To my right, a young, dainty, and very sexy woman taking her time on every hand: either too busy talking with some horny guy behind the table, or because her phone keeps vibrating, probably with the pleadings of some other dude offering $50 to sniff her bicycle seat.
To my left, a hyperactive young guy kicking the table at about 2 Hz: "Thup, thup, thup ... "
In my stomach, that huge double cheeseburger with chili fries - more accurate would be "fries chili", seeing as there were hardly any fries visible under that chili - and a monster slug of diet soda. I am having visions of the shuttle on the pad at T+00:05:00, a wisp of coolant swirling from its tail.
Three hands into the shoe, it looks as if the count will be keeping me at max bet all the way to the cut card. Thanks to this woman, this looks to be a leisurely shoe. I glance up, not at the cameras, but at the ceiling, pondering whether it will hold if a player and a blackjack table attempt a Saturn-V style exit throug the upper floor.
"Thup, thup, thup ... " I can see my bet bounce imperceptibly with each kick of the table, but it's taking my mind off my intestinal distress. I'm glad I'm not carrying a knife, because I am now thinking how wonderful those last moments O.J. spent with Nicole at Gretna Green must have been - perhaps, it seems to me in my current situation, the greatest pleasure a man can know?
In addition to the glacial hitting and standing from Little Miss Space Cadet, I'm drawing splits and doubles eerily often, and I double over the table as I shovel out the extra chips.
By mid-shoe, there is no way I am leaving: too much abdominal pain invested, and I must stay to see how many more ways this woman can manage to not know it's her turn to play. I hear Judge Reinhold's voice from Ruthless People say "Gandhi would have strangled her."
Two decks left, and the pressure is intense. I feel something kick as my large intestine takes on the form of some grotesque balloon animal. I am now reciting the count in the back of my throat, over and over, in time with the continued kicks being delivered to the table. I have never understood misogyny before this moment.
1.5 decks now, but we're not going any faster - a bead of sweat trickles down into my eye as I shoot a glare of pure seething hate at the nasty she-devil to my right. :flame: I'm actually grunting the count now: "Eurghteen, eurghteen ... huung-tree, hunnng-tree", through clenched teeth, head down, hands over face, seeing little but felt. The count is now in some long-dead pre-Indo European tongue - felt as much as recited - and I have no fear that anyone will know I'm actually grunting numbers.
I have no recollection of how I actually did on that shoe. :laugh:
