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.