assuredly.
“And you have this nasty habit of being correct. I’m Dr. Rocknocker, call me Rock. This slight but solid fellow to my right is Roy, late of Jakarta and Krakatoa, actually west of Java.” I snicker.
“And I am Zac O’Madden, of Dublin and points east. Nice to meet you all. What can I get for you?” he asks.
After we shake hands in a very manly, indeed, manner, I ask Roy what is his pleasure.
“A tall club soda with a twist of lime, on the rocks.” He replies offhandedly.
“You’ve done this before”, I observe rather unnecessarily. “Zac, Roy gets what he wants tonight, my tab. I’ll have a Sazerac, hold the sugar. Actually several. You see, on the flight over, I sat through another showing of ’Live and Let Die’, and now I miss Mardi Gras, New Orleans, and Pat O’Brien’s. But I don’t like sweet drinks.”
“Coming right up”, Zac says with a well-practiced swish of his bar rag.
“Oh, but I’m not finished. I’d also like a beer chaser. A pint of…ah, do you have a beer menu?” I ask, looking down the long row of tappers.
“Coming up”, he says, and races off to find me one.
A few minutes later he returns with my cocktail, Roy’s fizz water, and a bar beer menu.
I raise my glass to Zac and then to Roy. We clink and I say, “I like this guy. And I like this bar. We’re going to have us a large night.”
I drain my unsweet Sazerac in one go.
Hey. I was thirsty. Needs a scootch more absinthe I observe.
Roy and Zac just sort of stare, wide-eyed, as I peruse the beer menu.
Nice menu, nice diversity. Oh, very nice.
“I’ll have the Asahi Kuronama Black if you don’t mind. Plus another Sazerac, a bit more absinthe if you please. You see, I have this genetic condition I need to keep in balance.” I grinned.
Zac looked at me like I had some sort of adverse medical condition.
“You OK, Rock?” he asked most earnestly.
“Look, Zac, I just met you and you’re a hell of a tarbender, far be it from me to tell you your job, but you see, there is this…” I said, trailing off.
“Yes?” His was a look of genuine concern. The genuine concern he won’t own that pile of currency on the bar in front of me by the end of the night.
“Yeah. Genetics dealt me a weird hand. See. I’m an ethanol-fueled carbon-based organism…”
Roy just rolled his eyes.
Zac looked puzzled.
“Yeah, I require alcohol in good-tasting and heroic amounts on a regular basis. I also have to smoke huge, black cigars in order to moderate the bioreactor.” I smiled, as I leaned back and fired up a heater.
Zac looked at me. Chewed over what I said for a moment or two. He shrugged his shoulders, grabbed my empty glass, and said, “OK, whatever. Round two in moments.”
Roy went to ask me something, thought better of it, and just leaned over and grabbed my Zippo from Irkutsk.
He looked at the cameo-relief silver and amber city crest attached to the lighter, flipped it open, and tried firing up his cigar.
“They draw better if you cut the end first,” I said, absently; and not looking, just hand him my V-cutter.
Zac returns with a new Sazerac, a chilled bottle of Asahi Kuronama Black, a tall pilsner glass, and a new club soda for Roy.
I puffed my cigar, drained another Sazerac in one go, tried the Japanese black beer, and found it to my liking. I leaned back to observe what sort of sports carnage they were observing on the big screens.
Roy just looked at me with wide eyes but said nothing.
The evening wore on. After a couple or twelve more Sazeracs, I decided it was time to teach Zac the finer points of mixology via premium vodka, bubbly citrus, ice, and lime wheels.
I also found that they had a stock of Pabst Blue Ribbon 1844, from China.
“PBR!”, I almost yelled, “Holy wow! I grew up on the stuff.”
“Not this stuff, Rock”, Zac said, “Look at the price. We only got a small amount due to a shipping error. It’s not sold outside of China normally.”
It was UAE 165 per bottle, about US$45, and worth every dirham. Zak was amazed when I told him to go ahead and have one on Roy and me.
“Really, Rock?”, Zac exclaimed. “The usual buggers here are so tight, they hum when the wind blows. Hardly anyone buys me a drink. Except for you Americans. Finest kind.”
“That’s me. An international ambassador of amity and alcohol,”, I say and toast in his general direction. “Crack tubes!”
Roy was getting tired as a newt. Evidently not drinking, listening to old war stories, and watching recorded US Football games due to the COVID lack of anything live, can take its toll as well.
I’m going strong as I’m asking Zac to explain what the fuck cricket is all about.
“So, let me get this straight,” I say, ordering another double cocktail and a couple of PBR chasers for Zac and myself. “The guy on the mound runs up and pitches to the guy dressed in the body armor. He uses a bent 2x4 to defend the wicket, which, if I recall correctly, can be sticky. Then he keeps the aliens from stealing the stumps and burning them to ashes in Australia...”
“God”, Zac exclaims, “You’re fucking hopeless.”
“Everything I know about cricket I learned from the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the galaxy.” I smiled proudly.
“That was rather obvious…” Zac sheeshed. He left to attend to another patron, a loud and woozy Kiwi.
I looked at the source of all the bad noise and in my inattention, just clicked my full beer glass. I inadvertently violated Rule #1 and spilled a small soupçon of expensive, imported beer onto my left hand.
“Whoops!”, I said and stripped off my sodden left-hand glove. I used Zac’s bar towel to sop up the bar and dry my techno-digits.
Roy looked not only at my ‘whoops’, but goggled my Japanese one-off, so far, electro-fingers.
“Rock. What the hell, man. I mean, what the fuck. Are those for real?” he asked.
“Yeah, they are a new prototype and I’m the lab rat.”, I said, waggling them and seeing that something as mundane a beer spill could never possibly injure them.
By this time, Zac wanders back, sees I’ve used his bar rag, and looks at my hand for real for the first time.
“What the fuck, Rocko? You some sort of cyborg?” he asks.
“By definition; yes, I am. And my grandfather used to call me that. Thanks.”, I replied. “But, yeah, I’m an alcohol-fueled one at that,” I say, tapping and pointing rather pointedly at my currently unpopulated cocktail glass.
Zac returns with a reload. He and Roy demand to know the whole story.
“If you must pry…” I say.
“Oh, we must, we must”, they reply in unison.
So, I regale them with the tale of the Siberian rig. The blowout, fire, and the moderately overzealous Russian FNG.
“Rock, I don’t know if that’s true, but by your appearance, it has to be. Let me buy you a drink.” Zac says.
Roy asks for a Molson Light.
“Roy! You old fraud.” I said.
“I usually don’t drink. But after that story, I think I need something cold, wet, and with a little punch.” He said, staring at my hand.
“Then you’ve chosen well”, as I down another Rocknocker, sip at my PBR and snip a new cigar.
“Rock, can I ask you a question?” Roy asks. Zac is polishing our spot at the bar insistently. I think he has a question or two as well.
“Sure. Go nuts.” I reply, puffing on my new cigar and sipping this lovely amber 1844 brew.
He crouches conspiratorially and asks in a low sotto voce: “Is that why you drink as you do? To dull the pain? From the accident. That’s it, right? Isn’t it?” Roy asks, almost genuinely concerned.
I laughed loud and long. I chuckled, snorted, and had to calm myself with gulps of my beer and cocktail.
“Roy, Roy, Roy…I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’m from Baja Canada originally. I’m a multiply-degreed petroleum geologist. I’ve lived and worked in Russia for many, many years. And, as I’ve said, I’m an ethanol-fueled organism. Quadruple perfect storm. My fingers don’t hurt. Or they might, I have no idea. I don’t even know where hell they are.” I laughed at my own witty repartee.
Roy actually paled some. He took a long draught of his anemic beer and just stared at me.
Zac had disappeared. He presently returned with a bottle of Beluga Gold Line Vodka.
“Rock, after that, this one’s for you. On the house.” He said.
“Only if you will join me. And let me pay for yours.” I said.
Zac agrees.
The shnozzled Kiwi from previous in the narrative staggers by and hears the tag-end of our conversation.
He leans over to grab the expensive bottle of vodka and says “Don’t mind if I do.”
“None for you, asshole. You’re lucky I let you stay here waiting on a cab” Zac growls, and grabs the bottle away.
The Kiwi looks at Zac. He looks at Roy. Then he looks at me, my drinks, cigar, and the smaller pile of currency on the bar.
He may have been loaded, but something swam upstream against his internal current of booze and made him decide that right now, discretion was the better part of valor. He toddled unsteadily away.
“Asswipe”, Zac spits, “He’s here every other month. He pays for his drinks, but he can’t hold them. Never once tips or buys a round. General asshole. Still, management won’t let me toss nor ban him.”
“Some people”, I distastefully agreed and poured Zac and myself a healthy double-tot of the fine, smooth, and icy vodka. “I weep for our species sometimes.”
I insisted Zac join me. I asked Roy if he’d like a taste.
“Thanks, Rock. But you’ve already been too much of a bad influence on me.” he smiled, and tipped his almost empty pilsner glass.
“OK, no pressure. I may drink like a school of belugas, but if someone else doesn’t want to, I respect that all day long. Still, the offer stands.” I continue.
“I’ll think about it, Rock. I’m still not over how you can just sit there and joke about your cybernetic fingers and how you got them. I’d…I don’t know. I don’t want to think about it. “ he shudders.
“Want to see the scar on my leg where I got shot with a .45? Or the scar on my coconut from a hunk of falling ice on a drilling rig?” I asked.
“Fuck no!”, Roy almost screams. “What the hell. You held together by scar tissue?”
”That. Baling wire and Duct Tape.” I laughed, “And people wonder why I drink.”
“I thought so!” Roy exclaimed.
“I drink because I chose to. I can stop anytime. In fact, I stopped smoking and drinking once; by nothing more than sheer force of will.” I said proudly.
“Really?” Roy asked.
“Yep”, I replied, “It was the worst 45 minutes of my life.”
To be continued…
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TIFU by getting half my dick caught in my zipper on a double-date with her parents and meeting my mom's friend at the doctor's office.

This fuckup didn't happen today, it was back in 1992. But there’s a lot of stories about medical professionals and their quiet acts of often invisible heroism in the news right now. I thought that this week, I would share one of my own stories about them. Because while they are absolutely heroes in our midst, some of those life-saving stories and incredible acts come with a laugh or two along the way.
These laughs, as they often do, come at my expense. It’s a price I gladly pay to give you a much needed moment to breathe in all of the hell we are enduring together throughout the world right now.
Enjoy, Chris
Yes, I know, I’m a complete fucking idiot. Let’s just get that out of the way from the start. My only defense was that I was a teenager in the 90's at the time, and my dick was doing most of the thinking for me. On the whole, I’m a reasonably intelligent guy. My dick however, is much like one of those morons you meet who is all balls, no brains. Despite the fact that thinking with my dick got me through highschool at the top of my class, it has proven itself repeatedly to have no memory, no conscience, and what I will simply classify as “questionable moral fiber”.
An obscure, late 20th century English philosopher known for his ballistic dentition once said “Dicks have drive and clarity of vision. They’re not clever.” and he was correct. But like most people who are all balls and no brains, that kind of decision making invariably leads to collecting good stories, and occasionally being scarred for life.
This is one of those good stories, and it’s about a scar.
I was sixteen, vacuously stupid, and the world as I knew it revolved entirely around my radiant affections for one hell of an awesome girl. She was short, beautiful, built like a soccer player, and had curves in all the right places. Miraculously, she was also my steady girlfriend. We had a magnificent system that involved a standing weekly date. This almost always consisted of exactly three things: dinner, a movie, and the furious, passionate, awkward sex that only inexperienced young lovers can have in the contorsionistic confines of an automobile.
Good times.
On the right day of the week you could catch a 2nd run movie at the Alpine Twin for just a couple bucks. Urban sprawl hadn’t reached far enough yet to consume all the best spots for privacy, and we knew every one of them. It was a great time to be young and in love.
God is not without a sense of humor, however, and one particular week fate would throw me a curve. A movie had just come out that her father wanted to see. In a tormentative moment of parental schadenfreude, they decided it would be a great idea to join us on our weekly movie night for a wholesome double date.
I was trapped. I couldn’t say no, her dad was a towering giant of brooding scowls who instilled the fear of God in me. He was an incredibly kind and funny man, but he commanded my respect and there was absolutely no doubt he held the fate of my love life at his whim. I was a nerdy, country kid from the wrong side of the tracks and he made it very clear that I was dating his daughter only so long as both her and him deemed that acceptable. She adored me, he tolerated me, and it was my lowly position to be grateful for the opportunity.
I was fine with that. I was spending every Saturday night with her sowing my wild oats, and going to church every Sunday with him praying for crop failure.
So we all met at her house, the whole family piled into their car, and off we went. We didn’t go to our comfortable, low-budget, second-run theatre out on the north end of town with the thin crowds that encouraged sitting towards the back well away from anyone who could see wandering hands and notice the whispers of young lovers. We went out to the fancy first-run theatre, the gigantic cineplex and shining star of the lower west side, Studio 28, where we would be packed side by side with strangers and held to much higher standards of socially acceptable behaviour.
Studio 28 was massive. Thousands of people filled its acres of parking lots and watched the latest movies on twenty different massive screens with reclining seats in air conditioned comfort. One movie cost more than what we would spend for a month's worth of dates at Alpine - including food. But her dad was funding the entire expedition and I was happy to just be with her.
My lovely girlfriend however, was a hormone-driven, devious genius, and happened upon a simple idea that changed my life forever. She noticed that they list not only the start times of the movies, but the duration as well.
It had never for a moment crossed my mind that we didn’t all have to go to the same movie. Studio 28 was so massive that not only did they have a ton of different movies playing, many of them shared the same start times. She found a completely different show to catch, sorted out the details with her dad, and off we went on our own. She had stared into the bleakness and brilliantly wrought forth for us the greatest commodity of young lovers who live with their parents: privacy.
For such a monumental day in my life, I don’t even remember what the movie was. But I do remember spending an hour and a half in the dark getting each other as worked up as we dared. The lines of socially acceptable behaviour were a lot tighter back then, but we were enjoying them to the best of our youthful ability.
Our movie got out, and we made the long walk to the back-forty of the parking lot hand in hand and hopped in the car. We had no concrete idea when her parents' movie would get out, so we were just hanging out, waiting, and of course sharing only the most chaste and pure of good Christian thoughts.
Just her, me, and our collective sexual tension that burned with the power of a supernova. It really was only a matter of time before it all reached criticality.
Because sitting in a glass bubble in the middle of a thousand cars is totally the best possible place to be doing such things. I was a little on edge, but that didn’t stop her. It certainly did, however, limit our options.
The good news was that I at least had a clear line of sight all the way up our row, and would easily see anyone approaching from the theatre. I kept a watchful lookout, and she decided to take action.
In a matter of a few seconds, she was sucking my dick like it was filled with her father’s acceptance. Not a moment later, I saw the crowd of people start pouring out of the theatre doors. It didn’t take me long to spot her parents, hand in hand. Her dad’s bright blue shirt stuck out in the crowd, even though they were still a quarter-mile away.
And then, at that exact moment, is when I fucked up.
That’s when I did one of the dumbest things in my entire life; I made a split-second trivial decision that would leave me scarred forever.
Now, what I could have done is simply reach down, gently pull her head out of my lap, and have a mildly disappointing end to some fun, gone on with my day, and been just fine. Hell, given how far away they were, the hair-trigger of a teenage boy, and her skillful abilities we could have likely finished without pushing our luck.
The problem with wisdom is that you don’t get it until five seconds after you need it.
What I did, in a moment of youthful stupidity, was say “Your dad’s coming!” and sit up straight in my seat.
And that, my dear reader, is the exact moment that shit got real.
Please understand that what I’m about to describe is much like a car crash. It will take me far longer to describe it than it took to actually happen. All of this transpired in just a moment, but that moment is burned into my brain forever. I apologise now, that it shall be burned into yours. When you share this story with your friends, you’ll know they got to this part when you see them adjust themselves in their seat. No man is immune to this effect.
In one smooth powerful movement driven by pure reflex and fear, without a moment’s conscious thought, she snapped her head up, bolted upright in her seat, and while making that transition from laying on me to sitting next to me she stuffed my dick back into my jeans and ran that fuckin zipper all the way home with the power of an angry linebacker.
The problem is I had never unbuttoned my pants, and it was a lot smaller when it came out ten minutes ago than it was when she decided to cram it back in through, what was now, much too short of a hole. She fought it in there in half a second, it just wasn’t situated as well as it needed to be.
Then, with the delicate touch of a bricklayer she had yanked that zipper though several inches of my most delicate sensitivities and made me one with my Levi’s.
It happened in the blink of an eye.
I was absolutely convinced I was going to die.
The pain was far worse than what you imagine right now. It was radiant and consuming. She had caught roughly…very roughly...the entire front of the most sensitive skin I own and interlaced it down nearly the full length of the zipper. I could glimpse a thin line poking out the front, and there was nothing I could do about it but sit there with tears running down my face and her parents approaching.
She immediately knew what had happened, subtlety is not a skill I possess even on my best days. I think it may be when I levitated, shooting to the ceiling, howling in pain that she got her first hint that something was wrong. She was mortified, I was in agony, and the shitshow had just begun. I untucked my shirt to cover the obvious injury, and wiped my tears.
It was hard travel across the great prairies of the parking lot. I heard they lost five good men, and at one point had to start eating the horses to survive. But eventually, months later, her parents finally made it to the car.
The first battle was the parking lot. Several hundred people had all gotten out when we did and had to find their way to the exit. It took half an hour of stop and start agony while we all shuffled into place and trickled out onto 28th street - a bustling busy main thoroughfare of the lower-west side.
And the fun was just beginning.
Florida makes oranges, Idaho makes Potatoes, and Hollywood makes movies. But Michigan, we make potholes. Northbound 131 is a washboard of suspension testing craters that can knock your teeth loose. Because of the complicated interaction of freeze-thaw cycles, capillary action of water retention in asphalt, and the fact that we run snow plows for a third of the year there is a regular pattern of patched sections on the highway spaced at predictable intervals for miles on end.
And I felt every one of those sonsabitches as we launched and bounded from pock to pock, all along my dick.
It took about thirty minutes to get from Studio28 to their house. That was the longest half hour of my life. I felt every bump in the road in between my own heartbeats as I throbbed in agony sitting awkwardly in the back seat. The only saving grace was that her and her mom were making small talk about the movies they had each seen and my opinion didn’t matter. I sat there sniffling and rubbing my swollen, red eyes. When her mom asked me if I was okay I uttered the only word I could manage on the entire ride home.
“Allergies”.
We made it to her parent’s house, said our goodbyes, and she walked me across the street to my car. It took more work to get into my mom’s old boxy beige Pontiac Grand Prix than it did to get out of her parent’s SUV, but I made it, tenderly.
Mission two accomplished, her parents had no idea. So that crisis was averted.
Now, I had to choose. I was on the edge of The City. If I went East, I could fight my way through traffic to the giant gleaming state-of-the-art hospital located right downtown and wait in line in the emergency room. If I went West, I was heading towards home and in my own small country town was a little Med Center staffed with only a handful of people whose main job was helping people with minor bumps and bruises, and keeping the critical patients alive long enough for the ambulance to get there and haul them off to one of the much larger neighboring cities.
I headed towards home. It was farther, but faster. I hopped on I-96 and blasted into the night more scared of hitting a deer than being pulled over for speeding. I figured if any cop pulled me over, all I had to do was show him my situation and there wasn’t a man in the world who would fault me for being in a hurry. I had a much higher chance of getting a police escort to the Med Center than getting a ticket, so off I went as fast as Mom’s old Pontiac would carry me.
I arrived without incident and walked gingerly through the front door. I’d never been to the Med Center before. My parents were on the rescue squad of the local volunteer fire department so anything short of a sucking chest wound in my house was dealt with by someone running for the jump-bag in Dad’s truck. Any sort of injury was handled on only the best of equipment: the kitchen table.
Life’s different in a small town.
That’s why I wasn’t even slightly surprised when I walked in the front door and the triage nurse at the front counter stopped typing, looked me straight in the eye with genuine concern on her face and said “Chris, are you ok?”.
It was my mom’s friend. Not only did this woman know me, she’d known me since I had training wheels on my bike. I knew she was a Nurse. Half the women in my world were Nurses, my mom was a Nurse. She worked at a nursing home filled with other Nurses. How the hell was I supposed to remember that one of her best friends just so happened to work at the Med Center.
I should have gone East.
“No Ma’am” I said, and quickly added, wincing, “please don’t tell my Mom”
“What happened, show me what you did”
Now, I grew up around trauma and emergency medicine. Back then they were dispatched with one-way pagers the size of a brick that looked like walkie-talkies. There was only one channel for the whole county, and every department had its own unique series of musical tones that told us who the message was for. It squawked and whistled all day and night and you never even noticed it.
But when the BEEDEEBEEDEEBEEDEEBEEDEE-DOOOOOOOOO-----DEEEEEEEEEEEE sound that designated our unit came over that radio, it would take you out of a dead sleep before they got to the “COOPERSVILLE UNIT TWO-OH-FIVE” part of the message and Mom, Dad, or sometimes both, were headed out the door on a dead run before it stopped talking.
If this happens while you’re out somewhere with Dad in the truck, you’re along for the ride. It was somewhere around age twelve when “stay in the truck” just didn’t work for me anymore. I’d learned where babies came from by watching a screaming Asian woman have one on the tailgate of a Subaru in the McDonald’s parking lot. I’d seen bodies mangled and I knew first hand why they called the people who ride crotch-rocket motorcycles “Organ Donors”. I’d learned the smartest and most heroic humans alive fly in AeroMed, and I knew that rescue crews have no problem working up to their elbows in your blood and then going out for pizza half an hour later. It’s just meat.
I was also well aware that the strongest, hardest, most stoic, most unimaginably un-fucking-fazed woman you’ll ever meet, is a Triage Nurse.
So I lifted up my shirt.
And, for just a moment, I saw her humanity crack through her professional stoicism.
I pray that you go your entire life and never once hear a Triage Nurse say “Oh Dear” when she looks at whatever injury you have. It’s up there with getting a prostate exam and hearing the Doctor behind you say “Aw, fuck!”. You don’t want any part of this situation.
There was no paperwork, and my ass never touched one of the beige plastic chairs in the tiny waiting room. She stood up and walked me through the door behind the counter and ten seconds later I was sitting on the crinkly butcher paper of an examination table with my legs dangling over the edge.
A Nurse who was only ten minutes older than I was came in just a moment behind me. Thankfully, I didn’t know her at least, but I’d have liked to under different circumstances. She held a BP cuff in one hand and a clipboard in the other and asked me how I was feeling and if I had any allergies. We chatted for perhaps a whole minute before she asked me what was wrong.
I lifted my shirt.
She took it well, just a tiny gasp before she got her shields back in place. But her blush betrayed her. She held tight to her professionalism and assured me that the Doctor would be right in as she stumbled gracefully backwards out of the room. However, I did notice that she never did get my BP, temp, or anything else.
The Doctor was indeed, right in. I had been sitting there less than five minutes when he strolled into the room and said “So, I hear you’ve had an interesting evening.”
He pulled up a little rolling stool, put on a pair of gloves, and scooted up for a front row seat between my knees as I sat sideways off the edge of the table. We discussed how I had gotten myself into this situation, and he surveyed the damage. I found it ironic that the one person who had shared this experience with me and who could truly appreciate what I was going through was the one person who was completely at ease with the situation. Of course…..it wasn’t his dick.
It was also the first time I’d gotten a real look at things myself, and it was worse than I’d imagined. The skin on the bottom of my shaft was peeking out through the golden teeth of the zipper all the way from about a half inch above the bottom of the zipper to the top. There was way more blood than I had noticed at first and it had stained my pants several inches in every direction. The total zipped length was nearly five inches, and it was under tension on the inside because the standard response to pain is for your dick to shrink up like a stack of dimes.
The added effect, because my brain is an asshole, was that the pain just intensified once I got a look at it.
He pulled out a pair of trauma shears and we discussed what he was going to do about half a second before he did it with a running commentary. He planned on cutting my pants off around the zipper. I was fine with this, off is good, let’s get this off - free me from my golden restraints good Doctor!
Deftly, gently, and with surprising ease the shears sliced right through the seams and folds of my jeans. He cut the bottom through several layers of denim and seams straight up to the base of the zipper, and sheared off either side about four inches away, leaving me with two flaps joined only by the teeth of the zipper and the button on top. He spun on his wheels, reached in the third drawer behind him, pulled out a pair of cutters like I would have in my toolbox, and snipped off the bottom half-inch of zipper entirely. It fell to the floor and landed with a wet plop.
He gently unbuttoned what was now a much smaller piece of my pants, and examined it closely for a couple minutes with a flap held in either hand.
Then he said something you never, ever, want to hear any manner of medical professional say to you.
“We’re gonna go on three...”
We’re…..WHAT!? Where? Whatthefuckare...
“One”
There was no motherfucking Two. Three was an outright lie.
The way out was as blindingly fast and traumatic as the way in. The entire process was loud, a wild blur of motion, and terrifying. In what I have absolutely no doubt was a process he had experienced before, he tore apart the two halves of my zipper with the haymaker strength of a farm boy and kicked himself away from the side of my examination table with both feet to send himself rocketing backwards across the tiny room well clear of the wild reflexive punch I swung through the space his head had occupied a split second before. He landed in a heap, half fallen off his rolling stool, with a piece of my jeans in either hand and an accomplished smile from ear to ear.
That all happened in less than a second. It took exactly the amount of time it took me to say “MOTHERFUCK-....eh?”
The good side is, it didn’t actually hurt all that much when he did that. The bad side was, the blood was now rushing to my dick and it was throbbing with every heartbeat. It hurt like all hell.
We both took a moment to compose ourselves and both spoke at the same moment, saying the exact same thing.
“Are you alright?”
I looked at the sad strip of hamburger laying in my lap, surrounded by a terrifying amount of dried blood in matted black hair. It looked like Edward Scissorhands had given me an old fashioned.
“No?”
I had visions of sutures, staples, and all forms of Spanish Inquisition cock torture that I was about to endure and was blissfully thankful that all he needed to do was clean everything off and tape a strip of gause to it. After the most unpleasant experience I’ve ever had involving my dick being cleaned, complete with being hosed down with Betadine, now it I just looked like I’d fucked an Oompa Loompa.
I asked what would happen if I got a hardon, would I bleed to death or something? He assured me that the last thing I was going to get in the immediate future was an erection. After a few days it would be fine all on its own.
I thanked him for saving my manhood, secured my pants with my belt, hid the giant square hole in front under my shirt, and headed home. I tossed my shredded jeans in the trash, took a shower that involved the creative application of a baggie and a rubber band that moments before had been holding the wing on my model airplane.
He was right, I didn’t have any danger of getting a hardon for over a week. The throbbing pain became a dull ache that would hover just on the edge of being actively conscious of it. Sleeping was complicated, but I managed. After a few days it didn’t hurt at all, and a couple weeks later I was back to normal. In the third week a full operational test proved that all repairs had been completed and that all systems were operating within nominal specifications.
But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I let a woman zip me up again. I’ll take care of that on my own, thank you.
The scar is considerable, tapering to half an inch wide at the base and running front and center along the bottom of my shaft up to the tip. It’s been the topic of more conversations and won more stupid bets than I want to think about. But it’s part of me, a part of my life, and I’m just thankful that despite the relentless abuse and poor decisions my dick has endured, that all in all, things are working just as they should thanks to the compassionate care of a young country Doctor and a small team of Nurses.
Thank you to everyone in the medical profession, of any rank and stripe, for enduring all that you do to help us fumbling idiots live to see another sunrise. You are awesome.
With my kindest regards, cb
---------Addendum Edit, Because holy shit my inbox.
In the end, like all good stories, things actually worked out alright. Her and I resumed our weekly Pontiac wrestling match and eventually as we gained wisdom, experience and the seasons turned warmer, found several much more comfortable places to explore each other’s bodies. All in all we dated for a little over a year in total. Our relationship ran the natural course of typical highschool lovers, and ended just as it should have. We both ended up dating each other’s friends, such is life in a small town, and went on with our lives.
Her Dad never really did like me all that much, and that’s ok. I was a shitty teenager and certainly didn’t have the best of intentions for his daughter. That’s ok, she wasn’t nearly the good little girl he thought she was. But we were, on the whole, decent kids and we came out alright. He was a good and righteous man and was worth my respect; though I wouldn’t learn the true depths of that until I gained a lot more maturity. He died years ago, far too young, from a heart that wasn’t worthy of the love he carried for so many people.
She’s married now, with a couple kids and what I hope is a good and happy life. I haven’t talked to her in decades, but I sincerely wish her well.
I healed up just fine. This all happened back in 1992. Over the years the scar has faded to being something that’s still there, but hardly noticeable. It looks more like a shadow now, or a slight discoloration. You can still spot it, if you look, but it’s something that doesn’t get mentioned by anyone unless we’ve been together for several months and they’re really exploring my cock. I have to think it’s fine now, as I’ve been complimented many times on it’s appearance.
I’d like to thank the many people who have read this and commented on my writing. I’m just starting out on the path to being an author, and I’ve been posting my stories here on Reddit to see if anyone liked them. It turns out, you really do, far more than I imagined. With all of my heart, thank you. Your support and enjoyment of my dopey stories means far more to me than I can adequately express. I’m still learning how to find my voice, but you’ve certainly helped me along on the path.
If you enjoy my writing, there’s much more of it out there, and even more coming. Check my profile and you’ll find half a dozen other stories scattered about the Reddit universe. You're welcome to follow me or friend me on here if you wish. I would be sincerely honoured and I'm working to earn an audience, and even someday a paycheck. You’ll also find my YouTube channel (I make science and technology educational videos as my day job), and my Patreon if you’d like to support my work. I’m a full time YouTuber now, and for the past year. Though after your responses to my stories lately, I think I’ll add Author to that as well.
And for the ridiculous number of people who have begged for a goddamned pic, fine. Go to Imgur, it's /a/WbCHtEw it's VERY NSFW
Yes, that’s really me. Yes, it’s real. No, I’m straight, but thank you.
TL:DR - A bit of adventuresex at a movie theatre resulted in a blowjob and I get zipped up epicly. Had to go to the Dr and learned my mom's best friend worked there. I was scarred for life. It's a long story but worth your time, read it, you'll like it.
submitted by ChrisBoden to tifu [link] [comments]

Formulating Football Predictions and Best Betting Tips

Football is increasing its popularity all over the world. Fans had dominated the web and the football arena by storm. The football fever is contagious. The fever went on for months even days till the final matches, which is every 4 years and in different locations all over the world.
Asia, North and South America, Europe, Middle East and Africa had all participated in the much awaited FIFA World Cup. Countries and teams prepare for the momentous event where they will defend their country and win the prize.
Season after season, fans and enthusiasts are attentive, online and offline for the matches' games' misses and hits. They are so focused on each teams round-off, scores, statistics, and football predictions. Watch channel after channels for the best scores and soccer predictions in order to place their bets on the most favorable team or their most favorite team.
Placing football bets can be confusing and requires a lot of research and background. You need to be at least familiar with the team's history and the players' current stats. Researching your team and your team's opponents are crucial. Any information is important before placing your bet.
Here are some relevant football betting tips that you may think about before you place your bets on any of the teams:
submitted by PresentType to WinningFootballPredic [link] [comments]

What Type Of Football Betting Tips Are Best Advised?

I'm going to assume that you are a serious punter, and you regularly receive football betting tips. Football betting tips can be very valuable when they are used the right way. The problem is that some punters in their eagerness to make a profit never stop to question exactly how football tips are devised.
Understand if you are receiving information from someone that you are paying money to, you want them to know what they are doing. You want them to have your best interests at heart and you only want them to give you football betting tips that will allow you to make a profit in the long run. If you are not paying to receive tips just yet then there is one sound piece of advice I can offer you.
The football predictions industry is very cutthroat, and some unscrupulous people will say whatever they need to in order to get you to sign on. They have to compete with a lot of other betting outfits and they will promise unrealistic winning percentages and returns. Some of them may even give you bets that have not been well researched. You definitely do not want this.
What you want is a professional football picks service that will only give you tips for games where they have a decided edge. It doesn't matter what the edge is or how it was discovered. You simply want to know that they are only giving you bets that have an edge, because this is the only way to win at soccer in the long run.
Whenever an edge is discovered, you are going to win based on exploiting that edge. The edge might not last long and it might need to be pounced on hard at the moment. Sometimes the edge might last over a longer period of time where profits can be made. In any event as long as there is an edge you can feel good about the football betting tips you are receiving. In short, an edge adds up to long term profits.
Sometimes it is best to simply ask the betting outfits you are going through what type of edges do they typically come up with. Of course they are not going to give away their secrets, but they can at least give you an idea. The bottom line is when it comes to football betting tips; the best advised bets are those where a solid edge exists.
submitted by PresentType to TodayFootballPredicti [link] [comments]

My brother (18 M) got scammed for 1800 €

Hello everyone, i thank you anticipated for your attention and help. Please bear with me since my English is garbage. I am from Europe, Romania.
I am here because my father clearly told me to not contact any lawyer but i refuse to let this go without at least learning something from it.
My brother (18 M) is a big fan of football (soccer). Since he was 14y he took football referee courses and sometimes gets to referee on tier 3-4 games. He watches tons of games, to the point it affects his education and social life. None the less, he seems to enjoy this.
When i got home today i found out things are pretty loud. My father scolding one fool for losing over 3800 € . He was hiding this thing from us for a whole month. Only he and our sister knew about it, until today when our sister decided to speak out.
What really happened, he got in contact with someone selling betting tickets for football games in European leagues. It had a facebook profile saying he's a former professional analyzing games. Basically you pay him 50-100 € money to get a ticket with the best chances at winning. Make no mistake, you can bet that ticket anywhere you want, like a specialized institution, with your own money. He bought one ticket for 100 € that he won next day by betting 75 € on it. He won 380 € by spending 175 €.
Then the scammer got him into buying a monthly subscription for 1200 € . The subscription means that my brother would receive tickets every day for a whole month. My brother thought that 'since this guy has so much knowledge about football, if he follows his winning tips he may make more than he spend.'
WRONG.
First day in the subscription, the ticket was shit and it failed. Same goes for the second and third day. Then the tickets stopped coming in the fourth day. The scammer sends a message "i have some problems in my life, i made some mistakes and now i am out of money to buy such tickets send me 800 € more". My brother didn't want the 1200 € to be for naught and he sends 800 € more. This after they agreed it's just a loan and that as soon the scammer makes more money, he'd send them back. The scammer starts ghosting instantly. Wait one day, wait 10 days, send messages on messenger, no response. After over 2 weeks, the scammer responds with, "do you have more many in your account", that's all. I got so triggered when i read this message earlier.
So, 1. the scammer did not respect his subscription agreement to send tickets everyday, even if they are shit he sent none so he broke that.
  1. the scammer loaned 800 € from a boy that just turned 18 three months ago and now he won't give back shit.
There was no contract signed, no papers made. Only messenger chat discussion.
There is the proof of the transfers through bank receipt, bills and everything else. There are all the payments made through credit card.

We are a poor family. Terribly poor. 1800 € could be used to pay for his high school accommodation for 6-8 months. That's exactly what we saved all those money for. So he and our sister could get to high school in good conditions.
Even worse he panicked and tried to recover the money by doing more betting, losing another 2000 € + before we found it out. That's of no consequence, but i want you to know this, he has a problem with betting. He is addicted. I am not excusing him no matter what. He will pay for his mistakes.
I want to take legal action against this scammer first.
My father wants to mark this thing as done and gone. It would shame his name and make everyone who helped us so far (like his boss) take us for fools. Even worse this person could be tied with dangerous people and having relations with corrupt police and politicians. That's a lot of danger to be exposed here. The system is really that bad.
I would like to recover the money at best. Since the scammer did not respect the agreement of sending him tickets every day. And because he borrowed those 800 € and now it's ghosting never intending on giving them back. At least 1800 € . The subscription refund and the 800 € loan, minus 3 days in which tickets come.
If that's not possible we already decided to give up on it. Instead i want the mdfkr who does these things to get caught and served, maybe our legal action could save some other fools. Because the scammer is still doing this kind of stuff on facebook with a different account. We know his face and name, they talked through a video call.
Opinions and thoughts. What can I (21, M), legally do? If it happens to run in such cases later, what can i expect from the law?
submitted by salphaKd to legaladvice [link] [comments]

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Almost all the online betting sites provide you with a broader vary of sports for betting provides you the prospect to play extra games at one stop. Of course, there are lots of elements to contemplate when deciding which group to guess in a soccer recreation. If you have plans of making a dwelling out of online betting, then you should try to avoid coping with fraudulent websites.

Please all customers have the only internet, everybody can play on line casino via mobile phone for positive and not because we can have a professional crew to care for 24 hours. On-line On line casino has allowed you to play with the currencies of several other international locations.
submitted by ufabetwins131 to u/ufabetwins131 [link] [comments]

I Don’t Think I Killed Myself

I grew up a skinny little introvert in the suburbs. I had a few friends but usually just got lost in books. I went to summer camps, took piano lessons and enjoyed playing soccer. I did OK at school and the 4th, 5th and 6th grades all passed by as I grew into larger clothing and shoe sizes. My reality would splinter into unfixable fragments one summer when I was ten years old.
I was playing soccer at the park with Jason, the one friend from school who seemed to take a liking to me. He was a stocky redhead who couldn’t get enough fart jokes and videogames. He had some crazy system that was very advanced, but I can’t recall the name. I had to twist his arm to actually get outdoors to play soccer with me.
One day, Jason and I were out kicking the ball for about twenty minutes before he hunched over out of breath. He complained about being tired of playing and punted it hard and it soared over my head. “Asshole!” I shouted and I ran to get it, watching as it bounced high and barreled towards the road.
I ran fast enough to catch up to it before it went into the street, but I tripped. By the time I heard the loud music, it was too late. I saw the chrome fender of a fast-approaching black car that was about to hit me. There was no way to avoid its course. Time slowed as I soared into the street and in front of that speeding car.
There was an awful crunch and my ribs and skull pulsed with a shocking amount of pain. I felt a pressure inside my head, it felt like it had burst. I never felt such agony, and I wanted it to end. The world went black, and screams erupted before it all clicked off with a snap.
I awoke to a telephone ringing, I was confused as to where I was. I was in a small strange room I did not recognize, and the stink of stale cigarette smoke and bourbon made me wrinkle my nose.
“Jesse, take out the fucking trash!” The booming, gruff voice slurred the consonants. I sat up on the couch, feeling my head with my small fingers in confusion at the length and texture of my hair. I thought I must’ve been in a weeks-long coma. But I was alive.
“Jesse, I said TAKE OUT THE TRASH you idiot!” I felt a sharp smack on the top of my head and yelped. I held my throbbing head and locked eyes with the strange man looming over me. He was talking to me.
“Where am I, who are you?” I asked, feeling tears glaze my eyes. The red-faced man with gray-peppered stubble smirked an awful smile as he stooped to look into my eyes. His were bloodshot, bulging orbs above a bulbous nose and yellow-toothed grin.
“You want me to put you back in a cast you little shit?”
I rose and quickly scanned the interior of the trailer I found myself in, soon finding the overflowing garbage which was filled with crushed PallMall packs, empty flasks and styrofoam containers. I kneeled to the stained carpet and brushed stinking cigarette butts and food debris into the bag, twisting the top as I made my way outside the flimsy door.
The sun was oppressive in the circle of old trailers rusting away. Was I kidnapped? I thought maybe there’d been a mixup at the hospital, and my mom was devastated and looking all over for me. I dumped the reeking trash into a dumpster buzzing with flies and then looked around. I needed to get help. I decided I was going to make a break for one of the other trailers to ask for a phone when I caught a glimpse of myself in the pane of a door window. I stopped dead in my tracks.
There, staring back at me, was the face of a child who looked nothing like me. A shaggy-haired kid with freckles and scared eyes. I held up my hands as my brain swirled in confusion. I tried to think of my mom and only saw a chain-smoking woman with blue eyeshadow who was yelling at the red-faced drunk in the trailer. My head hurt as I struggled to remember what she looked like in the suburban house I grew up in. I could see her blonde ponytail, but her face was a blank oval of flesh. The house was a faint memory that degraded with each detail I fought to remember, like some dissolving recollection of a dream.
My last name—previously on the tip of my tongue—slipped away from me entirely. I couldn’t remember it. All I could remember was the name Nelson. My name; Jesse Nelson. I then remembered trips with my drunk dad to the lake to go fishing, and Christmases with I.O.U’s written in folding cards under a plastic tree. Every sliver of clear memory was lost in a hazy cloud; fine brushstrokes of details lacking the big picture or even the canvas beneath.
I kept a journal as I transitioned into this childhood as another person. I tried to recollect as many details as I could, thinking if I could piece it together, I might be able to get home. I endured my father’s endless insults as well as the negative attention from kids at school. I quickly learned if you can’t afford name brand clothing, you are a magnet for bullies.
The insults were endless; Trailer trash. Thrift store reject. Redneck. Hick. School was hell, and home life was not much better. No video games, no TV. This new dad would bet on horses, and he’d usually lose. He’d then get really angry, and I quickly learned to leave and take walks along the highway to avoid getting hit.
I struggled in school. The school system I was enrolled in was teaching different courses than my previous one. Despite the difficulty and distraction, I managed to do alright in high school. Flashes of a previous life would still occasionally come at odd moments. Memories of the metronome’s ticking as I sat still for piano lessons, or ice cream Sundays with a smiling set of parents. A grinning man behind a steering wheel. Each time the memories flashed into my head they would burn out, soon replaced with the new ones. Fresher memories of throwing rocks at beer bottles and my pop’s shouting matches with Mr. Nash; the nasty man at the end of the trailer park. They both argued about a woman. My missing mother, I presumed.
Still, I learned to enjoy what I had in my new life. I even grew accustomed to my new face and modest new home. The bullying also became less intense the less I seemed to care.
I developed different sets of interests which grew as time passed. I knew a bunch more about cars than I thought I did, as if the memories of this child and my own had merged in some slurry that was slowly taking form. I graduated from high school, and with a sweaty hug from my pops, I knew that was as far as my education would go.
My grades were not good enough for a scholarship and dad was dead broke. I picked up a job at the gas station. That’s where I met my maniac of a best-friend; Ron. He was a few years older, a metalhead with a ratty mustache and a hilariously twisted sense of humor. He made life there manageable, actually pretty fun a lot of the time.
I would drink beers with him and his buds on the weekend and worked hard, making my fingers calloused as I removed stripped bolts and struggled to save money. I eventually moved out of my pop’s place and into a small, cockroach-riddled apartment in the nearby town. I grew into a young man, having fun and enjoying my freedom as I saved up for a car.
Something drew me to it, but I couldn’t quite say what. Its sheen and luster, the black powerhouse was in my sights for months before I put down that initial payment. “You get the car then you get the girls,” Ron always said. I soon was at the dealership shaking hands with a smiling salesman. I hopped into the new vehicle and smelled the fresh leather interior. I turned her on and my heart purred with the revving of the engine. My new black Mustang.
I shouldn't have been drinking, and I know that. Ron had won $1000 from a scratch-off card, and I was now 21 and had my very own car; he wanted to party. I picked him up and we drank at a new spot downtown where he insisted all the ladies frequented. He was slurring, wagging a finger at the bouncer until we were kicked out. It was only around four in the afternoon and we were tanked.
I was driving too fast, metal blasting as Ron shouted “RIGHT, take this RIGHT!” and the tires skidded as I pulled past a park. He lit a cigarette and I yelled at him, screaming not to smoke in my car. A glowing ember hit my arm as he tried to toss it. I didn’t see the kid tripping into the road before it was too late. I saw his face. A face I recognized immediately.
My heart broke into a thousand pieces before the impact. I knew as soon as I stepped out of the car and saw his bloody head and twitching, broken fingers. He was pronounced dead at the scene. The sirens approached and I wept into my hands before the cuffs twisted my arms behind my back. It was me dead on the street. The real me.
I’ve been in prison a few weeks now. Every day is the same. It’s rough here, but if you act tough and fight back, you don’t get eaten alive. But I can't unsee my own youthful face staring up at my fast-approaching car. I swear to it, just before the impact I saw it. That little boy was grinning a wicked little smile at me like I'd just lost a bet.
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Mobile Baccarat & Football

Mobile Baccarat & Football
We have the best online games for you. Enjoy the best online แทงบอล games for mobile, in daily games; we have a wide variety of online manager soccer games, from soccer games for kids, or online street soccer games.
The sport of soccer in free mini-games for mobile phones like you have never experienced before, for all types of devices, both android, and apple, easy to configure and without downloading.
Online soccer games on the internet with real players and teams from all soccer leagues. Also available are football games, NFL games, and the sport that is so successful in the world.
Take the opportunity to demonstrate that you are a true soccer fan with online football games for mobile heads, penalties, free kicks, and all modalities including beach soccer and Brazilian soccer.
Every day we update all the variety we have of soccer games online and soccer mini-games. Also online multiplayer soccer games for android and for iPhone.

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บาคาร่า is one of the amazing casino games. For decades, it is available in the land-based casinos. When the online and casinos for mobile were introduced in the gambling world, then different developers created the online and Mobile game of Baccarat. It is an enjoyable game to play. here are a few people who suppose it is a poker sport, but it is not! It is actually the type of card game. The Mobile Baccarat has the classic system of this label. It is similar to the flash and land-based version. It has a set of variations, up till now every one of them will offer a superb betting practice.
It is quite easy to learn the basics of this type of betting entertainment. It is a typical quite gambling card that's readily available. The steps to play it are mentioned below:
You will need to choose one of the 3 possible results.
After that, you have to set the bet. You choose the amount in the restricted range.
At the time once you place your bet, and then the dealer will deal with the two hands. The first one is going to be the banker’s hand and therefore the other is going to be your hand.
When the two hands end with the identical value, then the game ends in the tie.
The wagering options through which you'll set the wager on including the Tied Hand, Bankers Hand also as Players Hand. The payouts which you'll get by winning the Bankers Hand are going to be money but 5 percent of the house commission.
Mobile Baccarat Playing Tips
This game depends on luck although there's just one tip which may be useful for several players. Whenever you are going to play this game, then you will need to target the Tied Hand. The Tied Hand has mostly been the winning wager.
There are diverse odds presented at the various gambling sites for this one specific betting opportunity.
You must shop around to locate the casino website providing the simplest chances for the Tied Hand. By doing this, you'll be ready to have access to the lower house edge variant then at the Baccarat casino app with the lower payout for this bet.
Live Baccarat Mobile Games
This game is out there in many Mobile Baccarat apps. It has three different types. They all are accessible on the tablet and other devices. We have explained them below:
Standard – It is a game that is available in all casinos. The main dissimilarity is that the chance purchased the Tied Hands wager.
Mini – it's a mini table play that's available on different bingo websites. It is commonly played in the bingo rooms. On the other hand, the way it pays is like the standard game.
Hi-Limit – it's an equivalent because of the above game with one obvious difference. You can put much bigger bets onto the wagering layout for the high-risk maximum reward sort of the Live Baccarat Mobile games period of play.
Best Mobile Baccarat Apps
In the event that you would like to try this game then there are many casino websites for you. These sites provide good customer support. Many of them use the HTML5 technology due to which you can open them on the small or big screen
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Online Sportsbook Singapore

Millions of occasions, athletics are proven to attract people with them, online sports gambling, and even longer. Sports gambling experiences are now able to be incorporated and attracted underneath a stage at the kind of the sportsbook. Even a sportsbook is an area or stage by which players may gamble on some other sports betting match make sure its football, basketball, tennis, badminton, esports plus a lot of other extensively known games. Sportsbook gambling Singapore was appointed made to provide the perfect Singapore activity gaming encounter, that can be broadly recognized and drops with all the legislation of the nation.
Through time, athletics gaming evolved into Singapore a sportsbook that was suitable for some degree, since players can now visit an area to gamble their preferred sports, even but the downside of needing to go miles to find the done along with deficiency of time prevented a lot from sportsbook gambling. The arrival of the web, but attracted a stop for the deterrent, the presence of online sportsbook websites and online sportsbook casinos that provide a various collection of widely-accepted athletic matches in the point of their participant's hands and everything, you will need is just a fantastic online link. To find that most useful sportsbook support, it is important to choose the most suitable platform and also casino associate that not just provides comfortable accessibility to sportsbook services on the web however has an exemplary, glitch-free platform port and prepared to aid consumer services.
Most Useful Singapore Sports betting
The smartest choice you will make at a sportsbook like in every single sphere of living is now about to your optimal sportsbook Singapore on the web gambling sites. It is simple for people new for the match to readily fall prey to deceptive gaming institutions due to their deficiency of experience, so thus intense vigilance needs to be resolved to prevent those struggles. Even the features of this optimal/optimally Singapore online sportsbook best gaming odds website need to incorporate authenticity, needs to truly have a fantastic standing, fantastic customer support, speedy charge speed, and respects the participant solitude, user-friendly interface whilst supplying a variety of sports matches which the gamer could gamble.
OFA168 requires satisfaction in supplying just lacking this prime online sportsbook gambling products and services in Singapore, maybe not merely might you can expect fantastic sportsbook options, for example, using the optimal online casino Singapore swimming pools sportsbook game soccer, you have got the opportunity to get into the step by step advice about the game forms and make the correct selection of athletics gambling strategies to get newcomer in setting your stakes. We are mindful of most of our customers, and also realize a few can be shy and postpone setting their stakes in front of a match. But we provide our people benefit from earning second selections and also to get several matches to make it possible for the setting of stakes much following the match stinks off.
OFA168 Sportsbook Singapore
OFA168 Singapore - the best online casino Singapore site that supplies the absolute most fascinating on the web gambling in Singapore. We give every day online soccer predictions together with all the most significant internet gambling and disability chances in every single game. Moreover, OFA168 Singapore additionally outlines and updates favorite sports activities weblogs and posts of ideas or tips, gambling advice including as for example history, live football sports gambling hints, Major League Baseball, CFL soccer gambling, and live tennis, live baseball, NFL, Esports matches.
OFA168 Singapore considers supplying the sport gambling followers the range of online football gambling games along with Singapore sports gambling advice together with reliable customer care accessible always for the gamers to relish the most useful gaming encounter. For those who have some issues or some other queries, please speak to us to become encouraged! Our excitement Builders are almost always readily available to allow you to.
Once the gamers follow OFA168 Singapore, we promise that the wide range of sports gambling from Singapore alternatives in addition to giving you the very alluring on the web gambling games like are living casinos, slots game titles, baccarat, etc. Like a player, we all realize the player wishes to get the very best adventures with all the on the web reliable broker that they handle with. We are dedicated to obtaining those clients' fantasies from our assistance: instantaneous withdraws, capable customer assistance, along with many different gaming chances.
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3 Golden Tips For Live Soccer Betting You Must Follow WEDNESDAY 15/07/20 - 1X2 BETTING FOOTBALL PREDICTIONS - SOCCER TIPS - FIXED ODDS - BETTING SYSTEMS 17-07-20 Best soccer Predictions football betting 1x2 tips 100% SURE VIP BETTING TIPS, 14/7/2020 : WIN UP TO 100,000 ... DETUBE BETTING TIPS SOCCER TODAY - English Premier League - Arsenal vS Norwich 12:00am, 02 Jul 2020

Daily Soccer Betting Tips Betting on football, or soccer, call it whatever you want, adds another level of excitement and those passionate about soccer betting can find great value with our daily bet tips.Finding good value with odds that fairly reflect a bettor’s prospects of winning is paramount to successful betting and we make sure to make it an integral part when it comes to evaluating Free Soccer Tips. Special page synthesis, free soccer tips sharing, prestigious football tips, premium soccer tips from the top tipser in the world. Support Fish players find quality, accurate soccer tips, the highest win ratio when participating in bookmaker.Especially 100% free. Soccer Betting Strategy. In addition to the above tips, this betting guide also has a dedicated strategy section. This will improve your soccer betting skills, which will in turn give you a greater chance of making some money. Please note that none of the strategy advice we offer is guaranteed to turn you into a winner, but it will certainly help. More then 16 years of betting experiance. Very detailed analysis of the Soccer events . We have very good team to search for informations about the games we offer. Our tips are verified by Mybigpartner verification service. We will help you make money from sports betting. These FAQs are designed to provide a better understanding with SOCCERTIPS.NET. We have carefully selected our client’s most frequently asked questions and we’ve laid out all of the answers on this page, so you can easily access them. Any visitor is allowed to submit their questions in the bottom of this page, once we received the submitted question our team will review it and have either

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3 Golden Tips For Live Soccer Betting You Must Follow

in this video i have shown and shared my today betting tips and bet slip. subscribe our channel and you will get everyday sports betting tips,soccer betting tips,tennis betting tips,cricket ... The FREE online betting tool that can help YOU make your football bets more profitable...football betting free - bet free - football bets - football betting tips QUEEN GERMANY - KING GERMANY Food ... Today's best soccer 1x2 Predictions https://Predictions.football ... 17-07-20 Best soccer Predictions football betting 1x2 tips Football predictions. ... 01-07-20 Today's free soccer predictions ... Daily Betting Tips is a professional football/soccer Betting Tips, that was set one for one reason – to help people like you choose the right football match/matches. Football Betting Tips Today - 10 July 2020 - La Liga, Serie B, Segunda, EFL Championship Predictions - Duration: 5:27. SureBets - Free Betting Tips Daily 543 views New