Happy New Year
Hey everybody (who the fuck?) just wanted to take a very small amount of time and say what I already said in the title. I’m always very happy that you come here and read things I write.
I celebrated the new year last night in Atlantic City, NJ. It’s a storied place and I guess most of those stories involve it being a shithole. I can’t argue with that, I was nearly killed there twice in a two-minute period by wandering vagrants who have a taste for blood, but that was a while back before I learned to not walk anywhere accept from the bus the casino and back, the end.
I also use the word “celebrated” rather loosely, because there were certainly people there celebrating and I wasn’t doing that like them, these guys with their hair and jackets and cigarettes and these girls with their tight dresses carrying their shoes in their hand and putting their bare feet on the floor and ground. I’m telling you if you’re over 19, stop doing that. I know the heels hurt, but you wore them, that’s the deal. You can slip them off under the table or maybe steal a moment while seated and just rub the bottom of your foot, but you can’t take them off and just carry them without looking like you’re making some kind of ongoing complaint about a stupid fucking choice you made, you get the idea, fuck, forget do what you want, young shits.
I found myself there because I entertained a bunch of addicts at the VFW in Ventnor, for Christ’s sake, that’s what I just said. No stage, no lights, just a wireless mic and 30 minutes of my material. I treated myself to $5 worth of their food there, a chicken patty sandwich with a bag of chips and dollop of potato salad and a can of grape (get ready for it) SHASTA, which I haven’t seen in, literally, 25 years. It was a fine meal. I was thinking they’d have great food at this kind of function, and I was right.
Addicts are great audience members, and I think it’s because once you suck dick for drugs you have a kind of humility and acceptance about certain things. They don’t get their ass up about shit really, not like college kids or whatever who get offended if you use the word “black” or “faggot.”
So after the show we head to the Trop where the others play slots like bitches while I go play cards at the grown-up table. Making the transition to no-limit was easier than I thought it was going to be. I folded most everything, played a couple of hands and then about an hour in I caught a pair of fives. A guy raised, I called, another caller. Flop comes 5 K A. Ideal. Guy bets and I pretend to think it over for minute before calling, giving him the impression I’ve got a weak Ace or maybe a KQ I was trying to play, then I call. The other guy bets out $50. The first guy folds, he was full of shit as usual. I raise to $150, which puts the guy all in, and we watch the cards come down, another five on the river giving me four of a kind. My only wish is that I could’ve had more players.
I ended up winning 5 million dollars playing cards and then it was time to go. In the car on the way home I had to turn up my earbuds really high to drown out the fucking Elton John they were playing on the stereo. And that makes me anti-social, right, because I don’t want to listen to “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” again. You hear a song like that enough times, you just can’t fake it anymore at all. I don’t enjoy the song.
My resolutions? Eat more bacon, play more poker, eat more ass, and just generally keep being a fucking funky dude from now on. I want people to smell my face from across the room, know what I mean? Showering is only for every other day, it’s winter and my skin gets dry. Shampoo, only for every other shower. So you do the math, and it you’re going to be sniffing my hair, better make it in the neighborhood of Saturday.
By the way, I’m putting an ottoman on the sidewalk first thing tomorrow, like around one o’clock. You want it, come get it. Might be a funky enough ottoman for you, not for me. My next one will be round and heavy as shit, heavy duty. Heavy as a stone groove. No time to price it, man. If I’m missing out on $15, that’s the way it is. I can afford a haircut, I can’t afford to spend another day with that ottoman, man. I nearly got rid of it a year and half ago, but I wasn’t strong enough in the funk just then.
2010, mutherfuckers. I’m one degree from a lot of people I’ve heard of, which places me right in the middle of the entertainment industry. You could link me with the star of your choice, if you’re into that shit. I don’t worship at the celebrity temple like a lot of people do. Ask me how many copies of People Magazine I’ve bought in the last ten years. Go ahead, ask. Fuck, probably none, unless I knew some shit who was in the hospital and was like “Bring me some gay-ass shit to read” and even then I probably got reimbursed.
New year, new triumphs, the new Pat Dixon is out and he’s looking good. Bitches who call everyone “bitch” better look out. Call me “bitch” I’m gonna be saying “You’re the bitch, bitch” and then it’ll be cased closed. This is funky, it’s approved. The Jets are inches away from a playoff berth, and all you can conclude from that is that it’s destiny. These guys are stumbling all over themselves looking like shit and now they’ve managed to bungle their way into the playoffs, wtf? I’m rooting for the Jets, as I always have, but make no mistake, the whole thing will turn on Sanchez and his goddamned interceptions.
I recently acquired the “Planet of the Apes” series of movies, all five. After watching two of them, I have to tell you, it’s some good-ass shit. Fuck that, great-ass. That’s a fucking upgrade, mid-paragraph. Not deleting and changing, just restating. Watched the second one all the way through and it was weird as fuck. Here’s the thing with Planet of the Apes. We’re looking at thousands of years on Earth, from the late 1960’s until 3955. Sometimes the men are in charge, sometimes the apes are in charge. No matter who is in charge, the other thinks they should be. It’s a power struggle. Men and apes are fighting.
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