Las Vegas, NV
A couple of days ago, I shuffled down the long hallway of my off-the-strip hotel/casino hybrid. I passed a two cleaning carts and gazed down at the hyperactive psychedelic patterns on the rug.
I'm not gonna lie. I got tracers. Lots of them. Perhaps it was the residual effects of all that liquid sunshine I ingested on Phish tour. Or just maybe, the visual distortion was directly caused by the effects of living in the desert, where the sun bakes your brains and all the casino oxygen sucks every drop of moisture out of your eyeballs, so you wander around completely dehydrated and with scratchy eyeballs.
That's when I heard the moaning. The first sound was short, but loud. As I approach the door, the moans grew louder and louder and trailed off into screaming. It was not even 10am and someone was getting plowed.
I stopped in my tracks and listened for a few seconds. At the same moment, one of the cleaning ladies popped her head out of the dirty room she was cleaning. I made eye contact with the cleaning lady as the woman inside the room reached peak orgasm. I shrugged my shoulders, as the cleaning lady shook her head, and I continued down the hall and side-stepped the remaining hallucinations, both visual and auditory.
Late on Day 4 of the $50,000 HORSE event, a frenzied mob gathered in the far corner of the room where the final two tables played out for guts and glory. By far, Gus Hansen was the most popular and most recognized player out of remaining players, as railbirds were forced to stand three and four deep on a triangular rail.
Gus Hansen is a type of guy who can't sit still when he's not getting a massage. He likes to walk around and observe other tables. He loves to chit-chat. Heck, he's Gus Fuckin' Hansen. At this point in his career, Hansen could have dropped his pants and took a shit on the table and 100 international media reps would write about his glorious bowel movement. For fuck's sake the biggest fanboy media rep would stand in line for an hour to interview Hansen's brown monument and then ask to take it home with him. Without fail some shyster would slap a Full Tilt patch on Hansen massive turd. And since we glorify everything pros do in poker, a brainwashed sunburned railbird would rush through the crowd to take a picture with Gus Hansen's feces sculpture.
I love poker. Rather, I love how fans react to the poker culture that I helped hype up by the thirty or forty publications that I have written for over the last half of a decade. We fluffed up shit so much that we have completely brainwashed the masses.
Take for instance the drunken tourist who lost her mud as Gus Hansen walked in front of her on the rail. Despite slurring her words, she managed to snag a picture and autograph of the player she considered the "hottest guy in poker."
Yes, Gus Hansen is a pretty man. Too pretty for my tastes, but the Great Dane happened to be in the woman's wheelhouse... so much so... that by Hansen's mere presence, he brought this woman to an intense bong-rattling orgasm... while she stood fully clothed and on the rail.
Hansen obliged for the photo op and then returned to his table. The woman instantly hyperventilated and unleashed a string of ear-piercing multiple orgasms. I was more than impressed. I was insanely jealous. I mean, Hansen is just another degenerate Scandi gambler who dropped 900K on a tennis match last month. His online bankroll fluctuates seven figures in the blink of an eye. It's not like he's one of the Beatles or the Jonas Brothers or something.
That did not matter to the enraptured woman. While in the middle of the third wave of excitement, as her clitoral muscles quivered, she managed to call up one of her friends and tell them that Gus Hansen got her off.
She also ripped a Full Tilt patch off of Gus' chest. She needed a piece of masturbilia (masturbation memorabilia) to rub over her nether regions for future climax sessions when she returned from her vacation.
That's not the last of the Gus Hansen story. Otis told me a funny bit about how a redneck male fan wandered up to Gus while he took a piss and touched him on the shoulder and stomach.
There's a line and he crossed it. You never ever touch another man while he's taking a piss. It's an unwritten rule in life, sort of the Guy's Code that we all abide by. But sometimes, poker pros are thrusted so high up on pedestals, that it makes people go a little crazy and guys start grabbing poker stars at the urinals and women snatches get so damn damp that an endless a river of love juice drenches the entire floor of the Amazon Ballroom.
On a positive note, the vaginal secretions washed away all the blood stains from the donkeys that were led to their slaughter hours earlier.
Don't forget, you can follow some of my WSOP hijinks over at Twitter. My feed is @taopauly.
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