Party Poker Blog

Let's get back to business, shall we?

An esteemed colleague of mine today attempted to drink a gallon of milk in an hour.

Apparently, it can't be done. The human stomach can't process that much milk so quickly and you WILL puke. Easy money for a prop bet.

He made it about 2/3 of the way before yakking. All on tape, of course.

I'll post the YouTube video when I find it. David was still trying to find the right music to set for it.

TGIF.

I also heard the story of a friend taking a small charter plane up to fish in some remote area.

He noticed the pilots looked very young, almost high school kids, as he boarded the plane.

After a two-hour flight and bumpy landing, the two young pilots high-fived each other after taxiing to the boarding area.

Now that's something you don't wanna see.

K, getting back to where we were before my blog disappeared for a day or so.

Losers, Inc.
Parts 1 & 2.

Enjoy some of the funniest stuff ever written on the internets.




=========================================
Part 01 - "Where the sand turns to gold."
=========================================

If this were a major motion picture, it would open something like this:

[Establishing shot of Spaulding, drunk as a sailor, seated at a 5/10 Hold
'Em game at the Trump Taj Mahal in Atlantic City.]

Board: As Kc 5d - 3h - 4h

Local troglodyte shows KdKh.

Spaulding studies the board through glasses thick enough to enable a
normal-sighted person to view Neil Armstrong's footprints.

Spaulding: How many more cards do I get?

Dealer: That's all sir, please turn over your cards.

Spaulding: (Flips over 7d 2s.) Eight, hit me.

Dealer: Straight is good. (Pushes Spaulding the pot).

Spaulding: This is pai-gow, right?

(He spots a cocktail waitress)

Spaulding: Sweetheart?

Waitress: Yes sir?

Spaulding: Can I get a lap dance?

Waitress: (Sigh) We've been through this before sir, I'm a waitress, WAY
- TRESS. Can I bring you something to drink? (Mumbling) Like I don't
already know the answer to that question.

Spaulding: OK, do you have any chamomile tea?

Waitress: Certainly sir.

Spaulding: I hate that shit. Tea is for pussies! Bring me a double gin
and tonic; don't go overboard with the tonic. And a beer.

[Waitress already anticipated Spaulding's seventh identical order and has
it on her tray. She serves him. He folds a dollar in half and sticks it
in her cleavage.]

[Spaulding, now narrating in voice-over]: "Listen. Here's the thing: if
you can't spot the drunk in your first 12 cocktails, then you ARE the
drunk. Hey, good for you."

p o u n d e r s

[Cue opening music: Spaulding rises and, gin and tonic in hand, dances
about the card room singing the following, to the tune of Rogers and
Hammerstein's "Favorite Things."]

"Raising on pipe dreams
then catching my one out
Lots of trash talking
and being a drunk lout
My seven-deuce offsuit
that shatters your kings
These are a few of my favorite things..."

"Getting so drunk that
I don't know what I've got
Cold calling anyway
then dragging a huge pot
Double Wild Turkeys
that the cute waitress brings
These are a few of my favorite things..."

"Beating your aces
like a rented little brother
Waitress! A bourbon!
then how 'bout another
Sucking out on you
then shouting Cha-ching!
These are a few of my favorite things..."

"When my hand bites,
When the flop stinks,
When the turn card makes me mad,
I simply rely on what the river brings,
To give you a beat that's so bad!"

But this isn't a major motion picture. So forget all about that and pay
attention to the following amalgamated trip report, such as it is.

Disclaimer
----------

"Brevity is the soul of wit," the immortal Bard advises us. "Vigorous
writing is concise," admonish Strunk and White. "Fuck that," I say,
editing is a pain in the ass. We prefer the view of a more modern man of
letters, who astutely observed that "repetitiveness is the cornerstone of
drunkenness." So this will be l o n g. In particular, it is filled with
lengthy, non-poker stories that form the lore of our loser culture. If
you're looking for poker content, you should killfile us now.

If you find reading strenuous, this would be a good time to step away from
the computer. Go pursue a less challenging activity, like trying to
balance your beer on your stomach without losing track of the plot on a
Facts of Life rerun.

While we're giving out warnings, I'd say you're a 27.5:1 favorite to be
grievously offended by something in here, if you haven't been already. In
fact if nothing in this report offends you, you must be some kind of
complete degenerate. Like us.

"All the World's a Stage"
-------------------------

In "Super/System", Mike Caro observes that people present themselves not
as they are, but as they wish to be perceived. This is true away from the
poker table as well. In life, most people present themselves as mature
and responsible adults.

Not us.

The four core members of this garbage-poker playing society -- Spaulding,
Manbeast, Snow White and myself (Variable, you may call me) -- have been
friends since early childhood. We all know each other far too well to put
on any act. So even though individually we all behave like reasonably
respectable, responsible and mature people, when you put us together a
kind of reverse synergy occurs, and our behavior plummets to a level that
Larry, Moe and Curly would describe as "totally immature."

If you can deal with childlike behavior, half-in-the-bag buffoonery, lots
of naughty words, and unbridled id, read on. If not, save yourself the
aggravation.

Disclaimer time is over. You have been warned. Continue at your own
peril.

--- To be continued ---

Coming in part 02 - Loser weight loss secrets

Part 02 - "They're creepy and they're kooky."
=============================================

Still with us? You fool. Very well, prepare for indoctrination.

"Your days of finger-banging Mary Jane Rottencrotch, through her pretty
pink panties, are over!"
--- R. Lee Ermey, Full Metal Jacket.

Let's meet the players. [Cue music: Addams Family theme] Since you've
already had a glimpse of him, let's start with everyone's favorite waste
of protoplasm: Spaulding.

Spaulding
---------

"Son; fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life."
--- Dean Vernon Wormer, National Lampoon's Animal House.

Favorite Song: "Baby's Liquored Up" - The Beat Farmers
Last Book Read: Best of Beaver Hunt
Favorite Beer: Old Peculiar (UK)
Least Favorite Beer: Any Coors product
Because: "It's for girls and pussies."
Pet Peeve: "There's not enough porn on the internet."
For a mental image: Picture the fat, nerdy kid from "The Far Side" grown
up, unshaven, and drunk.

Finest Hour: Recently won us a bundle in wagers by losing 60 pounds in 6
months to slim down to a svelte 243. We got some long odds on that
accomplishment, and the don't bettors lost their asses. How did he do it?
Well, as everyone involved predicted, he barely exercised and didn't give
up booze. But we had a secret weapon: Manbeast, the master of better
living through chemistry, put Spaulding on a daily dose of clenbuterol
throughout the contest. But don't tell anyone.

Successful idiot. Loser at all games of skill. He believes he is a
career winner because he wins more than 50% of his sessions.

If you've already figured how this can be, you're way ahead of most of our
readers, many of whom are reading this to kill time while they download
the entire contents of
alt.girls.with.freakishly.big.tits.who.dress.up.like.secretaries.

Answer: He psuedo-Martingales by raising the stakes and calling ever more
random games as the night goes on, until he hits a big winner. He hasn't
had a total Martingale catastrophe, yet. One day he'll show up for a
$1/$2 home game and leave $2,000 poorer. And I plan to be there when it
happens.

Case in Point: We're at Dreamland, around 1:00am. Only Spaulding, Gary
the Bastard, Manbeast, and I are still playing. Spaulding has lost about
$100 playing 1/2 poker. Since then he's gone through roughly another $100
playing acey-deucy and guts in an effort to recoup. Now it is his deal.
He calls Indian. Yeah, that Indian. And get this: He calls $10 ante, no
limit.

I complain about the unprecedented ante, mainly to discourage future
occurrences. Everyone knows I won't sit out the game. Sitting out is, by
our standards, the unmanliest thing you can do without involving a Cub
Scout and Crisco. I donate the $10, knowing I'll be folding.

So the cards go out:

Me: ?
Manbeast: 6
Spaulding: 8
Gary the Bastard: Q

Manbeast probably sizes the game up as a heads up contest with Spaulding,
because he knows I hate these random-wealth-redistribution games, and Gary
the Bastard is too conservative to ever call a bet in no limit. Gary
wouldn't call a bet if he was playing 5 ways and saw 2,2,2,3. (Neither
would I though, as it would be pretty obvious that I was being
cold-decked.)

Manbeast bets $50. Gary the Bastard folds like a French Infantry division
on a chilly day. I would be getting decent odds on a random card, but as
I said I'm not up for the variance, so I fold. Spaulding raises back
$100. Manbeast thinks a while, then calls. At a mostly $1/$2 home game,
Spaulding drags a $340 pot playing no limit Indian, bringing him nearly
back to even.

His favorite game is "Pussy Clause Guts with the Invisible Bastard," which
can get pretty ugly. The particulars of the game are so profound, and
disgusting, that decorum prohibits listing them here.

So that's Spaulding

Shithouse
---------

Hobby: Belongs to a drinking club. Really.
Last Book Read: Can't remember, if any.
Favorite Beer: Whatever you got.
Least Favorite Beer: Not applicable.
For a mental image: Picture a prehistoric Arnold Horseshack.

Built like a brick shithouse and nearly as smart. 6' 4" and at least 250.
He has never lifted weights in his life -- that would be too much effort
-- he's just a big, rawboned individual. One time we were bringing a half
(not a quarter, a half) into an apartment complex. There was a 5-foot
high concrete wall separating the parking lot from the yard space. Rather
than carry it all the way to the gate, Shithouse picks up the half and
sets it down on top of the 5' wall, then walks in and lifts it down.
That's power. We figure that he's about 2 generations out of the trees.

How smart is he? In our days in small town grade school, there was no
SpEd. Dumb kids just got sloughed through. Back then, after every test
the teacher would reseat everybody in reverse order of score. (Best
scores across the front row, etc.) Over 8 years of grade school and
literally hundreds of tests, Shithouse maintained an unblemished record of
finishing last, and therefore never left the anchor desk.

***Manbeast says***

Had they *spaced* the desks proportional to score, Shithouse's desk would
have been out in the fucking playground.

***End Manbeast***

Pretty lousy at poker, but rarely posts a net loss if you include "comps."
That is, the value of food, beverages and cigars he consumes minus his
poker losses is usually positive.

So that's Shithouse.

Gary the Bastard
================

Hobby: Being obnoxious.
Favorite Beer: Coors light.
For a mental image: Picture a weasel telling you that you're stupid.

No one really likes Gary the Bastard, except Spaulding. We tolerate him
occasionally, mainly because he loses with an amazing consistency. He has
a way of dealing with people that is totally obnoxious. First of all, he
will compulsively disagree with or correct anything anyone says, no matter
how simple. If you say "The sky is blue," he'll say "But clouds are white
and at night the sky is black." His idea of debating a point is to say
"Anyone who cannot see (whatever his unproven conjecture might be) is a
complete idiot." He is incapable of disagreeing with someone without
insulting them personally. Not that we don't insult each other left and
right, but we do it to try to be funny, whereas he's just mean spirited.

A measure of our disdain can be gleaned from the fact that the one and
only time he hosted the game at his place, Gary became the victim of an
unusually large and nasty upper-decker. Now that's a mean prank. Funny,
yes, but too mean to do to someone you like. The perpetrator remains
unidentified and at large.

))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((
))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((
f l a s h b a c k : h i g h s c h o o l d a y s
))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((
))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((

"All warfare is based on deception."
--- Sun Tzu.

Senior year. We're plotting a punitive prank against Spaulding when Gary
the Bastard strolls up. He wants in on the prank. Manbeast tries hard to
put him off, since we don't need any more help and figure Gary can only
fuck things up. But Gary is pretty much begging, so we let him in on it.

The plan: We would road trip 20 miles to a rival town, we'll call it
Omegaville, with which we had a history of emotionally charged, sometimes
violent, always alcohol soaked high school sports contests, and perform a
little mooning. At the time, mooning was considered hilarious. Snow
White, Spaulding and Gary the Bastard and I would strip down to our
underwear, socks and sneakers. Manbeast would drive. We would roll up to
the primary Omega hangout -- a downtown pizza place -- hop out of the car,
run over, bang on the glass and then press our butts up against the large
glass window out front, then vamoose. With the car running in the street,
we'd be long gone before anyone could pursue us. At least that's what we
told Spaulding. In reality, the super secret plan was that everyone but
Spaulding would only fake jumping out. Once Spaulding jumped out we were
going to hit the gas and take off. Ditching people was a popular gag,
fitting for a retribution operation, and we all knew Spaulding was easy
prey. This was going to be a real nail job though, leaving him that far
from home, almost naked. Especially considering we never went back for
anyone -- if you're going to be a pussy and go back, why pull the prank at
all? I actually felt bad for a few seconds, but I got over it. Everyone
knows the honor code.

We each had witty anti-Omega slogans, such as "Omega's are fags" written
in marker on our chests and backs. The whole way we excitedly talked
about how this prank would go down in history. We rode around a bit first
so we could each slam a quart or two of Miller, to help fortify our
courage. Finally, we pull off the road a mile outside of Omegaville for a
final gut-check and whiz, and to strip to our underwear. We pass the
flask around for one last swig of brown courage.

Manbeast sets the party tone. "I have a cooler of Michelobe bottles (a
real luxury at the time) on ice in the trunk. When this is over, we'll
ride around, toss some down, smoke a few stogies, and laugh all night.
This prank will become an instant legend. Can you imagine when they see
Spaulding's big hairy ass against the window?"

"Fucking yeah! Whoooooooo!" Spaulding trumpets into the crisp night air,
raising the flask, obviously well lubricated at this point.

[Cue period music: "Turn Me Loose", Loverboy]

We get back in the car, focused. Manbeast spins the tires, throwing up
dirt roostertails with the monster V8, and roars back onto the road.
Laughter and confidence fill the car. Yes, we are primed for this.

To make sure Spaulding doesn't hesitate, we chose the seating carefully.
Spaulding was behind the driver, then me (Variable) in the middle, then
Gary the Bastard. Snow White had shotgun. I told Spaulding I was going
out his side so he better haul ass. I would close his door after he
leapt. Snow White and Gary the Bastard just had to open and close their
doors to make it sound good.

Spaulding has been nipping the flask the whole way and is starting to look
a little wobbly. Gary the Bastard snickers and whispers to me, "He'll
probably get arrested." Gary is giddy as a schoolgirl to be in on this.

We roll into Omegaville. Manbeast says he's going to take some back
streets for stealth. We're going down some back alley when Spaulding
starts making funny noises. "What the fuck's wrong with you?" Manbeast
demands.
"I'm going to puke," gurgles Spaulding.
"Not in my fucking car!" Manbeast immediately stops the car and yells
"Get out of my car!"

Spaulding makes no effort to get out. He's busy writhing his stomach and
gagging when he suddenly turns and leans toward me and Gary. "Shit!" I
yell, "let me out!" I scramble toward Gary but he's already out the door.
Manbeast lights up the tires as I close the door. We all look back.
The look on Gary's face as he realizes what just happened can only be
described as 'magnificent.' That Michelobe was mighty good.

))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((
))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((
f a d e t o p r e s e n t
))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((
))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))
((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((((

So that's Gary the Bastard.

--- To Be Continued ---

Coming in Part 03 - Learn a new word: callipygous

Still no follow-up from Blogger. I'm really curious if it was something on their end or if someone actually got in my account and deleted G&P.

Either way, I'm mighty relieved to be back here in the familiar confines. I don't think I had the heart to manually recover all of my uber poker posts over the past four years. Thanks to everyone who commented, emailed, called and IM'd. Truly appreciated.

So anyway, I just chuckled my way through Derek's post: I'm a Bootlegger that has a nice writeup of a few poker bloggers journey to NYC two weeks ago. Good God, that was fun. I can't remember the last time I was cut off at a bar but this time it was for the best.

Whew, thank you Blogger. Got an email telling me they restored it, so here I am. Still waiting to hear any details of wtf occurred here.

It's that time again. Time for everyone's favorite series - Losers, Inc. Stay tuned as I'll be ripping thru this.


Part 01 - "Where the sand turns to gold."
=========================================

If this were a major motion picture, it would open something like this:

[Establishing shot of Spaulding, drunk as a sailor, seated at a 5/10 Hold 'Em game at the Trump Taj Mahal in Atlantic City.]

Board: As Kc 5d - 3h - 4h

Local troglodyte shows KdKh.

Spaulding studies the board through glasses thick enough to enable a normal-sighted person to view Neil Armstrong's footprints.

Spaulding: How many more cards do I get?

Dealer: That's all sir, please turn over your cards.

Spaulding: (Flips over 7d 2s.) Eight, hit me.

Dealer: Straight is good. (Pushes Spaulding the pot).

Spaulding: This is pai-gow, right?

(He spots a cocktail waitress)

Spaulding: Sweetheart?

Waitress: Yes sir?

Spaulding: Can I get a lap dance?

Waitress: (Sigh) We've been through this before sir, I'm a waitress, WAY - TRESS. Can I bring you something to drink? (Mumbling) Like I don't already know the answer to that question.

Spaulding: OK, do you have any chamomile tea?

Waitress: Certainly sir.

Spaulding: I hate that shit. Tea is for pussies! Bring me a double gin and tonic; don't go overboard with the tonic. And a beer.

[Waitress already anticipated Spaulding's seventh identical order and has it on her tray. She serves him. He folds a dollar in half and sticks it in her cleavage.]

[Spaulding, now narrating in voice-over]: "Listen. Here's the thing: if you can't spot the drunk in your first 12 cocktails, then you ARE the drunk. Hey, good for you."

p o u n d e r s

[Cue opening music: Spaulding rises and, gin and tonic in hand, dances about the card room singing the following, to the tune of Rogers and Hammerstein's "Favorite Things."]

"Raising on pipe dreams
then catching my one out
Lots of trash talking
and being a drunk lout
My seven-deuce offsuit
that shatters your kings
These are a few of my favorite things..."

"Getting so drunk that
I don't know what I've got
Cold calling anyway
then dragging a huge pot
Double Wild Turkeys
that the cute waitress brings
These are a few of my favorite things..."

"Beating your aces
like a rented little brother
Waitress! A bourbon!
then how 'bout another
Sucking out on you
then shouting Cha-ching!
These are a few of my favorite things..."

"When my hand bites,
When the flop stinks,
When the turn card makes me mad,
I simply rely on what the river brings,
To give you a beat that's so bad!"

But this isn't a major motion picture. So forget all about that and pay attention to the following amalgamated trip report, such as it is.

Disclaimer
----------

"Brevity is the soul of wit," the immortal Bard advises us. "Vigorous writing is concise," admonish Strunk and White. "Fuck that," I say, editing is a pain in the ass. We prefer the view of a more modern man of letters, who astutely observed that "repetitiveness is the cornerstone of drunkenness."

So this will be l o n g. In particular, it is filled with lengthy, non-poker stories that form the lore of our loser culture. If you're looking for poker content, you should killfile us now.

If you find reading strenuous, this would be a good time to step away from the computer. Go pursue a less challenging activity, like trying to balance your beer on your stomach without losing track of the plot on a Facts of Life rerun.

While we're giving out warnings, I'd say you're a 27.5:1 favorite to be grievously offended by something in here, if you haven't been already. In fact if nothing in this report offends you, you must be some kind of complete degenerate. Like us.

"All the World's a Stage"
-------------------------

In "Super/System", Mike Caro observes that people present themselves not as they are, but as they wish to be perceived. This is true away from the poker table as well. In life, most people present themselves as mature and responsible adults.

Not us.

The four core members of this garbage-poker playing society -- Spaulding, Manbeast, Snow White and myself (Variable, you may call me) -- have been friends since early childhood. We all know each other far too well to put on any act. So even though individually we all behave like reasonably respectable, responsible and mature people, when you put us together a kind of reverse synergy occurs, and our behavior plummets to a level that Larry, Moe and Curly would describe as "totally immature."

If you can deal with childlike behavior, half-in-the-bag buffoonery, lots of naughty words, and unbridled id, read on. If not, save yourself the aggravation.

Disclaimer time is over. You have been warned. Continue at your own peril.

--- To be continued ---

Coming in part 02 - Loser weight loss secrets

Happy Monday, all.

A few quick random snippets for you and then I'm off.

A big thanks to Al, Hoyazo and Mookie for hosting that eternal freaking blogger league tournament thingy. Geezus, am I glad that thing is over - 39 damn tournaments with most of them a 10pm start time?

It's good to have my life back.

I actually attribute my fifth place overall finish (what the hell is a Nintendo DS anyway?) to the fact that I was usually working on something else when the tournament began and I wouldn't be able to watch the table, much less provide any banter or chat. And I'm a chatty bitch, damnit. It was just pretty much straight ahead ABC poker until the bubble loomed and then I'd shift gears quickly. I made some ill-timed bluffs here and there, as well as a ridiculous move or two with the Hammer that costs me some serious points, but hey, I'm not about to begin playing hardcore serious poker with my blogging brethren.

I've played enough hardcore serious poker over the last few years to last me a lifetime.

That being said, it's going to be interesting to see if I get my twenty large out of Neteller this week.

When will US members get their money back?

NETELLER currently anticipates that implementation of the Distribution Plan will commence upon the resolution of the USAO investigation. NETELLER has advised the USAO that it will use its best efforts to resolve the investigation no later than July 13, 2007.

Hah. I'm not holding my breath here.

I'm going to include an email I got today from a friend of mine who helped commiserate with me as I desperately helped a close friend going through his own private Fisher King this past year.

Her husband's son is in the grip of some seriously bad mojo and she's right in the thick of it. I know a lot about addiction. In fact, it's one of my favorite topics of discussion over ice cold beers. I've plenty of experience from family, friends and my own life.

So she wrote me this email and gave me permission to post it. If you can't relate to it, consider yourself profoundly lucky.

------

Subject: Visit to an addicts' house - A short story.

An experience from Tuesday inspired me to write this short story. A true, short story.


On Wednesday, we meet outside, in the parking lot. Husband and Wife, a Dad and a Dad's wife. I've never been considered a step mom, just a woman his Dad is married to. I come to provide support to my husband. He doesn't have to do this alone. I'm in this for better or worse. I love him, my husband.

I bring industrial strength garbage bags, clorox, dish detergent, pine sol, febreze, vacuum, washcloths, rubbergloves, my camera. We can smell the apartment even before we opened the door. We walked in together. I hold my breath. I breathe though my mouth. I can taste the rot. I don't know which is worse - the smell or the taste.

We entered the apartment. To take a step, you had to walk on clothes, garbage, food, shoes, bottles, etc. The entire floor was covered with filth.

The kitchen was beyond disgusting. Grease on the floor, the stove, the refrigerator. Trash can was so over filled it no longer served any purpose. Garbage was everywhere.

The kitchen sink was filled with rotten, sour, dirty water - perhaps one day, a long time ago, someone attempted to wash dishes. The task was too demanding.

Every dish in the apartment was dirty with dried on food. Not a clean drinking glass anywhere.

The living room. His daughter's toys were strung around the room. Dirty.
Broken. Tossed aside. Forgotten.

The living room table showed the evidence of a drug user. Blue elastic, the same kind the doctor uses when he takes your blood, to engorge the vain to make the stick of the needle easier, was on the table. A knife with a serrated blade was laying there, open. The blade dirty with a brown, sticky residue. Blood. The table was burned in a couple hundred places, from a cigarette, a bong, a joint, from someone who passed out on the couch, with the thing still lit. Or maybe, the table was used as a bigger than life ashtray. The table held a dried out bowl of Spaghetti-O's. Table was covered
with what smelled like urine. A tube of glue. Lighters. High school class ring. A few coins. Empty pill bottles - the same kind of pills that killed Anna Nicole Smith (and plenty of people before her) Methadone. A cocaine spoon. Crumbs. So many crumbs of something. Food? Rat Poisoning? Sugar?

3 Pictures of his daughter hold watch over the activities in this room.
Eyes of a young child who sees, experiences, accepts and forgives the person who is self destructing in front of her.

Other pictures were tossed aside, turned over, broken, discarded. Memories of a better time, a better life. Out of sight, out of mind.

The bathroom. More evidence. Another blue elastic band lies on the sink along with a pair of pliers to pull the elastic tighter, tighter. There, that's better.

Discarded, molded bath tubs lay on the floor. Kicked around. In the tub, more toys. Once loved. Now decaying with mold and filth.

The toilet. Vomit stains. Fecal stains. Black as tar. Don't look. Don't touch. Contaminated. Does his 5 year old daughter sit on this? You bet.

Inside the medicine cabinet, more pill bottles. Not surprisingly, expensive hair product and cologne. Items needed to make you look your best, smell your best. Items that say "I'm worthy" because I can afford these department store products, not the generic stuff used by lowlifes.

Bedroom. Mattress on floor. No sheets. Stains everywhere. Blood? Urine? Semen? All the above. Pillows and blankets strewn about. Mattress broken down because of no support, no maintenance. Nightstand near by - more bottles. More lighters, burn marks, more of the sticky, brown residue. Discarded cigarette packs . . . Newport cigarettes. Cheap. Be smart, save your money for the good stuff. Bottom drawer shows the person was once loved by many, is still loved by many - cards for birthdays, Christmas, invitations and more are tucked in the drawer. Signed with love, always.
Looking for a card that reads congratulations on your sobriety. I don't find one.

Everywhere you look are clothes. Dirty, discarded, smelly clothes lay everywhere. Walking on them feels good, soft, absorbing the weight of my body. In the corner, a toddler bed with stuff piled in it. Dirty sheets. No soft blanket, no cuddly stuffed animals. No sign that a sleeping, innocent, 5 year old girl has slept there lately. But wait, I do remember him saying once that she liked to sleep with him, in his bed. In reality, that means she sleeps with a dirty man, on a dirty stained mattress, on the floor, near the nightstand that houses his addiction. Nice.

Clothes. Clothes. Dirty. Crumpled. Wrinkled. Everywhere. Look, a dresser.

Dresser drawers, empty, except for more pill bottles, porno film, condoms, more bottles. Drawers waiting to be filled up with the clothes that go unwashed and dumped on the floor. Again, too much effort.

More pill bottles - mind altering, do not take with alcohol, may cause dizziness and hallucinations, shakes and trembles, do not operate a motor vehicle, can be habit forming. Will be habit forming. Is habit forming. Hooked.

The worst? The child's broken piggybank on a dresser table. Money now long gone.

Paperwork from the clerk of courts demanding child support. Past child support now due.

Paperwork from the clerk of courts demanding to appear in court for passing bad checks. Checks he says he never written. Must have been someone else who had his driver license that day and that person must have practiced writing his name a thousand times to get his signature exact.

More paperwork - Garnishment of wages. Job performance probation. Job termination. Failure to make car payments = Car repossessed, 2 times. Driving too fast = Speeding tickets. Driving while intoxicated = ticket and jail time. Driving with a suspended license = lost driving privileges, but not really . . . I won't get caught. Surprise. You've just been caught. More paperwork. More court appearances. More arrests. I'm sorry. I wasn't going to sell the acid, the cocaine, the crack, the pot, the prescription drugs Officer, they belong to a friend of mine. Some friend. Another DUI. No money. Never have any money. New Blackberry phone. New $2200 computer PAID
IN FULL, PAID WITH CASH on May 20, 2007. But can't make rent. Can't pay electric. Can't pay bills. Can't pay child support. No gas. No car. No food. No friends. No family. No emotion. No effort. No passion. No will. No want. No determination. No respect. No reward.

Nothing.