Thursday, July 26, 2007

Bonus Code IGGY On Party Poker, damnit! 

Losers 08 - "We have bush!" (Booger, Revenge of the Nerds)

A quick dip into the reader mailbag:

Alert reader SaintMatty (name used with permission) wrote to ask: "what
exactly is an upper decker?"

An upper decker is simply taking a dump in the tank part of the toilet, as
opposed to the bowl. Disgusting. Because it is so cruel, it should be
reserved for only the most deserving of victims. Not as easy as it sounds
to execute, especially when you're three sheets to the wind, which you
generally will be anytime taking an upper decker seems like a good idea.
Wear a crash helmet.

Another reader asked us what we thought was the best dance establishment
we've ever been to. It depends on what you're looking for. Without
beating the details to death, we'll answer it this way: If we were going
to spend the rest of our lives at one club, it would be The Cheetah in

One more note: We had the home game last week and someone showed
Spaulding the post requesting "more Spaulding" in this report. He was
frigging unbearable all night. He's full of himself enough as it is, so
please do not encourage him. Thanks.

Back to part 08...

So we're in Atlantic City. We've got a room. We've got disposable
income. We've got enough booze to host a Kennedy wedding. All we need
now is some entertainment, if you know what we mean. Options?

* Cruise the casino itself. We've seen some definite working girls here

* Cruise the local sleaze scene - bookstores, go-gos, etc.

* Shop online - Spaulding has a printout -- complete with pictures -- of
local in-call escorts. He was clearly thinking ahead.

Snow White: "Where did you get that?"

Spaulding: "Internet."

Manbeast: "What if it is some kind of sting operation?"

Spaulding: "No, it's kosher. I've done this before. I'll make the

Snow White: "No way, that's inviting disaster."

Variable: "Hey, stop foreshadowing."

Spaulding: "Fuck that, I know what I'm doing."

Manbeast: "You know your track record with hookers. Remember that time
you got your wallet and suitcase stolen? Roy Sullivan used to call a
bad luck magnet."

Variable: "Now there's an obscure reference."

Spaulding: "Don't worry. I can handle it."

It does seem like advertising would be entrapment. He makes the call.
You have to give the service your name and number, then they'll call you
back. Twenty minutes later they call back. On such short notice, they
only have a two escorts to pick from - one blonde, one brunette. Both are
described as really good looking and well built. No, they're not the
naked hardbodies in the picture, but they're just as good. Both in their
20s? that's what we like to hear. Both about five-seven, one fifteen?
Excellent. Which one do we want? Both, of course! Say, there are a
bunch of us, is that a problem? No problem whatsoever? Great! Are they,
uh-you-know, enthusiastic? Very? Great! How much? $500 for both for
the first hour, $350 for every additional? OK, send them over. When?
Three hours? OK.

Seems a little steep, but Spaulding is in windfall-fallacy delusion and
could care less. The photo looks mighty good. But ordering women off the
internet is like a box of chocolates: you never know which one will be a
factory reject, full of festering pus.

Three hours is too long for Spaulding to wait. Since we've got plenty of
windfall cash, we decide to try the local sleaze scene, to see if we can
scare up any talent in the meantime. We retrieve the van and roll onto
the dirty streets of AC.

There are plenty of things in life we don't know the first thing about.
Like how to please a woman, for example. But if there's one thing we do
know about, it's strippers. And we can tell you this: Very few of them
are interested in more intimate encounters outside the club, even for
pretty good money. So we're not really expecting much luck; perhaps we
can score a private dancer or two who'll be a little more hands-on in a
hotel room than is generally allowed in a public business. But nothing
more intimate than that. Not that we're looking for anything more
intimate, as far as you know. This should help kill the three hours.

I want to head for Delilah's, but Manbeast quickly vetoes that idea. He
says the girls there are a little too high-end to be lured into leaving
with a bunch of losers for a hotel show. No, what we need is a slightly
lower caliber dancer. She should be good looking, yes, but we're willing
to trade some amount of beauty for a certain morally casual attitude.
Quickly, we spot a sign that says in three-foot tall letters, "TOPLESS GO
GO." We're there. Turns out that in front of the three foot tall T in
TOPLESS that's a courier 8 point letter 's,' making the real name of the
place "sTOPLESS GO GO." No matter, because before we enter, we find a
totally nude joint just a few yards further down the street. Naturally,
that is our first choice.

We slip in. I assume there's a cover, but the doorman is nowhere to be
seen, so we just stroll inside. I remember it as though it was


What a place! No sooner do we grab a seat than a chorus line of gorgeous
showgirls comes out on stage, high-kicking in sync and signing a Broadway
style song, to the tune of "Be Our Guest."

"See . . . our . . . breasts!
See our breasts!
Perky C cups they're the best
Grab a bourbon and a beer, my friend
And join our naked fest
Pitch a tent
Get the hots
Come enjoy our beaver shots
Try the liquor
It's delicious
With an aroma of fresh fishes

We can tease
We can dance
We take off our underpants
And a lap dance here is never second best
Come join our nudie venue
Grab a beer and then you'll
See our breasts
See our breasts!
S e e o u r b r e a s t s !!!


*** Snow White ***
Uh, I'm afraid that never happened.
*** End SW ***

Oh, yeah. I must have been drinking. Let's try that again:

What a shithole! The whole place is really dark, even by seedy strip club
standards, but that's not necessarily a bad thing because the lone black
girl on stage has a face that could make a train take a dirt road. Boobs
like a couple of old gym socks. Ass like a hefty bag full of gummy bears.
Enough crust in the crevices to make a pie. Apparently unfamiliar with
the Lady Schick. She's about as animated as a three-toed sloth. Have I
made my point yet? We head back for the door, almost tripping over a
boozed up guy about 80 years old. "Spaulding, tell you dad to get out of
the way!" N'heh, that one never gets old.

So we try sTOPLESS GO GO. Five buck cover. Not bad talent at all. A
little overdressed for a go-go. For those of you who don't know (yeah,
right, save the lies for your wife pal) a go-go is a dance establishment
where they can sell liquor but (in New Jersey) the girls must remain
'clothed.' But the more aggressive establishments strain the limits of
what constitutes a top. We've seen almost invisible, clear sequins serve
as pasties. But in this place they all have on bikini tops. Oh well,
they're several orders of magnitude better looking than the girls next
door are.

After we indulge in a quick test tube of some glowing booze (for $5 a pop,
if I recall, but served by a hot babe) Spaulding starts recruiting,
putting his Attila the Hun Subtlety School training to good use. "How
much honey? Hey, baby, how much? (To an Asian girl) Number one boom-boom
sweetie? GI Joe pay top dollar." We have to calm him down to avoid
ejection. The rest of us take a more refined approach. I gauge the
potential of each dancer as they make their rounds by seeing how far they
let me bend the rules. When I find one who - as long as I'm tipping well
- gives me flashes down the top and doesn't object in the least to a hand
on her firm little butt (generally a real no-no) as we talk, I prepare to
discuss a little business. She beats me to the punch, asking where we're
staying and wouldn't we like a little more aggressive attention? She's
kind of small chested, but has a nice, lean body. Fairly pretty, although
the smile is a bit reptilian. She can be there in an hour. Done and done.

I will spare you the long version of what happened in the room. Suffice
it to say that the sTOPLESS girl was superb. Exactly what I, for one, was
looking for. That is, full contact dancing but still gentlemanly - no oil
checking or anything - at a very reasonable $150. We were so pleased we
kicked in for another hundred in tips. Even Snow White stayed the whole
time, but JFB.

*** Snow White ***
Above all, I wanted to know exactly what happened.
*** End SW ***

Then the internet girls showed up. Oh, the humanity! Since I'm much too
delicate, I'd better let Manbeast explain:

*** Manbeast says ***
What a fucking disaster. They were nothing like the picture. Both were
way at least 30 pounds overweight, maybe more. Packed into too-tight
dresses, like overstuffed kielbasas. I mean they weren't totally gross,
but certainly below my dating standards. Just beefy girls I wouldn't look
at twice, much less PAY to see naked.
*** End Manbeast ***

If you're in a huff, thinking that maybe we're not so lean and mean
either, you're right. But that's why we're not male strippers. Believe
me, if you went to a $500 Chippendale's show and Spaulding was what
strutted out, you'd be pissed, too.

So anyway, they waddle in, straining the straps on their high heels, and
ask us all for ID. I guess cops don't have their own driver's licenses or

Variable: Uh, not that it's a problem, but you ladies don't look like the
girls that were described to us.

Manbeast: Looks like they fucking ate the girls that were described.

Blond: (not pleased) I have no idea what they told you. We need you to
sign this.

She hands Spaulding a document stating that we are not paying for a
massage. Snow White starts giggling. Spaulding, pressing ahead, asks
them if they want to change into their lingerie. They say we have to do
business before discussing anything else. Spaulding coughs up the $500.
The leader calls into the service to say that everything is OK. She
verifies Spaulding's name and DL number with HQ.

Then they sit down.

We're all looking at them, waiting for something to happen. Anything.
Snow White can't stop giggling. They're just sitting there. About a
minute goes by, but it seems much longer. It's really awkward.

Blonde: "So, where are we going?"

(2 seconds of silence, followed by Snow White busting out laughing.)

Spaulding: "Wha..wha..wha..whaddya mean where are we going?"

Blonde: "We're escorts, we're here to escort you somewhere."

Spaulding: "What if we just wanted to stay here?"

Blonde: "Well, OK, we'll keep you company here if that's what you want.
It's a bit unusual, but it's your money..."

Spaulding: "Uhm, you're going to get naked, right?"

Blonde: "What? We're escorts! I am offended!"

Spaulding: (Still in denial) "OK, I now the drill, $500 gets you in the
door. Look, uh, we really want to tip, you know what I'm saying?"

Blonde: (mock-shocked) "Sir! We are not prostitutes! You have paid for
one hour of our company, and that is what you will get."

Snow White is literally in tears laughing.

Spaulding: "Can we even get a little dancing?"

Blonde: "Do we look like dancers?"

Manbeast: "Fuck no."

After a few moments of not speaking, Spaulding says "Well, you may as well
leave now." "OK, see ya." Manbeast: "We just paid $500 to look at two
fat girls for seven minutes." Snow White never laughed so hard. After
they left, Manbeast advised Spaulding, "Cheer up, at least they weren't
men in dresses. You're making progress!"

Thoroughly tilted, we head back to the card room.

--- To be continued ---

Next time: Drinkaway Camp, Unsober Campers

Second Life Bans Gambling Following FBI Investigation 

Hilarious. In a sad way.

An ongoing investigation by the FBI into gambling in Second Life is believed to be directly related to Linden Lab’s sudden decision to ban all forms of gambling on Second Life.

The FBI investigation commenced in April and was considering the legality of online gambling within the virtual world.

Casinos and gambling have been a prominent part of the Second Life metaverse over the last couple of years. Linden Lab will surely take a financial hit from the decision as casino owners cancel virtual land ownership agreements; top tier casinos contribute large sums in monthly fees to Linden Lab.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

John From Cincinnati 

Here is what John says in his sermon at the end......

Ramon says "Who's hungry."


John says "If my words are yours can you hear my father? Can Bill know my father keeping his eye on me? Can I bone Kai and Butchie know my father instead?

(John takes Mr. Rollins out of room 24)

My father is shy doing his business. Kai helps my father dump out. Bill takes a shot. Shaunie is much improved. Joe is a doubting Thomas. Joe will save not Aliman?. Joe will bring his buddies home. This is how Freddy relaxes, cup a joe and Winchell's variety dozen.

Mitch catches a good wave. Mitch wipes out. Mitch wipes out Cissy. Cissy shows Butchie how to do that. Cissy wipes Butchie out. Butchie hurts Barry's head. Mr. Rollins comes in Barry's face. My Father runs the Megamillions.

(John stands in the roped off area in the courtyard. Then he enters Cass's room at her hotel to get her camera. John leads Cass from her room by the hand. John's reflection appears in the store window as John tells Linc it's time to get back in the game. Linc steps aside and we see his reflection the way we saw John's. We see the reflection of Cass' Porsche and hear it as it drives away.)

Fur is big. Mud is big. The stick is big. The word is big. Fire is huge. The wheel is huge. The line and circle are big. On the wall the line and circle are huge. On the wall the man at the wall makes a man from the circle and line. The man at the wall makes a word on the wall from the circle and line. The word on the wall hears my father.

The zeros and ones make the word in Cass's camera. In the word on the wall that hears my father in Cass's camera, the good one Mitch catches doesn't wipe Cissy out. In the word that hears my father Cissy shows Butchie something else.

In my fathers word Cissy shows Butchie and Shaun. In my fathers word Tina raises Shaun at lunch. In Cass's camera Butchie lays the cord out for Barry and Mr. Rollins watches and he doesn't come on Barry's face. In Cass's camera Butchie knows Kai has kept the faith. In my fathers word the wave lifts them up.

(John draws a stick man-like figure on the ground)

In Cass's camera Bill doesn't bump his head on the stairs.

(Bill says he cannot do this, he's being stupid and he then climbs his spiral staircase and plays his harmonica)

In Cass's camera as long as Bill is being stupid Bill gives Lois a kiss.

In his word in Cass's camera the internet is big. 9/11 is big but not every towel head is eradicated. In his word we are coming 9/11/14. In my father's word Bill sees how Freddy relaxes.

In Cass's camera Ramon wants to know who's hungry in the courtyard and room 45. In my father's word to come, in Cass's camera, Dr. Smith calls Ocean Properties. In Cass's camera to come my father stares not Aliman? (the vato) down and Freddy sees Bill much improved (as they play their intruments together).

You will not note my fathers word nor remember Cass's camera but you will not forget what we did here." - John


Tuesday, July 24, 2007

poker blog 

It's been a whirlwind here. I really feel like I'm making up for the last, lost two years of my life playing poker professionally by immersing myself in a bunch of projects. And I'm much happier for it, strangely enough.

Good God, looking back upon it, poker was a lonely existence. And isolating. And predatory. Which isn't my nature.

I suppose it's just really easy to romanticize that lifestyle. Too easy. And I'm as guilty as anyone of falling prey to it.

I mentioned a while back, before my blog was hacked and deleted, that I had a major announcement coming. And if the planets align, I'll be able to do so this week. Considering how long these discussions have been taking place, I'd still take the over.

Someone pointed me to these fine tshirts that BiggestRon posted:

Well done, sir, well done.

I'm pondering a post-WSOP uber poker post for ya'll. I just need a tad bit of free time to make it happen.

But for now, here's Part Seven of Losers, Inc.


Losers - 07 "Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do?"

"You've got to ask yourself a question: 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do you,
punk?" -- Harry Callahan, "Dirty Harry"

So we leave the Fantasy Show Bar, having dropped over $100 each in an
hour, which as I've said is more money than the quality of the place
merits. We make our way to the Atlantic City expressway. Unfortunately,
we pass one of those deer crossing signs with the silhouette of a deer on
it. "I gotta get my deer!" yells Spaulding. He means he wants to fling a
beer bottle and smash it off of a deer crossing sign, a throwback to our
high school days. I figure he's goofing around, and won't really do it.

When another deer sign fails to materialize in an eighth of a mile or so,
Spaulding loses patience and decides to "sight in" in the meantime. He
fires a bottle at a large exit sign, scoring a direct hit. At least he's
good at something. We get him under control at this point, and tell him
how stupid that was. There are dozens of cars around us and I'm sure
someone is going to narc - I mean, a beer bottle hitting a sign at some
100 mph (vector addition) will get your attention. I tell the idiots to
stash their empties. I consider getting off of the expressway. Am I
being paranoid?

Apparently not - a few minutes later I spot a NJ State trooper in my rear
view, coming up pretty fast in the passing lane. OK, remain calm. It's
just a coincidence, right? Slow down slightly, and he'll pass right by.
No problem. He doesn't have his bubbles on. Well, he's passing some
people, and I'm starting to think 'whew, he's gonna slide right by.'
Then, as soon as he passes the car behind me, he tucks in right on my rear
bumper. Fudge.

Normally, I'd hardly care. After all, I'm not the one in
trouble here, right? And at most we'll get hit with a littering fine,
right? Well, there's one smallish problem: Inasmuch as we're going to a
hunting camp, we're carrying a bunch of guns. They're all stored legally,
except one. I happen to have a little 380 auto in my pocket. WHY did I
do that? Don't answer. There's no way the guy would search me, is there?

Isn't Rahway prison in NJ? Oh man, I remember seeing "Scared Straight" in
grade school. I don't want someone to take my shoes. I'm too pretty to
go to prison. Let Spaulding go to prison. The lifers would duct tape the
soap to his hand. I envision myself greeting my new roomie, a 350 pound
lifer who takes one look at me and says: "You am beautiful."

Variable's imagination

Guard: OK punk, meet your new roommate, Mike Tyson.

[He throws me into the cell with Tyson, locking the door.]

Tyson: Hewwo. Are you going to laugh at my thithy-boy voice?

Variable: I'm afraid it's unavoidable. N'heh.

Tyson: Just for that I'm making you my girlfriend. I'm glad you learned
what a tothed thalad was in part 5.5, it will thave time.

end Variable's imagination

So I'm a little nervous. Smokey stays right behind me for what seems like
an absolute eternity. Just when I think maybe it's all a coincidence, he
hits the bubbles and pulls me over.

"Papers please." Fortunately, they we're in order. I follow all the
rules. Yes sir, no sir. Hands on the steering wheel. No sir, I haven't
been drinking. "What about them?" "Damn straight!" says the helpful
Spaulding. I explain the arrangement and reiterate that I am the
designated driver.

To make a long story short, the guy puts the fear of God into us, but
ultimately tells us to get to AC, get off the road, and stay out of
trouble. He didn't even give us a littering fine. Whew.

We get to the Taj Mahal. I head right for a bar, to settle my nerves.
And I don't have to twist the guys arms to get them to come along. The
bartender is inexperienced. When I order a bourbon neat, I have to
explain what 'neat' means. He grabs a rocks tumbler and puts a meniscus
on it, charges me for a shot. Booyah. Next thing I know, everyone is
ordering a neat bourbon. We'll all be loaded in a hurry. What else is

After that belt we're ready to check out the action. But we decide to
play some cards first. Off to the poker room. I get an open seat in a
5-10 HE game. But I put my name on a list for 3-6. See, I'm pretty
convinced that with the house scarfing 100 plus dollars an hour, at least
some of these players must be much, much better than me for them to be
there regularly. They don't look wealthy, so they must be beating the
game. Manbeast says no, there are still plenty of idiots, don't worry
about it. But he tends to err on the side of overconfidence. So I plan
to jump to the 3-6 first chance I get. I can live with a hundred dollar
loss, but throwing away two hundred when I know I'm overmatched is just
plain stupid. I guess throwing away 1 hundred if I know I'm beat is
stupid also, but it's only 50% as stupid, which must be 100% smarter,
which sounds pretty good.

First interesting hand. On my small blind it gets folded around to me. I
have 32s. Suited connectors, but little. I opt to just call and take a
look at the flop. I say it is the correct play. Yes, a raise might steal
it but if I'm called I have to act first every round. My opponent raises
though. I figure I'm getting odds to call, so I do. Flop is something
like 9-7-2. He's acting strong, staring me down, so I check call him all
the way, including the river, correctly putting him on overcards. I drag
the pot, and he's somewhat irate about it. Comments? If nothing else,
the implied tilt odds were clearly there.

Shithouse comes over to sweat me. This is his first time inside a poker
room. When the cocktail waitress comes around, I order a beer for me, and
a double gin and tonic for him. When she returns, I toke her three
chips. Shithouse asks me if the drinks only cost $3. I tell him no, they
are free. Free booze? Shithouse momentarily gets a thousand-yard-stare
on his face. A thought is clearly rattling around his head, like a
ping-pong ball in NASA's Vertical Assembly Building. He was never able to
put his new found happiness into words, though he did shed a few tears of

Snow White's at the table with me. He had ordered a beer as well. He
takes a little sip and nearly spits it out, gagging. I don't know what
they serve, but it was pretty bad. And they don't give you a bottle -
just a plastic cup. I guess it's draft beer. Watery, whatever it is.

By evening, Spaulding has managed to dump over $400 playing Hold Em and 7
Card Stud. Time to recover those losses. He looks around for the
no-limit Indian game, but there's not one running at the moment. So,
nicely liquored up, he heads out to play Pai Gow. When he doesn't return
for an hour, we go looking for him. When we get to the Pai Gow room, he?s
got 8 black $100 chips. Losses 1 chip, bets 2. Loses 2 chips, bets the
remaining 5. Splits two small pair but wins anyway. Bet goes back to 1
chip. Because he is winning, Spaulding thinks he?s James Bond now. He?s
hitting on the cuter players, all of whom are asian. "Me rove you rong
time." Yeah, how could a girl resist that smooth line? Especially coming
from an obese drunk. Needless to say he doesn't get anywhere with the
girls. He does, however, crush the Pai Gow game. He works his stack up
to 15 blacks and change. Then comes the stunner: He bets all 15 blacks.
Spaulding's a gambler and all, but we're pretty surprised he's risking
$1500 on one hand. He gets dealt crap. "Don't worry about it. I feel
lucky." Dealer gets dealt worse crap. Spaulding doubles up with
something like King high / JT. We suggest he quit. He stacks the
winnings, and lets the 15 chips ride. After two ties, he wins again. He
is now ahead over $4,000 - an enormous sum by our gambling standards. We
drag him from the table.

We retire to the Hard Rock Café to ponder what to do with the money.
Spaulding's got an MPC of 1.0, so we all know he won't be saving it.
Spaulding orders up a round for everyone.

So we're at the bar, and there are two good looking girls a few feet away.
I figure they'll be getting hit on by Manbeast in about 30 seconds. Just
then, a girl in stretch pants lumbers by. She shouldn't be wearing
stretch pants in the same way as Spaulding shouldn't wear a speedo.
Someone, no need to name names here, mentions that her ass looks like two
raccoons fighting under a blanket.

One of the young good looking girls sitting next to us takes offense: "You
know, you shouldn't even be *allowed* to say something so ignorant.
That's a form of discrimination cluck cluck cluck..."

Manbeast: She's right. You're prejudiced, Variable. You make me ill,
talking like that.

At this point I figure he's just weaseling up to the hot
babe. Like Satan or Dracula, the Manbeast can be charming when he wants
to. He turns and addresses her.

Manbeast: Can you believe the ignorance of some people?

Good Looking Girl: It's so unfair. Some people have slower metabolisms.
It's not her fault she's heavy. And there's nothing wrong with being
heavy, anyway!

MB: Right! It's so nice to talk to someone who understands fairness and
equality, and wants to end discrimination.

GLG: Well, I'm just saying that, you know, if people would just not judge
one another by appearance the world would be so much better.

MB: Amen. I mean, just for example, not that you're really going to do
it, but you would certainly date my friend Spaulding over there, right?

(Spaulding gives her a big, dopey-yet-somehow-lecherous grin)

[GLG is suddenly speechless. Apparently pondering - perhaps for the first
time - the B side of egalitarianism.]

MB: I mean, just because his metabolism is a little slow, and just
because he was born a few years before you, you would never prejudge him
on that! People like you are wonderful!

Snow White: He's drunk too. Drunk as a skunk.

GLG: Uh...

MB: Is something wrong?

GLG: No, no.

MB: So you would date him, right?

GLG: You see, it's just different...

MB: Huh? You don't mean...(disgusted) oh, I should have known! You're
just like all the rest. You say the right thing...

GLG: No, it's not like that at all!

MB: You're prejudging my friend based on his appearance, aren't you?

GLG: Well, it's like this...

SW: His hygiene is substandard.

MB: Just answer the question. Are you prejudging my friend based on

GLG: Well, it's not that simple...

MB: You make me sick! You just reamed out my other friend for prejudging
that heavy girl, but you're exactly the same!

GLG: But...

MB: You conceited, prejudiced elitist! Go run off with your good looking
little friends! Go date your Ken doll boyfriends, you elitist scum!
Where do you hide your swastika? Hah? You make me want to puke!
(Mocking her) "Oh, the world would be a better place if everyone was like
me. I'm frigging wonderful." Yeah, right!

GLG: [Leaves in tears]

Variable: What'd you do that for?

MB: It passes the time.

Back to the matter at hand: the $4000. Manbeast slyly suggests we play a
private game, up in the room, to keep the money in the family. "We have a
room?" asks Spaulding.
"Yes, just one."
"Then I know what to do with the money!"
"Let's get some girls!"

Nervous, Snow White asks "Dancers, you mean?" Spaulding: "Yeah, sure,
they'll dance." "Don't worry about it," adds Manbeast.

--- To be Continued ---

Coming in part 08 -

"Where the music stinks, and they water the drinks, ...at the nudie bar.
Where the girlies dance in their underpants, ...at the nudie bar.
Where you see their butt, and their trap stays shut, ...at the nudie bar.
Where the breasts may be fake but man do they shake, ...at the nudie bar.
Where you swear like a sailor, and wish you could nail her, ...at the
nudie bar.
Where the cops are at the door, and there's a Kennedy on the floor, ...at
the nudie bar."
-- Al Bundy, Married With Children

Sunday, July 22, 2007

Bonus Code IGGY On Party Poker, damnit! 

Before we start part 6, we need to dip into the reader mailbag again:

Item 1: Alert reader Mike M. points out that it was the Tubes, not the
Plasmatics, who recorded "She's A Beauty." Thanks Mike. At first I was
at a loss to explain how this grievous factual error slipped through. So
I took a walk back into our rigorous quality control department. I found
two empty bottles of Jose Cuervo Gold. Case closed.

Item 2: The lady who emailed to call us "immature drunks" took exception
to Manbeast's reply and followed up. We'll call her Mrs. Stu Pidseeword
(not her real name). Among other comments, she wrote that we "...really
are losers! Your (sic) not funny at all. Your (sic) pathetic!"

We respond:

Dear Mrs. Pidseeword,

We've puked 20, maybe 25 pages of pabulum stating that we are utter and
complete losers. Apparently our subtlety was lost on you. To clarify: We
are a bunch of boozy yobbos. We're social retards. We pronounce "retard"
as though it were spelled "retart." We grok Spock. We believe the truth
is out there. We watch Loch Ness Monster documentaries on the Discovery
channel. Nearing our 40s, we all have Playstations. We go to family
functions and drink until we sound like Ozzy fucking Osbourne, then stand
close to our cousin - the one with the big tits - hoping for a brush-up.
We fast forward through r-rated movies looking for nudity. We've passed
out in stranger's hedges. We've puked in salt water aquariums. In high
school, when the cool kids like you were dating and learning social
skills, we were playing Dungeons and Dragons and drinking lukewarm Pabst
Blue Ribbon. We were playing the Atari 2600 and sneaking bottles of
Manbeast's Dad's homemade Saki, which causes temporary blindness. We were
making prank phone calls. We were going to Star Wars 27 times. We can't
write one fucking paragraph without switching tenses. We were, are, and
always will be, losers in the truest sense of the word.

Get it? Now the only question is: will you, a real-life-having person,
waste further precious minutes of your life reading our future
installments? I think we both know the answer to that question.

The Losers

Losers 06 - "Fuckin' bird's too smart."

"Ahh alcohol, catalyst for bozotropism: That wonderful shift toward the
clownlike end of the behavioral spectrum." -- Manbeast

We'll now recount last year's hunting camp, which is about when I started
compiling this crap. I'll use the present tense because that's easier and
I'm lazy.

Time for the monthly home game. We plan to play right through Friday
night to Saturday morning, then leave for the cabin. Any pussies can get
a little sleep on the couch, if they're brave enough to be unconscious
within reach of their peers.

I drive over to Spaulding's to pick up him and Shithouse for the game.
The door is unlocked, so I walk in without knocking, naturally. Unheard,
I slink into the living room. Shithouse and Spaulding are sitting on the
couch, watching TV. Cartoons, to be specific. They're playing a drinking
game, and they're both apparently playing to lose. Before they know I'm
there, I overhear their little Mensa chat session.

Shithouse: Instead of spending all that money on slingshots and shit, why
doesn't the coyote just buy some food?

Spaulding: He'll never catch that roadrunner. Fucking bird's too smart.

Shithouse: [outraged] You see what I mean? He can afford a rocket but
he can't buy food?

Spaulding: Something is going to go wrong with that rocket.

(the rocket malfunctions, injuring the coyote)

Spaulding: Told you.

Shithouse: (Yelling at the screen) BUY SOME FUCKING FOOD, SUPER GENIUS!

So I hustle dumber and dumbest into the truck and we get to Dreamland.
After a ceremonial round of aqua vitae (you know, the water of
life...stupid in a bottle...fucking booze!) cards are in the air.

To give you a general idea of how tough the home game plays, the most
common pattern sees almost everyone in the pot, rapidly raising or
calling, until the last card is dealt. Now the game slows to a crawl.
Know why? Because only now, for the first time, are the inebriated
dumbasses trying to figure out what their hand is. They'll stare at it,
as though the cards are going to change, ask if anything was wild, then
try to decide if they can call with 2 pair in a game of baseball.
(Answer: of course you can call, got to keep them honest!) Then you have
to hear them explain their logic - "Well, I started with jack, queen, four
and I was going for the straight. Then on the fourth card I had two
diamonds, so I could make a flush too. Then I got a pair. By the end, I
had the fours and sevens and almost made a straight."

First hand - a rarity - Spaulding gets off to a winning start. Seven card
stud, low in the hole is wild, roll your own. By the end I have a
straight flush. Manbeast and Spaulding are still in, heavy action. I
mark Manbeast with at least quads. Spaulding could have as little as
trips and would play just as insanely, so no one knows where he's at. I
fear 5 of a kind from Manbeast, but with a straight flush I have to pay it
off. I call all the way as Manbeast and Spaulding whip-saw me for the
five raise maximum. Spaulding had a real hand for once - 5 of a kind -
and drags a monster. He uncorks his trademark annoying, high pitched,
wicked-witch-of-the-west, inappropriate for a fat guy laugh
"EEEEEEEEHEEEHEEEHEEEHEEHEE!" It is the finest tilt producing mechanism
known to man.

*** Snow White says ***
Idiots get dealt aces as often as everyone else.
*** End Snow White ***

Playing the rush: A few minutes later Spaulding deals hi-lo draw. A high
EV game for smart players, because home gamers are so loose that every
hand represents either a high or low draw. Not surprisingly, everyone
stays in before the draw and we cap the betting. Spaulding draws two
cards to a wheel and makes a 23456 straight. Betting is capped 4 ways
after the draw. Scoop. "EEEEEEHEEEHEEHEEHEE!" Now the trash talking
really takes off.

More abuse: A little later we're playing Homoha, a game Manbeast invented
in honor of Spaulding's aforementioned gay experience. It's Omaha high,
queens are wild, and straights don't count. I'm dealt KQJJ. Board comes
J4T94. Capped every round. Spaulding has two queens in his hand.

Fueled by excitement, everyone manages to play through to sunrise. We
load up the vehicles as Spaulding fixes us the breakfast of losers:
Orange juice and Absolut Mandrin screwdrivers. I pass, having layed off
the hootch at midnight, since I'm driving.

The plan is to spend Saturday night in Atlantic City, check out the
action, then head up to the cabin from there. It is a lot of driving, but
these are the sacrifices we're willing to make for the sporting life.

By midmorning we're ready to pull out, Spaulding has dozed off on the
couch. All attempts to wake him fail. Manbeast brings out a big wooden
plank, and we strap Spaulding to it. Then we use a dolly to cart his ass
outside. The van is pretty full, but Iron Mike's pickup is half empty.
Strapped to the plank, we load Spaulding into the pickup bed. We had
every intention of letting him make the hours-long ride just like that,
sliding around like a hockey puck, until Snow White convinced us that it
might be a tad too unsafe. So we unstrapped him and tossed him in the
back of the van, on the floor. He wakes up a few hours later, and clears
the cobwebs with a little hair of the dog.

At Spaulding's insistence, we stopped in Mt. Ephraim NJ, at a place named
"The Fantasy Show Bar." Mt. Ephraim is a little shitburg out in the
pine-barrens. We had to use the frigging GPS to get there. By the time
we get there Spaulding has had some food and is recharged and raring to go.

Variable: "How the hell did you hear about this place?"
Spaulding: "Internet."

We arrive. Spaulding "powers up" before entering by draining his flask -
hard. That it didn't implode is a tribute to modern flask engineering, as
we estimated the vacuum at around 10 microtorr. Then he sloppily refills
the flask from a fifth of Jack Black, and stashes it.

We enter, get our free welcome hug from a very acceptable looking naked
girl, a free (soft) drink, and some popcorn. The afternoon cover was low
- I think maybe $5. At first, it seemed like a real find. Did Spaulding
come through for once? Don't be stupid. The FSB is, in my opinion, a
minor clip joint. Not terrible, not as bad as the tourist traps in
Baltimore, but I wouldn't recommend it. Lap dances are overpriced and
highly tame (Manbeast tells his dancer: "Less dance, more lap."). The
dancers, even though we are tipping them well, are always asking if you
have "a little something extra" for them. You know - you tip them a few
bucks, then they hold out the right garter ("and one for here"), then the
left garter, etc. Maybe we were targeted as the desperate losers with
money (true) and on a
not-too-crowded afternoon shift they just worked us over. They're always
coming around trying to sell you an instant polaroid of you and a dancer.
Without asking first, one guy snaps a picture of me with my hand on some
dancers upper thigh - kind of brushing against the beaver - as she sits in
my lap, nude except for an elf hat. Guy tries to coerce me into buying
the polaroid, but I refuse.

Obnoxious Cameraman: "Sir, if you don't buy it I have to pay for it out
of my salary."
Me: "Please, you're going to make me fucking cry."

I would later realize they had no privacy policy.

Let me summarize this way: For the amount of cash you're going drop (if
you're not going to be a prick) you could have a far better time, and see
far better talent, at any of the upscale Philly or New Jersey spots.
Unless you insist on dirtier contact, which seems to be available here at
some price ($250, or whatever they think you're good for), look elsewhere.

Oh, I have your attention again, don't I? What dirtier contact, you ask?
You degenerate. Well, the girls allude to some unique action in the
sweetheart rooms. Manbeast asked about it and describes it thusly:

***Manbeast says*** Allegedly, for $250 (discreetly billed to any major
credit card) you pull on a condom and position yourself in what amounts to
a miniature stockade for your weenie. Then the dancer will do a lap-dance
type act, rubbing up against the little general. I said 'Honey, I can get
Greek in Atlantic City for 250, and you want to rub me with your thigh for
***End Manbeast***

Based on their other business practices, I have serious doubts about this
anyway. $250 probably covers the first song or something. I suspect
Manbeast has done it and doesn't want to admit getting ripped off. I'll
have to think of some way to extort the full story.

We depart the FSB, not before Spaulding marks his territory in their
parking lot in broad daylight.

We get back on the road, and start to talk about aging. Someone notes
that any kids currently in high school were not yet born when we were in
HS. Thanks for pointing that out.

I guess we ARE getting old, because we're starting to tell the dreaded
how-things-were-when-I-was-a-kid stories. Like this one:

Teens today have no idea have good they have it. Forget DVDs and the
Internet, in the early 1980s if you wanted to enjoy a little porn in the
privacy of your own home - and who didn't - you had to rent VHS. Movies
sold for $89.99 and up, so purchasing was out of the question when you
were earning maybe $4.00 an hour. And there were no big video chain
stores. We had to rent our porn at mom-and-pop stores where the
counter-person either looked like (and undoubtedly knew) your grandmother,
or else it was some hot high school babe who you didn't want to look like
a total jackoff in front of. At the store we frequented, the adult videos
were kept on a shelf behind the counter, so you couldn't just browse.
They had this photo-album filled with photocopies of all the box covers,
and so to rent a porno you actually had to look through the book and then
ask for the movie *by name*. And back then the smokers didn't have cutesy
titles like "Forrest Hump," or "Three Men and a Maybe," instead they were
really filthy. You felt like such a degenerate renting them. I'm sure it
caused us permanent psychological damage. For you young punks out there
reveling in the vast ocean of porn that is the internet, here's how
obtaining spanking material was When I Was Your Age:

First you stake out the video store for 15 minutes, making sure that no
one you know is inside and checking that there's no hot babe working the
counter. Then you rush in and try to make your rental as unobtrusively as
possible. You speed read through the book of filth.

You: (almost whispering) Uhm, yes, I'd like to rent 'Cocksucking Teenage
Cheerleaders' please.

Granny: You'll have to speak up, son.

You: (Turning bright red, looking around to make sure no one else is
nearby). Ahem, yes, I say I'd like to, uh, rent 'Cocksucking Teenage

Granny: Ooooh....(Granny hasn't had an impure thought since Ulysses S.
Grant was in the White House. She's obviously disgusted by your deviant
tendencies) Hold on...

[she checks on its availability. You wish there were some way to speed
her up so you can get out of there asap.]

Granny: ...seems to be out. Sorry.

You: Great. (Flipping through the smut book again) OK, how about 'Facial
Cumshot Cavalcade volume 13?'

Granny: Wait......I don't see it......let me ask my
granddaughter......(out walks the head cheerleader from your
highschool)......Heather, is, uh, Cavalcade #13 in?

Heather: No, that fat kid that they call Spaulding rented the whole Cum,
uh, that whole series.'

Granny: Oh, that spotty boy? My but he rents a lot of 'mature' videos.
I told him he's going to go blind.

Heather: Looks like he's halfway there already.

Granny: Wear gloves when you handle his money dear.

You: Can you just give me the newest release in the adult section that's
not checked out.

Granny: OK, here you go. Tell [your grandmother's name] I'll see her at

Heather: (Giggling) See you in school [your name], where I'll be sure to
tell all my hot friends about your filthy habit!

[As you slink toward the exit your pastor walks in. You accidentally drop
your video and he picks it up, hands it to you and winks. You notice the
video is titled "Gay Boys on Parade."]

Anyway, that's how it was if you were semi-normal, constantly fighting the
internal battle between community decency and raging lust. If you were
Spaulding, lecherousness superceded any sense of decency, and you actually
got a perverse pleasure out of the process:

Spaulding struts into the store, returning a half dozen adult videos in
full view of all the other customers.

Spaulding: "Whoowhee were these hot! I needed a frigging beachtowel and
mop to clean up after "Taboo II: Hop on Pop." Jesus Chri..."

Heather: "Yeah,thanksforyourbusiness.Byenow."

Spaulding: "Anything new come in?"

Heather: (Sigh) "Friday the 13th part 2..."

Spaulding: "No, no, I mean porno. Dirty stuff. You know...(he begins to
make a two-handed gesture)"

Heather: "Yes, yes I know." (She glances nervously at the decent, Ferris
Bueller renting patrons) We prefer to call them adult videos."

Spaulding: "So what's new? Tell me some titles."

Heather: "Look, they're all listed right here in the book."

Spaulding: "I know, but I just love to hear you say them. It gives me a

(Disgusted, Heather makes some excuse to leave the counter and Granny
takes over)

Spaulding: (Pointing) "What's that one, there?"

Granny: "Uhm, uh" (appalled) "Schoolgirls Who Love It Up The Ass."

Spaulding: (genuinely) "What's it about?"

--- To be continued ---

Coming in part 07 - The New Jersey Highway Patrol: Do they have a sense of

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Information on this site is intended for news and entertainment purposes only.

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