Tell me its not fucking 4 AM

Tonights one of those nights you look around and realize that life is good. Life is fucking good dude. I came home from work to a bong then met some friends out at the Wynn poker room. One of the dudes was the one who put my shit up at pokulator.com and while we were waiting to be called off the list, he told me some fairly dominant shit. Apparently, with the aid of my vernacular, they were the number two site on google for the keyword “Motherfucker”, number one for “Washington Apple Shot” and Eddie Money was the reason. Shit was a fading glory, but thats still one more accomplishment to cross off my life work, mother fucker. Next up, build a robot that can bake food based on your description of the food, example input: “dude, it should have like a crepe with like cherries and chocolate sauce and caramel and some rice crispies and some whip cream and some chocolate chips and some white chocolate chips and like a bowl with a waffle cone built in and some rainbow jimmies and more whip cream and a cadbury egg. Now get off your fucking clunker and make the shit, bolts for balls.” Then like, he does.
My name was called for the four eight, and I set about my regular path of domination. I raised preflop about 35% of the hands I saw and won 102 bucks in about an hour. I decided to cash out and rallied Wendy the Webmaster as well as his buddy Chewchiba that was discussed in a post some time ago. Chewchiba was a pothead wookie like creature who expressed discomfort with my portrayl of his character. Tough luck, Chewy. Your shit is a wookie, but you live on the planet Endor, this does not make sense. You had your name as the winner of a world series circuit event in a publication available at the wynn, but you cant hang with me in a live game. This does not make sense.
Regardless, wendy pissed away the last of his donations at a no limit game he had no business messing with at his skill level. The three of us headed back to bally’s via buick and trudged our way up to a room with promised pot. Inside we found a bong and some weed above the level Im used to smoking. I was kind enough to go fill the ice bucket because I knew those two lazy fucks werent going anywhere near the shit. There was a discussion of the six saltines in a minute trick that many claim cannot be done. The saliva is suppossed to be unavailable and you cant break the shit down, but I know the trick. Gushers dude. Fucking gushers. The fruit snack treat that hides a liquid kick in a gelatounous shell. The classic retort, hiding shits under your tounge and laughing your way to a grape blast mid cracker.
Many propositions were proposed including my dominant backgammon skills and Webmaster Wendy bragging about NHL ‘94 for the sega genesis. First off, everyone thinks they’re the shit at NHL ‘94, and if you dont you aint worth shit in my book. Get you a genesis, practice up, and reapply for friendship in the spring semester. I know for a fact that I would be crossin cats on the ice and homegirl would be complaining about his controller being broke. That would be in large part due to the fact that I would give him a broken controller, but a bet is a fucking bet dude. The bong went around more times than was beneficial to moulton’s arrival at an 11AM interview tommorrow morning, but I wasnt backing down to these fucks. We smoked ourselves into a 2AM poker tournament at the Alladin.
We strolled down together, having met up with two other crew members. It was decided that in addition to the 60 dollar buy in, there would be a 20 dollar last man standing pool with each entrant throwing 20 to the man who made it the longest, and second place not owing shit. There were also bounties of 20 bucks placed for any one of us knocking out another to be paid from the guy who got knocked out to his executioner. I drew a table with one of the guys from my crew and we battled for position tightly for the first forty minutes or so, then he got moved and slowly our friends started to fall. Chewchiba went first, on some pussy shit bluff, then Luke and Wendy went out with inferior hands leaving me and a treehugger date rapist in the bounty bowl. Im not saying he forces himself on chicks, just that you wouldnt want to be a redwood alone in the forest against his root tapper. The guy was a lumberjack looking piece of shit that won the last man standing shit when I busted out on pocket jacks vs pocket queens, thats all Im sayin. The lucky fuck. He probably buys enough maple syrup to fill his hotel bathtub and rub it all over himself. I hope you drown in your pool of deciduous extract you sick botaphillic fuck. That said, Im still pretty high, ate carmel corn and oatmeal raisin cookie for dinner, Im up money on the night, and I outlasted three out of four. Life is pretty fucking good.

Tell me its not fucking 4 AM

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