Bend it like Moulton

I’m hitting the tail end of a four day bender here, and I gotta say that I have no complaints. Anytime you survive a weekend in Vegas with a balance remaining on your debit card and you blacked out three nights in a row, shit has to chalk it up as a win. So despite my public sports betting weekend losses, I still ended up around even on the voyage, but it was a crooked quest. Sometimes the swings themselves make you feel more alive than the game that effects them.

If I had to put my finger on when the shit started, it was sometime Thursday afternoon. I got done working at my tutoring agency, and headed to hang out with my boys Rocco and Mikey at their apartment. We proceeded to have our share of beers and head back to my apartment which was recently outfitted with a poker table and chips. Needless to say, I took the shit down and never looked back. I was making moves at these fucking chum like they were cardboard cutouts. Those that were unwise challenged my bluffs and were dealt with, but I ended up only down 5 on the ordeal. Shit mutated into a game of “thirty-one” which is a three card gin type game and requires a dollar bill to be folded at the corners until no corners remain at which point the dollar is conceded to the kitty which will eventually be placed in moulton’s pocket.

As the majority of our pothead troops went APOL, a drunken Rocco realized he wasn’t going to be able to persuade anyone to hit the blackjack tables with him. I was part of the contingent that wanted to venture into the dark bliss of night, ready to avoid even the limited exercise associated with walking to the strip. Eventually, I agreed to play Rocco at thirty one heads up to see whether or not I would go out. Shit took him down real easy like, and started cooking fries in defiance. After much cajoling, I gave him another shot, so long as he was willing to wager three consecutive somersaults punctuating each one with a standing salute to his captain. Shit got lucky drawing to a weak hand, and I was forced into the driver’s seat of a familiar Buick.

I talked my way into taking the ride to the Imperial Palace whereby I could play poker rather than just table games. As we headed into the fray Rocco realized he was out of money, so he left me to my devices as he went to restock at the local ATM. I made a beeline for the poker room, and was ushered into a soft seat at the 2/4 game, whereby I started raising right from the get go. I had ace jack off suit and I played it like a man might, ending up splitting with another lower kicker ace when the board paired sevens on the river. Shit kinda pissed me off, so as I ordered my first Washington apple, I decided it was time to show the table I meant bidness.

I found ace eight off suit in the little blind and pretty much everyone called when my shit bumped it up preflop. Flop came 10-ace-7 and I was ready to dance. I bet it out with 3 calls and raise which was then immediately reraised, still two callers. Turn came six, giving me straight outs, so I bet it again with two callers. The river blanked and I decided to check it down, but was raised by the guy in last position. I called it while our other participant folded and I declared “pair of aces” as I flipped the shit over. The guy mucked his hand face up as he looked angry and said “you got me”, then one of the other guys at table pointed out, “wait that’s a straight”, and he was passed like a 70 dollar pot. I was furious for two reasons, firstly my shit was broke and I couldn’t afford to lose that pot and secondly shit was a dominant play by the guy with the straight. Either he genuinely didn’t know he had a straight, which is an iron foot like mistake, or he knew all along and was further rubbing shit in on the river. Shit didn’t bode well for me regardless of his motives, and I only had 6 dollars left which I quickly pissed away.

I ended up losing my full 45 dollar stake within 7 hands. Shit was pissed watching jackass who had hit the straight get beat up by the other players, realizing upon further observation that he likely didn’t know he had me beat and if he had just mucked the hand face down like normal, my shit would have been riding high. I took out my anger on the complimentary cookies, celebrating the entire catalogue. The peanut butter shits were dead on, and they caught a majority of my fury, but the sugar cookie population certainly didn’t go unscathed. About twenty minutes later, Rocco finally stumbled in and allowed me reprieve from my poker room prison.

He had one thing on his mind, and it rhymes with Jack Black. He initially was upset at the prevalence of 10 dollar tables when he only wanted to play five, but he soon conceded that he would probably over bet the minimum on most hands anyway. He started out cold, plowing through twenty bucks in two hands, but then he went “money plays” on a twenty to get back even and hit a black jack. Money plays is always either the smartest or dumbest move of the night. I’ve seen guys come all the way back using money plays, and I’ve seen guys miss the mortgage payment. I suggest the former, which is the way shit went down for Rocco. He went on a little run, doubling and watching the dealer bust on two separate occasions. He built the shit up to about ninety bucks, and I convinced his shit to walk away.

He wasn’t a dice player, but since I was broke and he was drunk, I let him back me as I shot some dice. I only hit the one point, but we ended up basically breaking even before Rocco demanded to go back to the game he knows. He found a dealer he liked and we set up camp, making sure to clear the pathway for provisions to be brought to the campsite. Most notably, the cocktail waitress was ordered to bring 4 jagr shots at a time, while we struggled against the house edge. Rocco got as high as a hundred and fifty dollars before coming crashing all the way back down. We had each taken a couple rounds of these shots, and my constant advice of walking away was not properly considered. Money plays wasn’t the charm it had once been, and Rocco eventually stepped away from the table after back to back dealer blackjacks which emptied the final bill from his billfold. We sat and watched the Sammy Davis Jr dealertainer perform Mr. Bojangles, but then decided we were ready to cut out on the imperial palace.

Although I was in no shape to drive, Rocco demanded that I head out to Jack in the Box before retiring to the cobblestone creek. While in line at the drive through, Rocco became concerned that he wouldn’t be given the proper sauces to accentuate his 99 cent chicken sandwich, so he started haphazardly yelling the name “Sheniqua” at the closed window. I’m not saying the woman who had taken our order couldn’t have been named sheniqua, just that she wore no such nametag and even if she had been wearing a nametag with that moniker, Rocco was certainly not sober enough at that point to be considered even remotely literate. I calmed him down with the threat of driving right the fuck out of there without the food if he didn’t stop calling our provider sheniqua, which worked for all of 30 seconds. After somehow breaking the straw to his coke on the insertion process, he was again screaming “Sheniqua, get me a straw already”, and throwing the broken straw in her general direction. We were able to fulfill his fast food needs without incident, and I was able to smoke a bowl or two before passing out for the night.

I woke up with a moderate hangover that was quickly neutralized with my miracle wakeup cure, and I got mikey in on the action as we traded bong rips. We convinced Russell to step up and play a five dollar game of monopoly, and my shit came out on top, netting a cool ten bucks. We dispersed and I put in a two hour day, after which I drove with mikey and Rocco to the liquor store. I initially wanted some jagrmeister, but it was a little pricey, so I decided to step it up and buy southern comfort instead. Outfitted with a handle of soco and a bottle of lime juice, I was ready to utilize Rocco’s bartending talents for my own gain back at his residence.

Everyone talked a big game, but no one was willing to match me shot for shot. I decided I was going to have to run a race against myself and started an aggressive drinking game that could have no winner. I repeatedly yelled at Rocco to “Line me up”, as I took down about 8 of the guys. Shit developed an immunity to southern comfort when I lived in Richmond, so I’m really not trying to brag when I tell you that I would dominate you at soco shots. That said, I was feeling a little tipsy an hour and a half in, when I was paid a visit by my old roommate ready to hit the town. Rocco, Winkle, and I settled on the Mandalay Bay as a place where we could get a look at some nice “Puchack” as Rocco calls it, but also play some poker. I put my name on the list for 4-8 hold em, while the two of them set up camp at a nearby bar, to get a better look at the ladies wandering by. The puckack was definitely in attendance, but it was a decidedly Latin flavor due to a concert crowd for someone whose name you couldn’t pronounce without a full command of the rolling r.

It was fun to look at the hot women prancing about and the douche bags who held them by the arm, even more exciting was arguing over which of them was wearing a toupee. I’m pretty good at recognizing a custom job, but these fucks were doubting my talent. I had to be restrained on multiple occasions from physically tapping an undercover cue ball on his rug and asking him to explain to my counterparts why they had just lost a bet, but I was discouraged from such practices by those who did not wish to fight to defend my honor. Fucking pussies. But it made me wonder as I was being physically restrained, wouldn’t it be sweet if there was a line of toupees specifically designed to broadcast the fact that you were wearing a designer toupee. I’m talking the Cadillac of toupees over here, a guy that would have a big logo on the side but otherwise be made from imported llama hair or some shit. The logo would look like a cue ball superimposed on koala’s body, and shit would be a mark of excellence. We would open a store called “West Coast Custom Coiffures” and a reality crew would film us pimping people’s scalps. Maybe we throw a speaker under one guy’s hairpiece and he can cruise the avenue pumping NAS from the top of his head. Maybe another guy gets a strobe light, I don’t know, I’m not a mechanic, all I know is that when I go bald I’m looking for a custom job and there is money to be made.

They finally called my name for the 4/8 game and I hit the shit like a jackhammer. I won basically every hand I played either hitting it on the flop or bullying big draws that miraculously hit on the river. At one point I was on the button and told the elderly man next to me that he better be ready to call six if he was going to call two, cause my shit was raising no matter what I was dealt. He took a look at his cards and asked “What if I make it six before you get a chance”, I looked down at pocked sixes and responded “then you best be ready to call ten”. He made it six and I made it ten as everyone else folded down. I bet it the whole way and took out his ace king when nothing hit, but after the hand was over the woman who had been in the big blind complained to the dealer that I had colluded with my adversary to raise it to ten preflop. I went off on her shit saying “You caught us, this is a road game. We worked it all out in the parking lot, we were going to wait until your 2 dollar blind and then we were going to lay low until it was time for your blind, at which point we would rob you like a new orleans liquor store(too soon?).” Shit could barely look at me she hated me so much after that tirade, but that played in my favor. Shit turned eighty bucks into one seventy five within forty five minutes of sitting down, and I was just drunk enough to get up and want to go party. We grabbed a drink on the way out and I headed back to my apartment before making a necessary trip to Joe’s pizza down the street and ending the night content.

I awoke to the same hangover, but with the added bonus of possible college football action. I made sure to put in a bet with my new roommate scalley as he headed to work, and netted a cool 20 bucks when Ohio state was unable to cover. Meanwhile, a small contingent of poker players assembled at the newly assembled table in the corner of my cobblestone creek commune. I took on two guys who consider themselves professionals, one of whom is playing in the upcoming WPT Aruba event, and my shit took it down. I made another easy ten bucks as the bitches cried at my supposedly lucky play.

As the game progressed we talked about possible strategies my buddy should employ when wading through the field of pros. He wanted to go dressed as a ridiculous rapper and only respond to questions at the table in rhyme, thinking that would really piss them off. I contended it would be a huge tell when he was nervous because he wouldn’t be able to come up with the same dope rhymes, at which point he relented. I made the counter offer of him granting the self-appointed nickname of “The Sherlock” and wearing an authentic mock up of his namesakes garb. At any point, if he had the nuts, he would turn them over and declare the single word “Elementary” before scooping the pot and taking a few long puffs on his bubble blowing pipe. He would also be required to show a bluff every now and then and condescendingly sneer “Nice fold, Watson”.

After the game ended, people went their separate ways, and I personally had to go into work for a couple hours. After getting through with that ordeal, I headed to the Palace station to put in my football picks with the money I had won the night before at hold em. I got done with my horrendous selections and headed back to Rocco’s place to make another run at the southern comfort. As promised the night before, Rocco kept up with me as best he could and we each rolled through about ten shots as we unpaved memory lane. It was interspersed with a few bong hits, but mainly I was just fucking drunk.

We stumbled out of Rocco’s apartment back to mine where we met up with my new roommate and old friend Scalley before getting ready to hit the town with he and his girlfriend. We headed to the worlds greatest dive bar, Champagne’s Cafe, which features karaoke until 1AM and the lowest drink prices outside of a blackjack seat. Scalley’s girlfriend took the stage to sing “Unchained Melody” by the righteous brothers as Rocco and I belted it out along with her from our seats at the bar. “And tiiiiiiiiiiiime, goes byyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, so slowllllllllllllllly”. Shits a pretty dominant song. We hardly even noticed that video blackjack had depleted about twenty dollars of my funds. I fucking love that bar, even if their gambling is crooked, shits still just about my favorite place to remind yourself that there are people with bigger problems than your own. One time when I was in there, a middle aged man was sitting alone by the jukebox singing “Desperado” as if he was one note away from hanging himself. Good times.

We put in our time at Champagnes before heading back to Joes Pizza and on to the apartment. Rocco and I threatened to rob the clerks at Joes if they didn’t put more bacon on the slices than they had ever seen on a slice before, and we even reminded them to hid the creation from the cameras should their bosses get wind of the number of pigs they needed to slaughter in order to appease our order. Shits set us up right, and we were in hog heaven to the point where I might have almost been able to say “This slice has too much bacon”, but really I don’t think that’s possible. Too much bacon is a concept akin to too many random blowjobs. I passed out on the couch for a few hours before crawling back to my room and sleeping from about 5-9 AM.

I’m pretty sure I was still drunk when I woke up, but I took down a bowl just in case I was hung over. I started calling up my crew such that they could assemble at a local sports book which was later decided as the Palms. No one was in great shape but we made it in time to see the eagles score their second touchdown and given that two of the six guys involved were diehard niners fans, I don’t have to tell you that shit was sweet. The eagles looked like they were playing against an NFL Europe team, and I don’t know that their success could be considered anything short of an asswhoppin.

Unfortunately, I rarely bet either on or against the eagles, so despite their dominant trouncing of the golden gate and tunnel boys, my big bet never even came close to hitting. Fucking Steelers think they are such hot shit. Your city is the overused ashtray of the American living room. Aesthetically, we would be better off occupying Greenland than trying to turn the inbred fucks from Pittsburgh into productive citizens. The lesser of the PA strongholds, Pittsburgh will never be Philadelphia, and the sooner your shits come to grips with that, the sooner you can get back to blowing each other at highway rest stops.

Fucking Texans looked like they didn’t even care out there. “You must protect this house”. David Carr looked like a petulant child as receivers dropped balls and Willie parker had his way with their porous defense. “We must protect this house”. I made a fortune betting the Texans at home and against them on the road last year, because like the bills, they are a home team special. Here they are, coming off a loss and going to a big home opener, they don’t even lock the front door to their house, let alone protect the bitch. From there, my losses snowballed with an over missing because an offensive player fell on the ball for a safety after a blocked punt rather than a defensive player which would have given me the TD which broke the over to pieces. Then the fucking raiders couldn’t pull shit out, damnit. All 75 bucks I put into play went directly to my former employers, station casinos.

Even with the losses, the Eagles had embarrassed a B-league niners squad which will give me ammunition for years to come, so shit was still feeling pretty good on the day. When I got home I started playing a bunch of heads up no limit games winning 10, 20, 20, 50, 50, and 20 respectively while losing two twenty dollar games in that period. I counteracted my losses on the football field with my dominance on the poker table and ended up barely plus money for the weekend while partying the whole way. I decided to take it easy and go to Rocco’s place to watch a movie once the Oakland/Chiefs game had finished.

While preparing to put in a viewing of “snatch”, I got a weird call from a guy claiming to be a friend of a friend. He dropped a name of how he got my phone number and asked if I could hook up a quarter ounce for him and bring it to the bellagio to smoke with him. After balancing the risks and rewards of the situation, I decided that the dude was legit and I could be looking at a free night of decadent lightheadedness. I made the proper calls and allocated the proper resources such that me and my boy mikey were headed into the bellagio lobby around 11PM.

I called my contact and he told me to head towards the guest elevators where he would be the stoner looking guy with the shaved head dressed in all black. When we got there, he fit his description to the letter. He was wearing a black hoodie pulled over his bald head and walked with a purpose that made him seem like a quasi-Jedi knight. For that reason, I will refer to him as Luke Potsmoker from here on out. So Luke was excited to see us, introduced himself, and started talking about his lifestyle of the past two weeks.

He was a college student who had come out to test his chops at poker in live games with only a 1000 dollar bankroll. He had come with a buddy of his who also played at the California poker room Oceans 11, that I used to frequent when I lived in San Diego. They had originally planned on leaving after a weekend, but they just kept winning. Dude said he was averaging like a grand a day profit playing the 200 dollar buy in no limit game at the Bellagio, and that it couldn’t be softer. As we neared the door to his hotel room, he put in the key without eliciting the proper response from the card reader. He pounded on the door and proceed to call his partner in crime before realizing that he had missed his target by three floors. Maybe a sober person would misread the thirty fourth floor for the thirty first, but it aint likely.

Once the Jedi found his proper parlor, we were greeted by his sidekick waiting patiently for the pot. I will call him Chewchiba both due to the fact that he was Luke’s right hand wookie and that he had a tendency to mumble inaudible grunts in the middle of sentences. That said, chewchiba was a cool guy who was just trying to smoke a little dope and play a little poker, both noble pursuits in my estimation. The room wasn’t as ridiculous as it could have been, but it did overlook the dancing fountains and there were various room service carts strewn about with omeletes in various states of irrepair. Luke used the force to roll a perfect bob marley joint and it put both mikey and I out of commission. Mikey started reviewing the contents of the wet bar, hoping to find totinos pizza rolls to no avail. When he was rebuked on me buying him the 5 dollar minican of Pringles, he started to get agitated and our hosts were itching to get back to the tables, so I decided it was time to peel out.

We stopped off at a gas station to get a tidemeover before moving on to Joes Pizza. As we bounded through the aisles filling our arms with reeses pieces and cheddar popcorn, I decided I wanted to get the makings for a dominant Sunday. That’s when I wandered over to the ice cream section and found a long lost friend, the choco taco. I literally dropped the items I had intended to purchase on the floor and started two-fisted grabbing at the forbidden delicacy. Shit didn’t have a price on ‘em so I went to the cashier looking to negotiate in the shit. A friend of a friend used to do this routine where when drunk he would try to bargain with a cashier on items that were clearly non negotiable then when they finally settled on the price marked on the item prior to negotiation, he would laugh and tell them “You left a lot of money on the table here. I would have been willing to pay twice this, you fool.” In that spirit I tried to give me three choco tacos for 3 bucks rather than the dollar twenty nine a pop, but relented and bought three anyway when the dude played hardball. I housed the shit as soon as we got back from Joes, and it was as dominant as I remembered it. I can’t imagine improving on the taste sensation without injecting the ice cream with some sort of hardcore stimulant.

As I sit here reflecting on the weekend that was, I can’t possibly calculate the amount of action I have seen in the past four days. Shit definitely had my share of losing propositions, but that’s what makes the wins all the more sweet. As benders go, it wasn’t as out and out debacherous as some of my past triumphs, but it’s always nice to live the dream. I get the feeling I’m gonna pay the price when I wake up tomorrow with a hangover and realize I’m both out of pot, and hopelessly sleep deprived. Once I’ve braved the denial stage of that realization and moved on to acceptance, I will be able to revitalize my ailing kidneys in preparation for the coming weekend.

Bend it like Moulton

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