Morality and ethics: two things that are always subjective, and always objective. You can be aware others have different morals, but that doesn’t change the fact that yours would make the world a better place. If everyone would just stop this nagging with their idiotic ethics, every day would be a happy sunshiny day—but oh no, they just keep on ignoring your example and driving this world into the crapper.

However, I’ve found one source, one core, one miraculous guiding light that can instantly create the most caring and wonderful peopleregardless of race, religion, sex, or political affiliation: Powerball.

Don’t believe me? Just watch someone as they purchase a Powerball ticket. Their entire demeanor changes. They come into the convenience store downtrodden, sick of everything the world has to offer, shaking off everyone around them as a nuisance. Then they buy the ticket—that beautiful little scrap of pulp that holds the secret code to happiness.

Suddenly, theirethical and moral future becomes a blob of clay just waiting to be shaped. The possibilities of beneficence and altruism hit them. They will help anyone and everyone they come into contact with (except the assholes). They want to donate to charities and help the blind. They will clean bumdung off the streets.

Unfortunately, this all hangs on one selfish fact: they’ll clean bumdung alright, just as long as this god-damned ticket is a winner!

And everyone knows that the Powerball gods look kindly upon thosewho act kindly. So, for the next 1-3 days, the person will act to a higher moral standard for a trial basis until the numbersare drawn.

But then, sadly, after the numbers are drawn and they realize their 1 in 600,000,000 chance has passed them by, they tend to sink to an even lower standard than before—often with the God-has-forsaken-my-right-to-unearned-riches-and-therefore-no-longer-cares-about-me justification.

Luckily, this state of moral degradation can be quickly remedied by purchasing anotherticket.

The effects of the ticket—the religion of Powerball—and the ensuing sense of victimization when they lose, vary a little from person to person. It tends to act as an amendment to whatever religious beliefs the person already holds. When the Christian loses, they blame God; the Muslim blames Allah; the Buddhist blames everyone and nothing at the same time; and the agnostic blames Satan, because now they have proof that evil exists in the world.

It’s not so much what Powerball has already done to themoral and ethical stance of the nation that interests me, but what it could do if we all won. We could live in the greatest and kindest country the world has even known. That’s what I want to make clear: all that I really want it to help other people, care for those who can’t care for themselves, save animals, end world hunger, and love all creatures of the Earth! (And if that didn’t sound good enough to make me a winner, the universe can kiss my ass.)

The saving of daylight has become the sacrifice of 6pm.

Only a couple of months ago it was a bright happy hour—but then came the end of daylight savings time. Now, in January, things are different. 6pm has changed. It’s been surrounded, enveloped, and swallowed by the shrouds of evening darkness.

6pm used to be the hour that provided a home to syndicated sit-coms and cast the soft light of the waning sun over family meals and unorganized youth soccer practices. Not any more. Now it’s a bleak, dark hour dutifully watched by a moon that sheds no light on anyone’s home or the road to it.

Sure, schedules haven’t changed much—people still watch TV and eat dinner with 6pm—but the tone has changed. Now, every night, 5pm sucks all the light from the world and 6pm has to deal with the repercussions.

Children look longingly at the shadowy silhouettes of the bikes they once rode in the evening. Squirrels scatter for cover as cars barrel down moonlit streets. And all of the nefarious forces of summertime9pm get a jump on the innocent victims of an even more innocent 6pm.

The hour that once offered a post-evening-news glimpse of a hopeful, sunlit world now only serves as a reminder of the infinite abyss of darkest space.

But don’t hold 6pm responsible for this. 6pm was bamboozled, hornswoggled, flim-flammed, told daylight savings would bring joy to the early evening hours. So 6pm said, “Sounds great! Where can I sign up?” But no one mentioned the return to the dark, the sense of loss, or the scrambling squirrels.

6pm tries to hold on, tries to hold the final rays of the sunset. But it’s too late now. 5pm always wins. That little bastard hour that has always signaled the end of the workday now gets to hold priceless sunsets too. Sometimes you can hear the effort, hear the cries and pleas of 6pm. It wants to save face. It wants to remind us that the sun will return...in spring. And if you listen very, very closely, you can even hear 6pm bartering with the clocks, trying to move them forward just one hour. (There’s nothing quite as sad as time arguing for more of itself.) But its cries are lost, hidden behind a shadowy veil.

As spring rolls around and we give back the hour we so rudely took away, I’m sure 6pm will perk up again. Kids will ride their bikes, squirrels will relax, and the nefarious forces will lie in wait for summertime9pm—but I’m not sure how much longer the little hour can take it. Years and years of a manic-depressive existence are wearing it down. It needs our help. Let’s do what we can to allow 6pm to survive.

And tell 5pm to fuck off.