The Year of Our Lord, 2055

21 02 2011

Aw man, this style of play just isn’t working out for me at all anymore. Here I am in February and I’m already down $90,767, with only Mauro-Clone #3 behind me at negative $127,233. This sucks, hell, even Karson Lum is beating the crap outta me, not to mention my 37 kids and 105 grandchildren. I tell ya, there’s no respect for your elders anymore. Back in the day when my dad, the Great Sir Eel (10x Trophy winner), started this venerable poker institution, we had respect for our elders. Sadly, as we all know, dad passed away 2 years ago from too much time spent with his sizeable collection of Sex-Bots (registered trademark). The old ticker finally gave out, but hell, at least he died with a smile on his face. But I digress. Where were we, oh yeah, respect.

Yes, we even had respect for that old geezer that used to play part-time with us, what was his name again…., oh yeah, Master Jack. Too bad old Jack didn’t live long enough to see the invention of our everyday diet staple, the age regression pill, or ARP as we so fondly call it. Or Health Cigarettes (‘All of the Taste, None of the Bad Shit’), yeah, old Jack would have loved these babies. Which reminds me, I should mention that at the top of our poker food chain still sits Buddy Jr. at +$59,033. Who would’ve thought that a dog-human hybrid could play poker so well. After Lobster Bob cloned his old dog Buddy and put him into that DNA Human Molecule Exchange Chamber back in ’45, Buddy Jr.’s been on a winning streak the likes of which have not been seen since my glory days of 2009-2016.

At the other end of the spectrum, it’s a shame that Mauro #3 still can’t buy a hand, even with a full head of white-man ‘fro on his head. Maybe it doesn’t help that the original blueprint Mauro still sits in his Speedster 5000 Motorized Chair behind his 3rd clone at every game giving him ‘tips’. Hell, the man couldn’t play when he was in his prime, never mind now. I mean, the old bastard’s still as tech-savvy as ever, and yet still stubbornly refuses to take advantage of any of our modern miracles, including the cell-phone implant. I know! Who the fuck can live without one of those babies in their wrist? So there he sits on that out-dated wheelchair with his wrinkled 96 year-old ass going on and on and on and on and on about the old days. And if his clone loses a particularly bad hand, he still wheels up to the table and throws Mauro #3’s cards and chips all over the table. I don’t know how all of his 26 clones put up with him.

Speaking of prima donna’s, my godfather, Jenny Lum, as he now calls himself, is like totally outta control. Even his son’s embarrassed to be around him. Ever since the Get In Touch With Your Feminine Side Movement of the ’30’s came about, he’s been prancing about in the most ghastly outfits and body enhancements you can imagine. He’s had so much surgery that he makes Michael Jackson look positively normal. It’s bad enough with the F-Cups, the pink hair and the size 30 feet, but now he shows up at one of our games a few weeks back showing off his new fish gills and ruby encrusted fingernails. The man’s (if you can still call him that) a freak. Oh well, what can I say, if it makes him happy…

I do miss the old days though, when it was still 8 or 9 of us. Now we have to rent a freakin’ hall every week, what with Keith’s and Ron’s grandkids and the Dave Reid holographic projections (yes, all 97 of them). I mean, it was bad enough with one Weedman, now we gotta put up with 97 pot-heads who are asking for full human civil rights and stinkin’ up the joint (pardon the pun) with their Republic of New B.C. Bud. And they’re all still losing money every year. This is of course not to mention the countless other part-timers that continue to join us, such as Dustin’s left ass cheek (the only sentient survivor of Dustin’s tragic bungee jumping accident of 8 years ago). The hands that were added to it was bad enough, but 2 years ago, Dustin’s Ass Cheek, or DujAC as we like to call him, got the idea to add full facial features to himself so that now he looks kinda like Mr. Potato Head. Scary shit.

Anyway, I’ve carried on long enough. I don’t know, I think it’s time to retire gracefully from this game. Nobody gives me respect anymore. Let me consult my Intel 30 Billion Quahzlobite Laptop computer for the next game. Ah, it will be at the Ancient House of the Original Dave. It’s nice to see that some of us still have a sense of history. Today I will be posting a retro car babe from the turn of the century. They still looked good, even back in 2000 eh guys? Don’t forget that next week, dad’s mummified remains will be on display for all to worship, so bring incense, etc.

Son-of-SpiC out

Son-of-Sireel’s Stats: POKER 2011




8 responses

21 02 2011
21 02 2011
angry wise

mr eel, nice try! this has you all over it! too many tell tale signs. none of us or mr beef would ever give you so much credit even in a fantasy world! you are as delusional in the future as you are in the past and present. your early season pace correlates like a horny school girl going to her first prom and thus this very nice read! kudos to you! i recommend prescription drugs in the near future when your play hits the wall. i still want a good read when your depressed!

22 02 2011

wtf What lsd drug were you taking?They might come and get you and put you in the funny farm.It looks like this blog was written from riverview.

23 02 2011
DR Who

The Year, 2011
The Place, Earth

The Time Lords have intercepted this communication.
The official story goes Sir Eel of 2055’s time’s chariot blew a bulb
and its probability calculator spit out this impossible
scenario contaminating the factual, actual time line which
he apologized for and was quickly corrected.

But the Time Lords suspect a deception on the part of Sir Eel of 2055.
In his dying breath, a wish which was granted by the one they call
The Italian, an unauthorized use of a Quantum Router was used
to send this communication back in time, in a last ditch effort
to somehow correct a selfish act.

The actual time line shows Sir Eel Crashed and Burned, having used up all
the suckouts that a genetic line is allotted in this universe for
eternity, literally sucked the well dry forever with no concern
of the consequences, in a failed attempt to win a trophy and prove his
greatness, leaving him and his offspring in poker oblivion.
Records also show that he went through Gene Augmentation in order to draw from
the suckout pool at an unnatural rate just to sustain some poker presence.
Except for a few scattered and brief moments in time the experiment
failed miserably.
In his later years Sir Eel was heard screaming late at night in
his Tower, “Phuck them all… I was and still am a great phuckin player”
while trying to use his cell phone, claiming that the fish had to be

Records show that the only one to survive this void was his first-born,
going on to have a decent showing, relying on skill alone after realizing
the force was gone. In his later years he was heard condemning his old man
to a poker table in hell were he would get sucked-out repeatedly for eternity,
saying that if he had just left a little bit in the tank he could have
made the big time.

It was concluded that The Italian acted in a merciful way and was
discharged of any wrong doing.

The Time Line has being restored

Man’s got to know his limitations
Your future is history
Resistance is futile
Don’t phuck with it


28 02 2011

… Meanwhile, back in Sector 15 University…

Babz Matrix: Professor, I was doing some research in the poker historical records and I couldn’t find an entry for March 4, 2011. What gives, did our poker fathers skip a game?

Professor Beef Jr.: no Babz, that was the week that the Great Sir Eel pulled off his greatest coup ever at the great Matriarch Alda’s house. He was the sole winner and set a single game record that went unbeaten for 163 years.

Babz Matrix: But why the missing entry then?

Professor Beef: Hmmm, I suspect the hand of Emperor Spaghetti and his evil Time Lords in this. They may be trying to alter the current time line just to get that slimy Italian back in the good graces of the Priests of Cygnus-x. I’ll have to get back to you on that. In the meantime, consider the game to have been played at the Matriarchal House of Alda.

28 02 2011

Bring your anus so you don’t have to fight the clingons on friday.

9 03 2011

Not feeling very inspired right now, so no blog until this weekend. In the meantime, for those who missed the veiled reference I made in my last comments as to the location of last week’s game, I will make it clearer this time. T-h-e g-a-m-e i-s a-t B-o-b-‘s. Bring your donkey mojo’s.

9 03 2011

By the way, Ron, if you’re reading this, we miss you. I know that we haven’t been friends long, but in the short time that I’ve known you, I consider you a close friend. WE ARE YOUR FRIENDS, and we wanna help you, but we can’t do that if you don’t contact any of us. At least call me or Bob or whoever, or message us here on this blog and let us know what the hell’s goin’ on. Call us, SpaceDonk.

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