Farewell

We weren't cat people; that was one thing we knew. Cats were inscrutable and mysterious. They didn't come to you when called. They're standoffish. But I don't recall ever seeing a prettier face on a kitten; he stood out - no one in that litter was more playful either. Holding him was like lifting a cloud - you barely knew he was there.

After much debate and changed minds, he finally found a name: Tigger.

Tigger was like all cats. He was kind of lazy and did as he damn well pleased. But he also enjoyed curling up in a nearby lap for a quick nap, and he loved being brushed. He would come running for two things: food in his bowl or his brush in your hand.

Over the years, he adopted each of us for a brief time. At first, he was my cat - until I left for a week's vacation; then he was done with me. Next, he moved on to Mike - until Mike went away for school; after crying by the door every night for a week, he moved on to Mom. Where he stayed for several years.

Mom's lap became Tigger's favorite haunt; that, or the arm of her chair. And while he never really trusted Dad (who once sat on Tigger as a kitten), he tolerated him. When Dad was very sick, Tigger finally put aside years of mistrust to rub up against my very sick father. Unfortunately, we figured out how to get the oxygen cylinder working right at that moment, and the hissing sound scared the cat right out of the room, breaking up the long-awaited reconciliation.

Recently, Tigger became my cat. With Mom living in an apartment temporarily, Tigger had to stay with me. After a few weeks of adjusting to one another (and cleaning up cat droppings from around the house), we finally came to an agreement. Tigger, Trudy and I enjoyed a peaceful coexistence, where every morning, I would pet and brush my cat before I headed off to work.

Yesterday, Mom and I had to say goodbye to our friend of 14 years. Tigger was diabetic, and growing very ill. Realistically, I wasn't going to be able to give him two insulin shots daily and monitor his diet enough to guaratee he would be able to live any kind of life.

I know we did the right thing for him, and that he was able to die with two people who cared for him. But I'm still going to miss scratching his head before I crawl into bed at night.

Pawn

This sums up how I feel about the whole feeding tube debacle. It's sad that this poor woman has become a political sideshow and a means to get more votes.

Good thing there's no other problems facing the country right now.

Worry

I couldn't figure out why I was wet. Wet made no sense, but at that moment, nothing else did either. As I began to process what was happening, for a second, I feared it was blood.

No - it was too cold for that. A quick survey told me it was the remains of my Diet Pepsi, flung throughout the passenger compartment, soaking me, my dashboard, my floors, and Darcy.

Jesus. Was Darcy okay? I looked over and there she sat, looking a lot calmer than I felt. She said she was okay, but her car door was buckled in; pushed by the front end of the jeep staring into the passenger side window.

I climbed out of the car, and the other driver was there - apologetic and okay. He ran the red light. He felt awful; I could read it in his face, see it in how he carried himself. I was more worried about injuries. Darcy was hurting; she sat alone in the backseat, keeping warm and not moving. No; she didn't need an ambulance, but she was sore and aching.

Information exchanged. Numbers. Digits. Information. Insurance companies called. Police reports filled out.

I held it together until we made it to her apartment; then I lost it. Seeing someone I care about hurt is like punching me in the stomach; I can't breathe. I can't think straight. I can't talk. While there was something to do - paperwork to fill out, stories to tell, damage to assess, I can handle it calmly and rationally. Afterwards, when the crisis has passed, that's when the panic sets in along with the fear and terror. My car can be fixed or replaced, if necessary. She can't be, and that's something I never want to face.

Later, I sat in the ER waiting room. Hospitals and casinos are similar in one respect - they're their own worlds; they never close; there are always people present, no matter what the time of day or night. But hospitals are the opposite of casinos - instead of garish colors, blinking lights and laughter, you get bland but relaxing paint, calm lighting and solemn silence. But the hell of it is that they're not all that soothing. You're there because someone you love is broken, and you pray to God that he or she can be fixed. How can you relax when all you can see when your eyes close is a jeep barrelling at you with no time to react? How can you relax when your hands won't stop shaking because you haven't eaten in ages but you can't eat a thing?

Families gather, waiting for words about their grandmother (I always wonder why you need to bring the whole clan along to the ER - wouldn't you be more comfortable sending one or two relatives and leaving the kids at home?), friends bring in their friend suffering from too much partying (apparently this was the seoond time she'd been in for a little stomach pumping; and hey, if you can't give yourself a little case of alcohol poisoning on amateur weekend, when can you?). And there we sit, joined in tension, hoping to hear that our loved ones are okay.

Darcy finally walked out of the back; tired and sore but okay. I took her home and made sure she was comfortable.

Tomorrow, I get to deal with more insurance agents, paperwork and probably rental cars. But I can live with that. Darcy is okay; maybe a little bruised and sore, but otherwise okay. Me? I'm fine; a little shaken up and scared, but relieved.

Now I'm sitting here, Duke Ellington helping to soothe me; I'm prepared for bed, but I still see the jeep flying in at us. You go through a lot of meaningless routines every day, worry about many, many trivial problems. Sometimes it takes a cold splash of reality to make you see that perhaps you should treasure these routines and appreciate the pointless problems.

Perhaps there's something to be said for dull routine.

A Little Embarrasment

I had egg on my face. Literally. It bounced off my cheek and flew off into space. More came at me, missed and settled on the table in front of me. More came, and missed my mouth completely. Finally, my tormentor moved on to a new victim.

We had dinner at the Robata Saturday night; one of those restaurants where the chef cooks your dinner right in front of you. Part of the show is the chef chops a small piece of food up and flips it into each guest's mouth. Of course, I couldn't seem to do it, but my mother could. That was a little embarrasing.

But too many restaurants forget the fun factor, and for a little extra money, you get a chef throwing food in your face. For my dollar, it doesn't get much better than that.

Poker Blues

So last week, a couple of us hit the local gambling establishments. I sat down full of hopes and excited about a couple of hours of play.

Two hours I stood up, disgusted and ready to leave.

As the Tool of the Man points out, we were playing gamblers - guys who would play anything and, of course, catch what they were fishing for. So when I raised with pocket jacks in late position, I wasn't surprised when they were cracked - by the guy playing Q8c - because they were suited.

But that was okay, the two times I caught pocket queens, they were cracked wide open.

I was sitting in seventh position. In first position was a guy who would play a face card - rag combo, so long as it was suited. In the second seat, a gentleman who sat down with $200 and gleefully bet it all away as he called every pot down. Third seat was the same guy, only with a smaller stack.

The gentleman in eighth position - next to me - was crazy. His bushy salt-and-peppered eyebrows and wrinkled, leathery skin hid his eyes pretty well, but he was nuts. And he would play anything - ANYTHING - suited.

The guys in nine and ten were actually solid players and good guys - I didn't mind as much when my queens were cracked by him.

But Lord, it's frustrating when the only good pot I took down that afternoon was when I played 59o in the big blind - and paired my nines. It was just that kind of day.

My brother and I have decided we need to move up to a higher-limit game - not because we're so much better than everyone - we just don't want to be tangled up in all the fishing lines littering the table with every hand. It gets rather frustrating after awhile.

The Best Part . . .

Of the interview wasn't the "revelations." We knew they were all juiced up. Good lord, I could sell tracts of land on Barry Bonds' giant mellon.

It wasn't the mental images, no matter how distubing: two burly men, pimples on their backs glistening in the bathroom light, squeezing into a stall the size of a broom closet, one of them bends over, and the other says, "Hold on, Jose, you're going to feel a little prick."

Sorry. I just couldn't resist.

Nope. To me, the best part of the whole Canseco interview was the way he kept tittering like a little kid every time he mentioned injecting steroids into someone's butt. Classic.

Standing Around With Nothing to Do

Freedom was a frustrating 15 feet away, but it might have well been a mile. We all stared at each other in frustration. The couple next to me started bickering again. The kid in front of them shuffled on his feet, bored out of his mind.

And yet we waited.

I went to a local grocery store tonight; I was doing a little cooking and ran out of a key ingredient, so I ran up to a store that promises more saving for more shopping, or something like that. However, they don't promise quick lines, which is good, because I don't like calling anyone a liar.

After running in and getting my things, I caught a small surprise: the lines at the checkout stretched halfway back into the store. Not good. Fortunately, I had an out - a secret weapon: The underused, misunderstood self-checkout. And a scant ten seconds later, there I stood in the short line. And stood.

And stood.

And stood.

At most stores, the self-checkout is reserved for customers with only 20 or so items. It keeps things moving, especially since you have to bag it yourself and you can't continue without bagging an item. There's also not much in the way of space at the stands. Unfotunately, tonight one of the registers was down, leaving only two.

In self-checkout line one: a tall, dirty man with leathery skin, barely able to stand, trying to buy beer and cigarettes. Behind him, his twin, only with beef jerky and vodka. After him, a woman with a cart so loaded, it looked like it might collapse upon itself, creating a black hole and killing us all - not to mention destroying the earth. Fortunately, the fabric of space/time held. Barely.

In line two, a younger, short woman, buying food for her family. One. Item. At. A. Time. She methodically scanned something, gently bagged it. Searched her cart. Scanned it. Bagged something else. Time stopped behind her. When it looked like she might be finished, she whipped out the coupons. Sweet Jesus.

I finally found my way into a regular line - they opened one. The drunks had moved on - probably for the best, I didn't want to share the road with them anyway - drunks are pretty bad road hogs, you know. And the two women were still checking out. One. Item. At. A. Time.

Makes me want to take up shoplifting.

Grr

I wrote a long post, and Blogger just deleted it. Back to the drawing board . . .

Checking In . . . More Wednesday

Life's turned kind of hectic lately, so I haven't posted much. Sorry. Every time I sit to post, I don't know where to begin or what to say. Things are going well - very well, and that's the main reason for my absence.

I do promise that I'll be better about posting here - starting this week. I have several stories - general life, poker, crazed political rants. You know - the ususal.

Recently, I met someone. Instead of the same old thing, day in and day out, I see possibilites, and instead of scowling and shaking my fist at happy couples, I smile and let them walk past without any snide comments.

You've probably gathered from reading this blog that my love life generally hovers somewhere between the pathetic and tragic, with frequent trips to the comedic. To me, Valentine's Day was largely an excuse to pick fights with flower delivery guys and growl at happy people. But this year is different.

I don't know where things are going with her, but I do know that no matter what happens, I'll treasure the time I've spent with her these last few months. So I'm off to have a happy Valentine's Day (or night, since the sun has gone down). Happy Valentine's Day, everyone.

Taking a Step Back

Okay -- here's a poker post, so if these things bore you, don't tell me you wenen't warned.

Anwyay, I'm playing the $2-$4 bad beat tables at Party Poker; the night before I'd gone on an insane run, and ended up quadrupling my buy-in. That's a good evening. However, variance came along and pimp slapped me right down.

Take this hand, for example: I'm dealt pocket aces in middle position. I raise . . . and nearly everyone calls. I don't know if I should jump for joy or start crying, but there but for the grace of God, I continue playing. The flop? A3x rainbow. I start betting, and a few people fold, but there's still two players left. The turn is a 5, and I still have one caller, who just won't quit. The only think I can pin her on is pocket kings, but still - she knew I raised pre-flop, so I must have an ace . . . what the hell is she doing? She calls me down to the river, where she reveals her 24o, giving her a low straight, beating my set of aces.

Then she brags on the chat: "2-4! 2-4!" I took the high road and wrote: "I say nothing".

Here's another hand: I'm looking at QJ in early position, so I limp in, and the flop is AKx rainbow - that's a straight draw there, kids. Player to my right bets, I call, and there's one other caller. The turn is a sweet, sweet 10. I have my nut straight. Player to the right bets, I raise, she reraises, I reraise her reraise. The pot's getting awfully sweet. Then the river comes and drops an A on the table. An ace. A fucking ace. I now know I'm beat. She had a set, and now she just caught her full house. I call her bet, just cause I'm a sucker for punishment, and discover I was wrong: she'd been slow playing aces - she had four of a kind.

Needless to say, my winnings weren't holding out too well. And that's been a problem for me: consistently winning. I have good nights, and I have bad nights. But they're too even.

I know I'm not the greatest player in the world. I call too much instead of raising or folding. I have great instincts as far as when I should fold, but I don't listen to them enough.

So I need a little break. I need to study up on some of my reading material. I need to play a little more carefully, and I need to pull my head out of my ass at the table.

It's not going to be a long break -- I'm planning on hitting the casinos in two weeks, but I need a little time away to plug some leaks in my game.

Basically, that's why I haven't mentioned poker much lately - it's been more a source of frustration than a pleasure, so I had to step away for a little while. But I'll be back in the game soon enough. Besides, my addictions can only be held at bay for so long . . .

Hey Jealousy

There's a jealous girl in my life. She envies any attention that I hand out to anyone or anything - but her. She demands that I spend as much time as possible chasing her, walking her, feeding and rubbing her belly.

I'm talking of Trudy, of course.

This problem became evident a few weeks back when I continued my role of taking in my mother's pets - she can't have the cat in her temporary apartment - hence, I have a cat until April.

At night, when I used to enjoy sleeping, Tigger (the cat) would hop into my bed and rub against my hand or arm until I pet him, and Trudy would immediately hop into the bed too. Which is weird, because she hates cuddling - unless she has competition.

If the cat comes near me, she chases him off. If he looks at me funny, she chases him off. If my neighbor talks to me, she barks at him, hoping he'll run off (doesn't really work - she'd look far more menacing without the wagging tail).

And she'd probably be really happy, except that I have a girlfriend now, and she could probably handle it a little better. For instance, if I'm hugging or kissing D (my girlfriend), Trudy (my dog), will start jumping up and down, greeting us and trying to work her way in.

She hops onto the couch when we watch movies, and she's never, never far from me these days. I feel like I've grown a new limb sometimes. So far, violence has been averted, but Trudy, while kind of dumb, is shifty. But I don't wake up in the middle of the night convinced she wants me dead - which I can't say about the cat, but that's another post entirely.

In any case, it's kind of sweet that she's so possessive and jealous, but it's also a little weird. (And yes - I'm sticking with the girlfriend no matter what). Ultimately though, if this is the worst problem I can muster up right now, I'd have to say things are going pretty well. Hopefully, the dog won't hurt me in a jealous fit of rage - or shit in my shoes. Either one would kind of stink.

Shameless Self-Promotion

See? I'm still alive . . .

What's the . . .

four words that generally lead to horrible injury?

"Hey guys! Watch this!" Or words to that effect.

It's very sad that she died, and my heart goes out to her family and friends.

But don't you think she might have tried her little trick say, ON THE FLOOR BEFORE THE BALCONY? Good lord! It's not rocket science! Sigh.

Hey! Two posts in one night! Do I rule or what?

I Feel a Great Disturbance in the Force . . .

Ego is a powerful motivator. Normal, simple statements of fact, when given an ego wash, become exercises in hyperbole. But still, I consider myself a fairly honest person, so in my eyes, when I mean I make some pretty damn good cookies, it comes out that I make the Greatest Chocolate Chip Cookies in the Western Hemisphere.

That's a tall order to live up to, let me tell you.

So you might have divined that I'm dating someone right now (subtle hints like the layer of dust and clouds of moths around this corner of cyberspace), and she invited me over for dinner last night. "Of course!" I said, looking forward to a quiet evening with her. "What would you like me to bring?" I asked, expecting a wine request.

"I keep hearing about those cookies - I want some of those," she said. (Okay, actually, I offered to bring them, but the story sounds so much better this way - like I said, honesty).

So Monday evening, I crept down to the basement and unearthed The Recipe. I dug out the Golden Bowl. I gathered the ingredients. I put on my apron. Yep - Brian was getting his bake on.

I sifted the flour, mixed the dough and folded in the chocolate chips. The oven? Preheated. I put the parchment down on the cookie sheet (no amateur here, kids), applied the dough with my special Cookie-only ice cream scoop, and sat down on the couch, dreaming of the sheer appreciation in her eyes.

The first sign of trouble was the smoke alarm going off.

Smoke seeped from the open oven door, and there was a mess of burned chocolate chips all over the parchment paper.

Now, I've been baking cookies since I was about eight. My father and I used to do this a lot. He showed me the basics, and I've developed a few tricks and wrinkles along the way. But I've never, never, never, never burned a cookie. Until now.

The appreciative look in her eyes turned to scorn. I started sweating. What the hell was happening?

I put the second round out on the cookie sheets and cut the time by a minute. And still they burned. Tragic. What could I do?

Baking relaxes me; it's easy - I think while I do this, my hands know the motions, so it's a simple activity for me. And yet, here was a black, bubbling mess - a chocolate chip holocaust.

No longer can I claim the Greatest Cookies Ever. No longer can I brag about my baking acumen. But, more importantly, what the hell was I going to do about tomorrow? A bag of Oreos? No. Store-bought chocolate chip cookies? Never!

I went with a nice cheesecake, and a healthy helping of humble pie. My tinkering with my recipe finally blew up in my face - at a most inopportune time. It's back to basics - and hopefully appreciative looks (as well as no scraping black chocolate residue off my cookie sheets).

In any case, it was a lovely evening. Even if my ego took a little slap-down.

2004 in Review (Briefly)

Since 2004 has been over and gone for about two weeks now, I thought I would mention my favorite things about it . . . and that's it - no more mention of it ever again. Ever. Not a bit. None.

So here we go:
Favorite albums from the year (in no particular order):

• Arcade Fire - Funeral
  
• Brian Wilson - Smile
  
• Hem - Eveningland
  
• Rogue Wave - Out of the Shadow
  
• Garden State Soundtrack
  

Favorite books I read (again, no particular order):

• Chasm City - Alaistair Renolds
  
• To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee (I know, I read it in high school, but it's just that damn good)
  
• Alexander Hamilton - Ron Chernow
  

Best night of sleep:
May 29 - We'd just come off the trail. Two hours later, we were in a small cabin near Olympic National Park, and as cold rain pelted the roof, I collapsed on the futon, warmed by the propane stove next to me.

Other stuff:
New job, new car, plus a few other changes that I'm excited about. All in all, 2004 was a good year. Now, I promise not to be as lazy and start writing daily again. Okay - weekly.

Bullies and Table Etiquette - Final Vegas Post

If Chris were any more a retiree, he would have been wearing his bathrobe. I kind of figured that out when he sat down at the table - his plaid shirt, knee-lenght shorts, salt-and-pepper mustache and black socks told me all I needed to know.

And since we were reveling in stereotypes, he was crabby, but to be fair, I ate too much - playing the role of chubby white kid.

Our first encounter started when he started yelling at me over where I held my cards. He proceeded to lecture me when he almost mucked my cards along with his. The second time it happened, I snarled, "Dude! My fingers are on my cards? What the hell do you want?"

He muttered something under his breath, and then our rivalry really began. I was dealt K2o on the button and limped in. Generally, I don't play this hand, but I was bored - not having seen anything in awhile, so I figured what the hell? Rainbow flop - but there was a 2. Everyone checked to me, so I bet. And everyone but two callers folded - Chris being one of the foldees.

My king popped up on the turn, so I started betting in earnest and wound up winning the pot. Chris lost his shit. Badly.

"I knew you had a second pair. Knew it. You guys always just get lucky. You don't know how to play. I know how to play the game - it's not luck." Blah blah blah.

I'm not going to lie. I didn't like this guy. At all. And for the next two hours, when I went on a monster rush and wound up $100 (at a $1-$3 table, to boot), he seethed and muttered.

Then he gave the luck speech again. Finally, I looked over at him and asked "If you're so damn good, why are you short stacked at at 1-3 table?" He shut up and moved to a different seat. After that, I contented myself with raising him every time he tried limping into the flop.

Eventually, I left the table and moved out into the cool night. I shouldn't let jackasses like that bother me, but bullies just push my buttons and I can't seem to force myself to turn the other cheek. He's just a lonely old man trying to feel important somewhere. And maybe I saw more than a little of myself in him as well.

In any case, the trip ended the next day. The real world beckoned off in the distance, and like all things, this trip came to an end. I swore no more Vegas for at least a year - or at least six months. I just need a little time to forget the exhaustion.

Lessons Learned

Here's what I've learned so far in 2005:

• Ear infections are painful
  
• Without constant vigilance, my house and life will revert to utter chaos
  
• Is there anything more fun than a wedding reception where you know virtually everyone?
  
• My couch is not a good make-out couch
  

Now that the holidays have ended, I'll revert to a more normal blogging schedule - and there may be a few changes hereabouts.

Happy New Year, everyone.

Tilt-a-whirl - Vegas pt. 3

My hand throbbed. It hadn't started swelling yet, but it hurt. A lot. People looked at me somewhat curiously, but a solo guy muttering to himself after midnight in a Vegas Strip casino probably isn't that uncommon a sight.

I fed some money into a slot machine and checked out my hand; the pain was starting to fade into the backround, and I pounded the keys on the slot machine, settling in for a good think.

I'd arrived in Vegas 48 hours earlier. I sat down at a poker table and began cleaning out a drunk. I was making money - plenty of money, and I was kicking all sorts off ass at the tables.

But winning is always fun.

I could do no wrong - outside of Saturday's tournament, but around midnight on Saturday, the horseshoe fell out of my ass, and everyone at the table started beating me over the head with it.

By Sunday afternoon, I'd lost a ton of money. People playing crap hands were catching their breaks. I would go 45 minutes to an hour without catching any good cards - then I would draw dead on the flop. Painful.

I'm not a particularly patient person. I'm far more patient than I once was, but there are limits. And when I sat down at the table of drunken frat boys, I could see the line. When my two pairs lost because one of them caught his straight on the river (with his pocket 6-8o) I could feel the boil building. Walk away! said the voice in my head. One more hand. I seethed.

Pocket aces peeked up at me, and the little voice called for the attack. I raised preflop and found four callers. Not what I expected, but I'd happily take their cash. So of course, two queens come up on the flop. By now, I was tilting so hard people playing the slots were trying to figure out what that ringing sound was. I began throwing money in the pot, even when I knew I'd drawn dead yet again. I finally folded - fortunately, because one of my opponents showed the third queen.

So I smiled. Cashed out my few remaining chips, walked out of the poker room and slapped the wall. Hard.

Stupid. I was playing badly. Trying to force hands that I'd clearly won. Pocket aces lose 50% of the time. Patience. I had it yesterday, but I'd lost it. I needed to rediscover it. And most importanly, I'd stopped having fun.

And really, that was the reason we were there: to have fun. Not to win a fortune - though it would be nice. So lighten up, dammit!

I walked back to the Excalibur and sat back down at a 1-3 table full of cowboys and college kids. Lots of action - lots of calling down to the river. Patience. Patience.

Finally, pocket aces showed up. I raised pre-flop and had three callers. Better. Two sevens flopped. Crap. But this table wasn't very good, so I might be able to steal the pot right here, so I bet. Two folds - and the remaining guy - a younger guy with a mess of curly hair pushing out from under his red baseball cap - stared at his cards for a long, long time.

This was stupid. He just told me that he didn't have the seven. It should have been clear to him that I had overcards, so unless he paired the board, he was hosed. Then he called. And the third seven came up on the river. Now I knew I had him beat, so I bet him all the way down. And his 10-6o didn't hold up to the aces.

It was a nice pot and a nice confidence-rebuilder. I was ready to face Monday - a day of poker "experts" and a very nice rush.

Standby . . .

See? I still exist. It's just with Christmas, two colds, a couple of dates and general post-Vegas exhaustion, something had to give, and it was, sadly, my poor little blog.

So, I'm working on two long posts to finish out Vegas, then it's back to my usual right-wing rants.

Happy Holidays, everyone.

Playing Scared - Vegas Part 2

My throat was dry. Parched. Like a desert. Like the freakin' Sahara. The only thing drier were my eyes. Three hours of sleep after a hard night of drinking and poker will do that to you. So of course, I was playing more poker.

Down about $20 for the session, I was hoping to catch a nice hand soon. Marty had already taken off, and we were supposed to leave for Sam's Town soon. I caught my pair of sixes when the waitress brought bottles of water to the table. "Thanks," we croaked in unison.

I slow played my sixes into a full house and a nice $60-odd pot. And we headed off to Sam's Town.

Now there's been plenty of tales told about the tournament. You can go here, here, or here for far better descriptions than I could give overall.

I shall say this, however - I was sitting at a table with two poker professionals and people who made my six months' experience look like about six hours. My only goal was not to go out first, which I made. And it was a piss poor way to play a tournament.

If you're going to play in a poker tournament, it's easy to play not to lose. And I can safely guarantee you will not win. You need to be willing to take chances and go balls out to take down pots. I know I didn't do this, and I bounced early. To be fair, I hadn't eaten in about 18 hours and was still nicely hung over.

I'll also say this: everyone at the tournament was very friendly and made me feel very welcome, which I greatly appreciate.

So I celebrated my departure from the tournament by joining, David, Jeff, Joe and Ryan at a $5 blackjack table, where I dropped about $40 - because I'm such a strong blackjack player. A good sign for leaving is when the dealer turns her fourth blackjack straight, but I'm a slow learner. And I was on a sandwich and diet coke high.

We returned to the Excalibur where I caught a nice nap, only to hear a loud clanging sound. Little did I know that it was the horseshoe falling out of my ass, and needless to say, many, many people picked it up and hit me over the head with it.