My dad used to say that lottery tickets were an unfair tax on the stupid, so I rarely buy them. I prefer my stupidity in sneaker form.

But when I heard the Mega Millions had reached 10 figures, I had to join the mania. At $2 a pop, inflation included, NOT buying a ticket seemed akin to not entertaining hope.

So I drove to one of the three Seven-11s within a mile stretch of my home (it’s that tony). I was out of my favorite $5 wine, anyway. I’m that tony. It was still a couple hours until the drawing, so I could still pick up booze, Skittles, my guaranteed winning ticket, and still have time to fantasize how I’d make my mortal enemies regret the day they called me Scotty Potty.

When I got to the store, though, I saw I’d make no dent in that list: The line of customers ran the length of the place. Two cashiers worked furiously, counting cash and printing receipts like CVS on crack.

“Twenty dollars of Mega Million tickets,” one customer said.

The number of tickets seemed to rise like a Sotheby’s auction. One bought $30 worth. One $48.

The highest while I was there was $80, though I’d love to hear a story among cashiers who surely saw people drop thousands in cash for a spin on a roulette wheel with 303 million pockets in it.

I picked up the wine and got in line. When my turn came, I plunked the moscato on the counter and ordered one Mega Millions ticket. The cashier stopped hammering the register, looked up, and smiled.

“Lottery tickets have to be in cash,” she said, almost jokingly.

I smiled back and gave her a $10 bill. She printed the ticket, asked if I needed a bag, and made a point to wish me good luck.

I walked to the car, a $5 bottle of wine and a Lotto ticket in hand, the American dream Big Gulped.

And I thought: That wasn’t an unfair tax on the stupid. Unfair is the inability to express that stupidity. Stupidity is the tax on itself.

In fact, next time the Lotto is past a billion, I’ll spring for the $2 again. Then we’ll see who’s laughing at Scotty Potty.