Friday, January 25, 2013

Fact + Bonus Fact: Gambling

Casinos have never been kind to me. I probably should thank the gambling god, (no, not Ko Chun from the 1989 Chinese action-comedy, God of Gamblers), but the actual entity in charge of bestowing fortune upon all of our risk-taking, tobacco-stained, buffet-feasting souls. I believe her name is Lady Luck. She hates me, and one day I shall thank her personally for not tempting my wickedly addictive personality. 

Every time I gamble, I lose. And I don't mean at the end of the day, or the vacation - but every single time. Recently I saddled up to the roulette wheel at the shiny new Revel hotel in everyone's favorite dilapidated seaside kingdom of broken dreams and unfulfilled promises: Atlantic City. I carefully placed ten, one-dollar chips on ten separate numbers. The wheel spun and of course the little silver ball of lies landed on none of them. I placed another ten on the same exact numbers and forcibly sipped my Moscow Mule through the skinny cocktail straw like an anxious pervert while I stared hard at the spinning wheel and attempted to project some kind of vaguely spiritual energy toward it through my eyeballs. (Something I learned from reading The Secret while in prison.)

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

Juicebox Hero

That was one of my many nicknames in college. Though its origin had little to do with portable beverage containers or bravery, it remained an accurate descriptor of mine throughout most of my sixteen semesters. Some say it was even the perfect name. Which I believe is the case with my new favorite infomercial product: Forever Lazy. I'm guessing this beast has probably been around for a while, and as usual I'm late to the party. Listen folks, I'm an old man now. I don't have the stamina or the gumption to stay on the cutting edge. I'm still using British words from the 17th century like gumption for crying out loud. Cut me some slack. 

So this thing, in case you haven't seen it, is basically a onesie for adults. Let me put that another way: its a billowing, one-piece sweatsuit for fat, American layabouts. It also comes with hindquarter zipper flaps so when chunkster aunt Barb has to shit out a loaf of casserole she doesn't have to negotiate the enormous hassle of retracting the front zipper and sliding the obesity shield down over her cankles.