I Don’t Have a Gambling Problem. I Am Gambling’s Problem

I’m Coming for You Gambling, and Your Little Bitch Kenny Rogers

Once upon a time I met a tubby asshole on a train who went on to write a hit song about me. He managed to detail my gambling talent while leaving out all of my colorful exploits. “The best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep”, are you pulling my fucking penis? I told Rogers that the best you can hope for is three women at the same time. I’m setting the record straight for that tone-deaf dumbbell.

Do I sound resentful? It’s probably because Set, God of Chaos (or “gambling” as fans of Zynga games and Las Vegas now call it) tore my balls off when he granted me my spectacular talent at rumble fucking any card game. I didn’t catch the word “collateral” over my own screams and the phantom wailing of my unborn children, but I’m confident that was his intent.

My manhood is my quarry

Buy Black and White Mirror Fuzzy Dice on Amazon

I have hunted him for years to get my dice back, and I won’t stop. I haunt smoke-filled gambling halls behind bodegas, high stakes rooms at the Bellagio, and back alley craps games searching for my emasculater. Vengeance will be mine.

Suffer the Little Children. Hard Stop.

One thing they don’t tell you when you become blessed with an unstoppable run of good luck is how it will be misinterpreted by tight ass parents. When I run across a couple little flaxen-haired dingbats playing hopscotch, I scuttle right up and ask, “What’s the vig on this action, babies?” Then the screaming starts like clockwork. I can’t go within 100 yards of a school because pussy parents weren’t taking kindly to me teaching their little ones to play 6-way pai gow. I guess life skills have gone out the window.

“What’s the vig on this action, babies?”

I’m not waddling up and showing these kids my scars like Captain Quint, you fascists. I could–I’ve got plenty. If there’s one thing the Triad don’t like, it’s a gaijin sauntering in off the street to take their lunch. If I had a nickel for every time I had to drop trou and show them the horrifying abattoir where my genitalia once proudly dangled to give myself a head start running, I’d have several dollars.

I can’t lose, but that doesn’t mean I phone it in. I’ll put some Bill Withers on the jukebox and take your wallet to the hurt locker. Just one look at you and I know it’s gonna be a lovely goddamn day. I was born in the Year of the Horse, motherfucker.

Artist’s rendering of my unit

Head Games

It’s not unusual to feel absolutely violated after sitting a few hands with me. This is because I am so in your head that it is tantamount to espionage. I am wearing Professor X’s Psychic Hat and diddling your brain with long witch fingers.


Your cerebellum is my stress ball and I’m being real nasty to it. The suffering ends when you’re out of chips, and if you try to leave the table before that I will modify your childhood memories to insert myself as your father.

I am wearing Professor X’s Psychic Hat and diddling your brain with long witch fingers.

Imagine waking up tomorrow having been raised by an alcoholic gambler with a closet full of pleather and fuzzy dice under the mirror. Oh, you want to fold? You sure?

When I Find You, You Will Not Like the Condition You Are In Rogers

My search for my beautiful fuzzy dice could take centuries, but I know where Kenny Rogers is sleeping tonight. The Motel 6 by LAX, swaddled in boxes of chicken. I paid a pretty penny for the intel, and I know it’s good.  I’ll be dropping in to remind him where credit is due for his fame: my legendary hands that are strong enough to carry a full house, yet soft as a baby’s touch.