Poker Facist

      Chef Cele serving up b-sides like fucking mini-tacos over here. Antipasto from the family Costco. Cele is the high roller at the local $1/$2. Making pot-sized bets with 27o while I'm folding JJ like a boss. I told him to quit overbetting; I'm over here sweating while he's shredding more money than he's netting. Down $500 but them's pennies to him. 50 thousand to be precise. He's on the button—on his phone nuttin'—calls a big bluff and wakes up with the nuts. Checks AA and then checks out the dealer's DDs. She's got the implants but they still make his pants dance. Move it along you fucking hornballs. These 60-year-old nit limpers trying to get back home in time for the latest Castle re-run. Cele down to 100 bigs after he got outflopped by the James Harden of small-stakes. This guy's a fucking lunatic. Grey-bearded and black silk haired—sitting cross-legged in his chair; has a flair to three-bet with bottom pair. I'm the fuckin' Dr. Seuss of gritty-nitty table observations. "Get off your phone, Joseph," I appeal to my comrade. He's shit-posting on Twitter and giving away hand information—which I believe to be illegal? Look down at my hand: it's a monster. Big nuts with the works. Flop cums: Ace of Hearts (nice); Seven of Diamonds (brick city); Queen of Spades (very cute). Check my monster and, well, it grew a couple of inches. Old greybeard staring at his fucking shriveled nards and probably thinking he's got somethin'. He checks to me, and right next to me, Celest is weak but bets the next street. I know he thinks he's good here, but I gotta set the kid straight. Runout is clean as a whistle: fire my loaded cockgun into these cockgobbling pot-ogling doinks. Bada bing. 2 folds and a call. My AK has been emptied, and this fucking idiot's 47o has morphed into a bigger monster. River coddled his dumb-ass like an overprotective parent. Throw my chipstack at his (fake) sickpack; skip the chit-chat and git the fuck out 'n don't come back. Cele escorting me out in between motherfucking and lucky duckling accusatory slander. That's not slander ... just a bit of friendly banter. Expressed with a loving candor—hold the pander. F-bombs in glorious theatric aplomb. Good night; we are gone!

     Aight where we heading next?

Mandatory Mandarin

     Firing empty blog bullets to win the blog Pulitz. Notebook full of decorated crushes serenaded by very-dated paintbrushes. Don't faint—blushes. Took out a few Hearts two months too soon. Too blunt to swoon. Three drunk at noon. Note to self: the red lines are for your own good. The new Lil Peach is fucking nutritious. They're called clementines, you know. It's like my own editor doesn't even read the Fork.

...[A]tlanta's own Lil Peach, hailing from some part of Southern California, but like—he's probably been to the ATL no? Fuck man, how'm I supposed to write this review without a press release? Fuck this shit Ryan, I'm off to Uproxx or some sh...

     It's crazy that they published this tantrum in the modern blog-climate. Dude didn't even know where the best orange rapper of 2K18 was from.
     Like I said: Pitchfork. They ignited King Peach as the new Fruitbearer and who am I to disagree? This blog is the struggling street vendor that gets run over in the latest Bay film. Whereas the local Cost Co-op just got an 8.9 from Big Citrus. All we can do here is farm new ideas; crêpe minds are here to sweeten the deal. I'm seeking a $200,000 loan for 4% equity and a new editor who has a special connection to the modern 12-year-old. Security, please, it was quite obvious what I meant. These vulnerable youths aren't going to market to themselves. Who am I to say that this old-ass blog wouldn't work better as a Minecraft reaction video? Who am I to say that the rest of this post shouldn't be mandatory DLC?

CLICK TO CONTINUE

Thank you for your generous contribution. Lil Peach has been unlocked.

Stats

Attack: 10/10

Defense: 10/10

Weaknesses: Some nerd will call you "OP" because his broke lil bitch-ass can't afford to use mommy's credit card to compete with the big boys.

Thank you, kids. Check your Steam account for a generous 1% off coupon for your next purchase over $100. Fortnite rulez.

Streamer Dreamer

     Amanda please; Amanda pleas. I'm a fan of your work—your "work". Work work work; live-stream my 10 a.m. workout and grab a few sub-bites before the lunchtime rush. Stream the dog; zoom; get those pearly blues in there. Those eyelids with crusty sleeplets of lost love. Pop music blaring in the background, uncaring with flat sound. Hit the Follow button and don't click away just—"the giveaway has ended"—so, thanks again for supporting the channel. You're incredibly welcome; sub-only chat in five minutes; who schedules that? Three more subs until you unlock my bedroom closet. Did I mishear or—CLICK HERE—aaaaand there goeth my PayPal doeth. She was adopted from a local shelter. Moderator? I barely tolerate her. Follow; rate her. Swallow haters and coddle donators. These lurkers are just jerk-ers. Staff has entered the chat-room. Chat-room has left; be back soon. Game poll; I don't want to play the same 'ol same 'ol. I'm just gonna talk 'til my lungs fall out. Thanks for the 69 bits WitchTwit (tongue-twist me). No problem (drunk; kiss me). Gonna have to mute you; next time use Whisper, Mister! Awkward moment but I thought he owned it. Gave her another 69 and served his time. One sub away from the Big Reveal. Moderators standing by. Hair-flipped into nail pat-pat-pat (true combo). Balloon emojis for YungWiggles! He was numero finale. Mr. Wiggles, check your inbox. Guys, give Wiggles your snuggliest tingles. She really needs to lose the cutesy cat-cent. Whisper Wigs, "Congrats on the sex." See you guys tomorrow.

Sunday Morning

Slid into her DMs without much warning; wouldn't be surprised if I broke a pelvic muscle or some shit. Anyhoot, hoes be swiping left while I'm spamming Report; (1) Bot all over their nonexistent faces. It's five o'clock on the dot and this lackadaisical sun-drenched day is well underway (fun-fetched). Lost a few spelling contests on technicalities (my Latin alphabet letters were not acceptable for their philistine arses). So we go. So we go-go—push this fucking baby out. Get it out of my system. Alright let's name it. John Long Johnson, Jr. Little Dong for short. Never met a girl of which I didn't think: "We can work with that." Double negative for those supple mega-tits. Fuck, I shoulda jerked the Dong Sr. before writing this pathetic post. My New Jersey Liberty play tonight against some expansion vanity team; I might watch. Tina Charles is carrying my bricksquad on her chiseled back. PM me with ideas on how to the spend the next three to 1,247 hours. It's a long life for a small wife.

World Cute

Editors on the deck, sipping on this post like curry. Slurping its yellow-green spice. The finest taste in the Northeast Web-Log. Get absolutely annihilated my off-white bunch. Let's see to the friends that we have a means to the ends. Greens for my mens. Any & all ways: lost the touch; now I'm eating fries from yesteryear off the carpet. Lost my appetite for construction. Stupid meandering thought bubbles arrowed by love-loss. A Fangraph(s) article entitled: "Nick Blogger's K rate has exponentially increased, and here's why". It's the featured piece for the day entitled Today. Cornered into a some sun-battered Gilmore Girls reruns. Let's see if the Lore holds up to today's scrutinizing standards. So-so, my pomo promos are no-lo really worth finishing. Not worth the effort; best write some crapsolute garbagio. Post #20 I think—not even worthy of his god-given Title. Break-break for a lil game of skill. Have twelve girlfriends waiting for responses on Okay Q-Tip. Just fucking depreciate my measly state. Got out of couch today and that's step number one out of numb. Back back to the wall, this post has been caught by a fan! Interference; so we'll never know if it was good.

Looking Class

     Just a tiny Redditor with a megaphone. Mega alone drinking a beautiful cocktail of Faygo-Patrón. So it goeth, broeths. Springtime has arrived again; oh wait, a thunderous cloud is forecasting its arrival at Fuck You O'Clock. Welp, time to lock myself in the (b)log cabin again. What a miserable state of affairs!
     Head over to my weather-proof gambler's den (stop snooping). Drop a couple quarters in a day-baseball contest. Judge, you mongoloid fuck: smack some long dongs all over these red socked racial realists. Who shall be my pitcher on this sunniest of sports matinées? You look quite dandy, Mr. Jacoby Junis (and I like your name). Slide snugly into my coveted top spot and throw those 98.3 mph fastballs quickly and—oh, can you not hit any batters? Can you throw an off-speed sinker to lead-off hitter Bubblegum Jones? He has a propensity to swing at garbage below the zone. Please, K that fat slobbering Chaddington Bear so hard he spits out his chewing tobacc-gum.
     Hey, as long as it is bat-ball season, the snoreswing references will continue to manifest in this testosterone-soaked vagina monologue. Like I said hours ago, I threw some 💵s at King Draft and hoped, in his gracious graciousness, he'd throw me a few money-colored bones back. Times passes, blah blah blah. Instead, this absolute King Dick fucks me in the ass and doesn't even spare me a dime (?)
     Aaaaah, well; yeah; um. It's OK, though. There's a #WNBA game I've researched for the past ten seconds I'm fully confident about betting $100 on. Tell me that I shouldn't do the thing. I'm begging you guys to take this fat hundo from my broke-ass and put it to good use (education, porn subscriptions, Rocket League crates). Spongebob voice: 10 minutes latah. So, before I typed all that nonsense I realized I have negative $2.84 in my Draft Killmyself account. FUCK. I'm out of here, the DFS God Himself is after me and oh fuck he's here and I only have enough to p—BANG.

Not sure what dis is but I guess I'll hit Publish?

Amorous Roast

     Writed too hard and failed a few languages. What is up, my brown excretions? What is up, my Israeli Gaza Strippers (one tip = one like!) Something something, let's get to the Americanistic, unrealistic, spastic quixoticists in the midst of the this written tryst. So, where we again?
      It's probably Monday—it's probably the unofficial first day of the week. Might hit up a bar later with los amigos, mi compadres. Tres idiotos, lol. Los huevos on those brothers.
      I think that's 5 spaces. Blogger dot com autosaving and thus saving this masterpiece from the darknet lingerers. So where at at? We doing this thing? We gf-bf or just waifu-Facebook-liker-extraordinaire.
      Y'all stupidheads don't even smoke crack. It's 8:04 on a Monday and I'm Bloggering like a 2005 Emily Gould. Referenced all over her adorned white bosom. Like seriously, if you haven't fucked a-cups in your lifetime, get a Lifetime O—eh too easy.
      Spellchecked this whole damn post and. Like, what's up with. Periods are the new em slashy dash'ems. Trashy mash'ems by Girl Talk and his decaying ilk. Lamb sent me a hot smash'em and I upvoted it and it magically became the top post on iFunny dot app.
       Aight, y'all are tired of my overhyped writtenisms. Write write wrought writhing white flight out of this blogged soggy ghetto. Whom even grammar-checks anymore? We just look for those red squigglies and peace it. As a 100-year-old centenarian-grammarian-aquarium, I miss the days went we could shoot a minority just for misplacing a subject modifier. Fucking millennials, am I riiiiiiiiiiiiiiight? C U N T. This Tuesday, my bizzle.

Opening Spray

     Two twenty-five on-a-Thursday. The first real day of spring, aka the start of the baseball season. My Philadelphia Prospects are about to take the World Cup with ease.
     On my other blog I'm tryin'a write of review of the new Jpegmafia. Death Grips with more blog-bytes per minute. Just a fucking killer record though. Peep it.
     Pie PMing me anime tiddies while I'm trying to break shit to this industrial glitch-hop. Don't make me post some 3DPD my man. I got jpegs hiding in sub-folders you wouldn't be able to crawl. Fucking nerd.
     Whoops, I'm talking out loud again. This new barista is acting like I don't own this own this scrub-hole. I'll sometimes stay 'til closing time and collect the spare 3 hour old brews they were about to dump. Nope, overweight neck-beard in the Reddit goggles: that's my coffee--pour it down my fucking throat.
     So about the new barista--we're kinda on a first-name basis. Kinda on a first pour "taste this." Slipped her my digits once and she seemed to throw them in a plastic bag which I figured was her temp-purse because she forgot her other o--
      So now I'm sipping on this mocha-frappe thing I ordered five hours ago. The drink is somewhat neutered by now, but this cardboard cup is surprisingly scrumptious. Back to my artisanal coffee mistress: she's drowning in five dollar specialty drink orders from the newly-free high schoolers. Her light brown work-eyes are shifty and disinterested. She catches me in a very precarious immersion re: her formal constitution. Oh fucksy, what that a muttered scowl? The message hath been received. I will take my respectfully observant ways elsewhere. Fin.

March Something

     Hello readers, writers, dreamers—flighters. It's been a little while since we've checked in on this bloghouse. Fuck, are the Christmas decorations still up? Someone pass me the eggnog. USE BY: JAN 15. That not too bad, right? Cheers.

     It's March Something; it's probably between 35-57 Fahrenheit degrees out, but I'm going to properly observe the outside world through the reflections of this recently-dusted laptop screen. Fractal tree limbs and other visual stimuli.

     My friend Celestaphone released his 87th album this week, the beautifully tragic Portrait of a Harlot. Send him some shekels in my name please.

     I've been listening to a lot of Sharon Van Etten, who is supposedly from my town. Try Our Love and fall in love ... with the delicate arrangements, you lonely perma-virgin.

     Updates and slut-tapes, what else you fuckface? Whoops, wrong blog. We livin'. Just like my Peach on Dreamland. Just like my Kirby on, uh—anyway.

     Spring is in the cards, my boys & grills. If my calculations are correct, in about two weeks it should be 63° every single day until June. We'll write novels about the struggles of being white in this increasingly colorful world. At the end, our white protag will befriend a not-entirely-white persona non grata and learn key things like "empathy" and "slavery was bad." In our last scene our colored comrade will unfortunately die so our Caucasian hero feels max suffering.

     N. E. Way. Fin. I'll return soon as spring returns to unfreeze my creative inclinations. For now, I'm off to discover music, in order to prep my conservational arsenal for any dreaded "social outing[s]."