Clocking in at the apartment floor cubicle

I woke up to a four day weekend, and damn if the sun wasnt shining brighter today than yesterday. Did anyone hear an alarm, I sure as shit didnt. Maybe Ill just lay up in the bed a few more hours and daydream about getting to lay in the bed a for few more hours after that. When I finally strolled out to smoke the morning bowl and begin preperations for operation chicken parm, I couldnt help but softly sing “Easy” by Lionel Richie. I went about my morning routine of email, high-kus, and yesterdays basketball box scores, when I got a hankerin for some online poker. Nothing better than playing with computerized money that seems like its just digits on a screen. 55 dollar sit and go, why the fuck not. 25 dollars for a tire, are you fucks out of your mind, thats highway fucking robbery.

I eased into a 33 dollar no limit holdem tourney where I doubled up early and shat it all away on a pair of sixes. To get my money back, I hit a pot limit live money game where I bought in for a hundred bucks and stole for like five rounds until I had covered my tourney losings. I smoked another bowl, and got right the fuck back on the horse, 55 dollar limit sit and go. Came in fucking 4th, one place out of the money. Threw all my money into a pot limit holdem game and got dealt 4-10 offsuit. When someone doubled the blind to 2 bucks, I came along with the ride to battle a total of 5 opponents. Flop came 6,4,2 two hearts, and I decided to make my play. I checked to the original raiser, who bet the pot, then only doubled his bet rather than bet the whole pot. When the turn came four of hearts, I bet the now 36 dollar pot and got called. One of the most fun things to scream at your comupter while sitting alone in an apartment “I BET THE POT, BITCHES”. River came ten, and I couldnt get my full house money in quick enough. Dumb bastard called with 6-2 offsuit, doubling me up despite his flopped two pair. After making a hundred bones in one hand, I reinvested the winnings in sit and gos and tournaments which proved to be less fruitfull investments. As it stands, Im up 11 dollars on the day, and have put no less than 300 in action. Its easy like sunday morning.
But isnt that the real problem with online poker? Its a little too easy. A little too easy to come home drunk and shit the bed at high limits. A little too easy to put your whole bankroll in action because its only digits on the screen. A little too easy to look outside and realize you’ve wasted you’re entire morning to come up eleven bucks. I promise you that if todays online poker environment existed when I was a youth, my mother would no longer be allowed to apply for credit cards. At some point, doesnt someone have to do something about this for the youth of america? I mean, think about it, we operate like the foot clan did in the hit movie Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. We round up these fucking kids and put them in a room somewhere with computers. We give them all the candy they can eat if they win, and we beat the crap out of the ones that lose. Its basically like there is free money sitting out there on the sidewalk and no of you fucks have the cahones to pick it the fuck up.
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2:01 pm
Morning High-ku
Montery Jack should
Be a crime fighting cartoon
made of cheese and pot
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10:53 am
Strippers gone wrong
Everyone loves strippers, and how can you not? I give you money, you dance naked on my lap, seems like a good business plan. In no way am I trying to defraud this american mantra, Im just sayin that there are cases where strippers are not necessarily the right answer, and more often there are times when this particular stripper is the absolute wrong answer. It can happen at private parties, clubs, or high class hotel rooms, but when the strippers go wrong, its never a pretty sight.
Last night, my boy rocco dragged me out to a house party that a buddy of his was throwing. The event was being held in honor of this twice removed friend’s boss’ birthday, so the only reason I was there was the promise of strippers. When we arrived, there was a sparse assortment of asian american males to go along with myself, Rocco, and his redneck roommate Jesse. We made due by lining up white russians to pass the time. Ive always had an affinity for the cocktail since we caught my old AP US History teacher blacked out at Phil’s tavern with empty kahlua and vodka glasses surrounding her. As we passed, the walk by insult “Looks like we need to add a chapter about this victory for the russian army” was issued to an unresponsive lecturn. So we threw down and destroyed the cheese and cracker platters that had been laid out by our hosts. Why the fuck does every party have to have these fancy ass cheeses like Gouda, Brie, and goat ass? Get you some fucking muenster, line it with ritz crackers, and lets get this fucking party going. Anyway, I said my hellos to the final attendance of about 7 dudes and one of their girlfriends as we waited for the imminent arrival of the entertainment.
We were all skeptical about the powerpoint that arranged the display, but when two hot coeds rolled in with their stripper gear, we were ready for a show. They looked around, somewhat confused and said “Shouldnt we narrow this down a little?” Turns out, this kid had just taken a flyer from one of the mexicans handing them out on the strip, and didnt realize he had arranged hookers rather than strippers. The resulting argument took place in the bathroom and led to them half heartedly agreeing to do some stripping, but it would have to be a birthday boy show. So you got these two girls topless in their panties grinding up on a middle aged asian man on a couch, as 7 dudes watch. Mind you the girls were hot, but the only music available was techno which the girls werent feeling and the birthday boy looked as if he was in pain as they performed on him. Eventually, they just started whispering in his ear about making it a private party and he said hed had enough. We spent all night waiting around for this show that was less exciting than televised scrabble, and I didnt even have a chance to utilize my singles. Fucking horseshit dude.
As bad as that performance was, I cant say it was any worse than the first strip club I ever went to. At least these girls were fucking attractive. Shortly after my eighteenth birthday, my friends and I made a trip over the Ben Franklin bridge to the slums of Jersey in search of looser adult entertainment laws. We were headed to a place called Fantasy Showbar, or Foxtrot Seirra Bravo as we called it in military code. FSB is arguably the scummiest place in the world, and had been busted for prostitution prior to our visit. Consequently, a majority of their inventory had found housing in the state prison system, so they were spackling up the cracks with dubious replacements. As you came in and paid your cover, you were suppossed to stick your head in this chicks tits and shits were the most disgusting pair you ever did see. Not only did they sag, but they sagged towards the unavoidable treasure trail she had allowed to grow into a jungle. If that didnt put a bad taste in your mouth, the low class trailer trash that bombarded you once you were seated may well have ruined me on Jersey strip clubs for life. In fact, why stop there, it may well have ruined me on New Jersey for life. Is there a man among you who can deny that this Union would be stronger if we rounded up all the people in jersey and stuck them on a gigantic barge? We could call it the Stinktanic, it would have no motor, just me briskly kicking it away from port and out to sea.
The all time worst stripper I have ever seen happened at a superbowl party, in my senior year of college. It was the culmination of the rush process, so the idea was after getting all liquored up during the game we would enjoy a private show afterward. It was always a crowd pleaser, until someone had the bright idea of allowing my buddy the Ironfoot to be in charge. Now mind you, this is a room full of drunk college boys who would stick their dick in an electrical outlet if they thought it would fit. The girl the Ironfoot trotted out there was about 43 years old and looked like she had never stripped a day in her life. Despite her questionable initial appearance, people still circled up dollar bills in hand figuring titties were titties. As she removed her top, she revealed an inkwell’s worth of tattoos. All sorts of shit, literally covering her from head to toe with dark black depictions of satan and his minions. At first, people politely edged out the backdoor, but when a natural panic resulted there was a mass exodus. I think about 4 people stayed behind, but I certainly wasnt one of them. Odds are the Ironfoot kept all the money we had budgeted for a stripper and gave her a couple grams of something for her time.

Clocking in at the apartment floor cubicle

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