RSS findIndex trimsentences createcard



createItems and other JavaScript code

Item Render Code

Sunday, January 18, 2015

Beauty - Skin Deep And a Foot Long

Friday January 16, 2015

The Final Day

As I woke up and realized how fucked my eye was, one thing and one thing only consumed me. It wasn't about a little old infected goobering eye dripping ooze down my shirt front as I lurched through the casino on a bum foot, one hand holding a cup of dishwater coffee out in front of me, as I moaned quietly from the various pains. It wasn't the fact that I was now the Walking Dead Broke, being chased by townspeople carrying torches.

It was the fact that many or most of you won't get why I dubbed the Chevy Impala Rentalmobile the 'Flying V'.

Here's why.

Flying V dashboard display.
Gibson Flying V guitar. Image courtesy Gibson
Oh yes, also, I probably wouldn't get a Royal this trip, was losing more every minute, was miserable, and was going home to White Icy Hell the next day.

Okay, so first things first. Squirt a little bit of that greasy old polysporin lube right into the ole eyeball. Feel the burn! AHHHHHHHHH! Check to see that toothpaste tube is somewhere else.

Now, the next question is, what do you do with a lucky goat?

How many of you savvy observers will have observated that we received two lucky goats from the Four Queens? And where is L.G. number two? Well, when we arrived at GVR, someone didn't want to cart it upstairs.

And never mentioned it again.

And then when we got to the Cal, someone again didn't take it upstairs or mention it.

And then when I took the Flying V back, I checked around the footwell in the someone side of the car for any forgotten items - none there. And since we never, ever, ever, ever used, accessed, looked in, farted towards, or otherwise utilized the forbidden back seat of the Flying V, I didn't need to look back there, now did I.

L.G. number two, still in its presentation box, was left behind in the Flying V at the Four Queens and has long since been dumped in the trash by the cleaners. Probably the same afternoon.

That leaves the primary Lucky Goat, now that the backup is out of the picture and gone for good.

The L.G. weighs what feels like about six pounds. (I carried it in my front right pocket a few times, just waiting for some hot I.S.G. to ask me "Is that a six pound Lucky Goat in your pocket or...")

With carry on, I really didn't want to take the L.G. all the way back to Flusherville. So, I presented it to Favorite Server Judy, along with a five-spot dollar Keno ticket featuring her favorite numbers.

"You have two choices with this goat. One. You can throw it in the trash, like right now, and I wouldn't be bothered. Or two, you can keep it and put it here at the bar, take it home, or otherwise use it in any way you want. But I bequeath you the bleating goat."

But she was already very happy with the level of detail that the goat featured, "Are these rhinestone casino chips?" and when I showed her how the goat opened and how creepy it looked that way, she was sold.

I listened closely as I walked away for the unmistakable 'thunk' of six pounds of rhinestoned goat hitting the bottom of the plastic trash bin, and didn't even hear it! So I think Goaty has a new home.

Judy served up my coffee and I set about to win me a fortune. I was down a sickening $4500 and I hadn't even played much. And maybe that was the problem... gambler's ruin. No playing enough to get through the down cycles. On the other hand, the previous stellar trip had done that for the sickening summer trip. If you gamble, I bet you love rollercoasters.

I figured I was short a dollar Royal, and for sure, Mrs. Flusher was short a dollar Royal. If I got one, that would shave $2800 (after taxes) off my losses. That would put me at a marginally sickening $1700, or $242 a day. Which isn't that bad when you take the comps into account.

All of this mental refiguring was contingent upon actually achieving a Royal Flush, something that seemed remote.

When I set out on this trip, I had no illusions that it would be anything like the stellar incredible anomaly win-fest that was the previous trip. But I wouldn't mind getting one fucking jackpot sometime during the week, yeah?

We did some play in the casino and I hit Aces. On Jacks. Wouldn't it be nice to hit Aces on some super mo-fo Aces premium quad game for a change?

QQ straight flush!
QQ Aces. Now we each have a set on the day. On Bonus and Jacks.

So, this is how I found myself at breakfast, down $300, kind of subdued and poking at my omelette (where 'poking at my omelette' means wolfing it down like the breakfast glutton I am).

I had to do some more Royal Canadian Veeblefetzer work for Norbert in the morning, so that kept me occupied while the 10K Queen finished her Cal $10K coin in.

She headed to Main Street and did some multiplay there.

In the afternoon, I joined her. I'd managed to finagle the afternoon off. I sat down and in a repeat of what happened at the Fremont, a casino host came by and greeted us. Just to be friendly. I guess. Just to be, you know, friends. Pals. Make nicey nicey. I think it's great, it shows we are on the radar, which makes everything flow.

After I dropped about $200, I decided to have lunch. Mrs. F wasn't hungry so I limped over to the Triple 7 Brewpub, and only bumped into two pillars on the way.

My table was a decent one (not a Single Lonely Diner table), next to a couple of attractive looking ladies.

After putting my order in (the amazing BBQ Bacon Cheeseburger and a set of their home-made rings) the women next to me offered me their fries.

"Excuse me, would you like some fries? We have way too many" said one of them, the one with the dark hair.

The attractive looking ladies just became super-hot super attractive ladies. Why? Because they actually spoke to me. And offered me fries.

I explained that I'd ordered rings, and thanks but I'd be okay without the fries. And just as I was explaining this, the server walked by bearing two orders of their foot-long hot dog, walking right between our table. She delivered them to a woman sitting by herself at the table behind me, to my left.

I actually kind of stopped mid-sentence and looked at the super-hot acknowledging ladies. They looked at me and smiled.

"Well," I said. "That's really... something. I didn't know they had foot-long hot dogs here."

"Definitely a full foot long. Each" the one with the dark hair said.

"Definitely a full - uh - meal," I said.

We all kind of giggled and looked around. My food arrived, thank God. It looked great!

The hot dogs were about double the diameter of a normal dog, pretty much a Turbo-dog sized dog.

"Those aren't just hot dogs, they really have some substantial - umm - girth to them..."

"To go with the length," said the other dark haired one that was now super-super-hot.

We all laughed a bit. I looked down at my meal, almost unable to contain myself.

"Reminds me of the old Mega-Dog. A buck fortynine. At the Westward Ho... " I said, "I'm sorry, we've only just met and this conversation is already completely perverted. I just came in for the onion rings, really. Have you tried them? They make them from scratch."

I ate a few, and they were hot, juicy and amazing.

"Actually, these rings would sort of go nicely with..." I indicated over my shoulder with a head motion. "You know... geometrically speaking."

This was met with super-hot laughter.

With that, I contained myself, not getting gross, not being obtuse, just being savvy enough to play along and not take things too far.

It was an incredibly rare occasion.

The burger was fantastic, hot, fresh, cooked the way I wanted, smothered in cheese, under which lay the burger and their home made barbeque sauce. Heaven.

I finished and the super-super-hot ladies made to leave. I glanced behind me to see how the recipient of the obscene Turbo-dogs had fared. She was gone.

"I was going to ask how she - uh - made out with the dogs," I said.

"She wanted them... to go, I guess" said the super-super-super-hot one with the dark hair.

"I think she wanted to enjoy them in the privacy of her room,"said the other super-super-super hot lady with the dark hair.

Single onion ring seeks hot single dog. Must measure up in imperial units.
After lunch, I bought a cigar at the gift shop using points, and settled in at the end of the Boar's Head Bar to play dollar Jacks and enjoy a couple of Maker's Marks on ice.

And guess what? I didn't lose! I broke even. I took the cigar outside and sat on a bench in the sun, by the valet pickup. It would be my last chance to do this for a long time. It was just warm enough and I sat and enjoyed the warmth and light, and a smoke, and played Steely Dan's Do It Again on my phone, just to be overly dramatic.

That done, it was back to triple play with the Queen. And that's where my luck seemed to take a turn.



    1. Way to leave us hanging! No wonder the gods of gambling are mad at you!

    2. Excellent point Jennifer. You know RF stands for something other than Royal Flusher........something involving a rat.......come on RF, spill the beans. Ps- love the reports!

    3. i dont understand the .25 multiline. at 5 dollars a pop id much rather have a 4000 royal than a thousand.

    4. Couple of reasons for this. Canadian's get 30% withheld on jackpots over $1200 for tax. Playing quarter multiline is really fun, and it smooths the variance out compared to dollars. So on triple play, you'd hit a Royal three times as often as on single line. Most cases, you would have no tax taken off.

    5. Funny and delightful! Thanks for the laughs!


    Leave a message for Royal Flusher!