Monday, March 20, 2017

Old Man Winter is a Prick

The last time I stepped from the Cinnabon-freshened air at McCarran airport in Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada, onto the jetway, which in my set of twisted mental rules is not part of Las Vegas, I had a lot of questions.

When would I return to Vegas?
Would I return to Vegas?!
Do I even want to return to Vegas?!!
Will I have a hung-over fat sweaty guy in the middle seat next to me?!!!

Here's the pattern:
  • 2014 - ass-kicked all year, massive comeback win in the fall
  • 2015 - butt-violated all year, massive comeback win in the fall
  • 2016 - abraded with extreme prejudice all year, massive thud like a turd hitting a ceramic floor in the fall
2016's foray into the gambling den of inequity was funded primarily with refunds from the IRS of taxes withheld in previous years, plus some nickel and dime moneytization revenue, plus some incredibly generous presses of the Donate button on the site. You know who you are! You can sleep easy knowing you supported the (black) arts, not to mention the burgeoning internet litterary scene.

(See what I did there?)

Because of a sickening dearth of big wins (dearth means fuck-all royals), and notwithstanding the oddball $1000 one and only royal of 2016 at the Flusherville casino, the IRS-funded bankroll is decimated.

So, no more racing back to Vegas.

Penance.

Reflection.

Pouting.

It was time to let Old Man Winter's smothering arms around me, his frigid life-sucking liver-spotted arms, icy tight around me, and not in a good way, while I sat shivering for 3 months thinking about what I'd done. Old Man Winter smells of ammonia, bitter pills, Rub A535, and chicken soup. Old Man Winter is a prick.
Old Man Winter sucks. Why can't I have Young Hotty Blows???


I put in a solid two months straight time, on the square. No posts. No blogging. Yeah I kept active on some of the fine message boards out there, but I went cold turkey sandwich on Vegas. I watched a lot of those Gold and Treasure shows.

Apparently, the real Curse of Oak Island is the fucking Sherlock Forest or something of nose-hairs Marty has shamelessly has avoided landscaping.

It took until mid-March for the Vegas tingly-wingly feeling to start creeping back into my freeze-dried loins, just in time to slap Old Man Winter's greedy hands away from the Money Pit, as it were.

And I started to think of (yet another) approach to Vegas.

I wanted some decent amount of time to pay penance, to work on my already amazing physique (my Dr. said he's amazed I'm alive), and to do some careful preparation before the inevitable lurch into compulsive degeneracy.

But what about a bankroll?

What indeed.

It's the first day of spring! I'll figure something out.

Rick Lagina ashamed of his nose hair botanical fucking garden.
Kudos to you loyal Flushies who kept refreshing this page for the last 10 weeks waiting for a new post! Thank you.

Saturday, January 14, 2017

Mr. ALOHA

As I sit here in frozen Flusherville, Ontario, typing away on the VIC-20 keyboard that Jimmy Poon gave me to use, I've been reflecting on a number of things about 2016.

Jimmy Poon believes in something called 'side-cycling'. The definition of sidecycling, as far as I can figure it, means either some old piece of shit technology -or- some new, but of dubious origin knock-off piece of shit technology - and foisting it off on me.

Foisting should be a crime - but it isn't. I'm starting an organization, currently un-named, because every fancy six letter acronym that spells a cute word - like J.U.I.C.E.S for the Junior Underachieving Ignorant Crook Equestrians and Secretariats club - was taken.

Every single one.

"Foisting. You don't have to take it."

That's my new anti-foisting slogan.

Saturday, December 31, 2016

Make Me Smile

Living life is just a game so they say
All the games we used to play fade away

It's been a weird year, in the sense that never in my life have I had more opportunities to get Royals Flush (number of hands played, dealt four-to-a-royals, amount of multiplay) than I had this year.
In the time in front, the time in back. Or, the Future is in the Past.
And yet, as the afternoon wore on, I had to begin to come to grips with the fact that I was probably not going to get a single Royal in Vegas in 2016 - my lone Royal would be the one I nailed from four at the Flusherville Casino and Bingo, which has about 19 machines and a blackjack table with half the felt missing. (I've heard rumblings that the felt may be replaced next year, due to the Sliver Injury class action lawsuit now before the magistrate.)

When will I be back in Vegas? I honestly don't know. But I think it's going to be a while. Don't worry, I'll still be around in one form or another.

Meanwhile, though, there is more shocking Vegas action (carpet static) to describe!

Thursday, December 29, 2016

Man-in-the-Moon Eggs Over Hard

Thurs Dec 28, 2016

I went down, grabbed a cappuccino from Lapperts, and strolled confidently over to where my nice little triple-play machine, the one that I've been able to play for a fairly long period on not too much cash, the one that I've been begging for four Deuces dealt, the one I don't think I've mentioned was and found it... gone.

Three hulking squawking mammoth bright as the sun loud as thunder video slot behemoths were being installed where my nice little old school machine was.

Fortunately, I found it way off in another part of the casino, and I commenced to play, constantly chanting that I wanted four Deuces dealt. I did okay, I guess, but ultimately spent $80, less $2.50, which is not enough for a hand.

I cashed that out and strolled the one step over to the nearest machine, shoved the $2.50 ticket in, and pulled up Boner Deluxe.

Played the first hand, nothing.

Played the second hand.