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Archive for the ‘Drinking’ Category

Mr. Brady,Was that you I saw getting ready to pass out (surprise, surprise!) in a bar? It brought back quite a few delightful memories and I’d like to share them with you, as I’m sure you don’t remember –what with your constant drunkenness (how DID you manage so often to be intoxicated around school-aged children without notice? Do Tell.)

I am a lover of English, and I feel like your love of the sauce is the only reasonable explanation for the things you did as my 8th and 9th grade English teacher.

I wonder if your hazy memory might recall the time that you actually dribbled in your pants a little whilst screaming at the top of your lungs– I think because someone had belched under their breath during your recap of the previous night‘s Chicago Bears game. You were so adorably worked up that your scarlet face actually highlighted the broken blood vessels all around your nose.

Anyway, you always wore very tight sweatpants to school and I vividly recall a large wet spot appearing in the general vicinity of your “junk”. We sure did love that full-on-leave-nothing-to-the-imagination view of your “junk”.

I believe this was sometime shortly before you, in the midst of a defaced chalkboard-related tantrum, shoved a TV-VCR combo down the stairs and STILL managed to retain your teaching position! Remarkable. I think St. Patrick’s Day (on which you made little or NO effort to conceal your intoxication, up to and including ACTUALLY hitting on some of the female students) was my favorite though. That’s the day you became SO enraged at someone’s suggestion that St. Patrick’s Day was created by the Lucky Charms Leprechaun– you actually fell to the floor and had a seizure!

Thank you so much Mr. Brady, for igniting my passion for the language–and especially for making ALL reading material sports related, because I don’t know what I would have done had I never had the privilege of reading “Brian’s Song” 3 times in two years (you silly, forgetful man you!).

Much Love,
The Very Traumatized Girl In the Front Row

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Chickens,

Grow some fucking balls. Stop dying. Stop wandering off you stupid little bastards.

I feed the morons, I clean out their fucking house, which cost me £350. I give them the finest table scraps, tins of value sweetcorn from Facist-Mart, potatoes, mash, corn… I even bought them a bloody sausage roll the other day. That’s right – a sausage fucking roll.

Then they lay no bastard eggs, they rip the shit out of my garden, their ‘leader’ – this so-called hard nut called Harvey (after Keitel), this stupid cockerel that spends more time kicking MY ass than he does looking after his bitches.

They lay no eggs, they spread out all over the place when I let them out (when they should in fact be moving like the SAS going through an Afghanistan fucking goat pickling ceremony). They make a right racket, too. The cockerel screams his beak off half the time. I mean this little bastard is loud. Gives a bloke a fucking headache. Is everything in this life designed to stop me drinking cider I ask you ?

Chickens. Don’t do it. Once you get used to them you’ll want the eggs, and the place isn’t the same without them, but hell they need to toughen up. They certainly aren’t living up to expectation.

Does anyone on here know of any ‘hard-motherfucker’ breeds of chicken out there – because the ones I keep getting are getting fucked up on a regular basis. And that shit is upsetting too. Poor little feathery bastards.

One could keep them in a run – but all day? Better to live like a dangerous motherfucking little chicken and enjoy the sunshine out than be stuck in a cage all day. This I know.

Peace.
AM

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Manticore, hardcore soft-drinker 

Once upon a time you could purchase a bottle of your favorite soft drink, look under the cap, and realize that YOU’RE A WINNER. With the occasional disappointment of a PLEASE PLAY AGAIN you had fairly good odds of at least winning a new soda, or maybe even a discount towards a new soda.

Now it seems like many items (and not just soft drinks) give you a ‘special code’ that you can enter onilne to unlock wondrous prizes and earn points!!!! You go to the website, give them your information, promise them your first born child, and then you can get a piddling number of points towards your points total. And then once you have enough points, you can have them MAIL you a coupon.

The bottle cap? Trash. The envelope? Trash. The money they spent on the stamp? Gone (at least to them). Wouldn’t it be far simplier to just let me win by opening the danged bottle? The cap has a dual purpose – cap and prize!

Only after drinking a gerbillion drinks could you use your points towards anything that wasn’t just another soft drink. I find the whole premise of giving me some number that makes me look something up online that is just a ploy for you to get my mailing address and to send me stupid junk mail idiotic. I just want my free drink! Or even nothing, really, the tempation to jump through these stupid hoops just isn’t worth the eventual free drink I may one day get if I ask for the coupon to be mailed and then actually use it.

Rantasaurus Says: Dear Manticore, here at Cola Corp, we hear and understand your frustrations. That is why we’ve enclosed the following customer service request form, to be detatched and mailed back to us. After this, we will mail you a customer service problem description form and you will be one step closer to have your voice heard! Thank you for drinking Cola Corp, goodbye.

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Jeff, your friendly neighborhood dealer

Since there is no better place on earth for people watching than Las Vegas, this story will forever make you think twice about playing cards again…

It was 1998. I had been dealing about six years by that time and I thought I’d seen just about everything a person could do at a blackjack table, but I was wrong. I hadn’t yet met The Man…

I thought it was to be just another breezy desert spring evening in the City of Sin, but I was wrong. The girl playing on first base was celebrating her 21st birthday with her friend next to her. They were from a small Arizona town and I was having fun walking them through their first Las Vegas blackjack experience. Since it was a double deck game and not a six deck shoe, there is more procedure and etiquette involved and they were both affable and open to my expert instruction.

Sitting next to them was a young man from Orange County, California and like the girls, he was having fun and making my job decidedly easy. On the other side of the table on third base, playing the last two hands was The Man. He appeared to be about fifty years old, fat and gluttonous, with a crust of some kind of off-white powder on his shoulders. He either had a serious dandruff problem or they were crumbs from the sandwich he tried eating with his ears.

This man resembled Jack Klugman without the coroner’s smock and he reeked of stale bourbon and bad hot dogs. That’s when I realized just how drunk The Man was. He wasn’t holidng up the game so I didn’t think twice about it. The waitress still served him and he continued to slurp down his Wild Turkey and 7-Up’s. My grandfather used to drink those so I figured he must be alright.

A few minutes later the birthday girl spilled her beer. She felt terrible about it but I assured her that it was a very common thing to happen at a gaming table. She didn’t need to know that a wet blackjack table is one of my biggest pet peeves in all of life, and I cut her a break because she was so cute. Turns out her spill was the last thing I’d have to worry about.
After dealing around The Wet Spot for a few more hands I realized I could really smell The Man even more than before. When I looked over to investigate the origin of his new and improved stench I realized that his side of the table was also wet. But his glass was still about two thirds full of that golden elixir.

When I looked into his face, framed by a ten-gallon hat, the slow-motion horror of an auto accident began to course through my unbelieving frontal lobe. He couldn’t even hold a drink in his mouth as evidenced by the stinky dribble of that Kentucky concoction that was dripping over his unshaven chin. But what I was actually seeing was the final dregs of The Man’s stomach contents as he proudly displayed them for all to see and smell.

Rantasaurus Says: This story has all the elements I like. Hot chicks, gambling and old-guy puke.

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Jeff, your friendly neighborhood dealer

Please indulge me for a few minutes as I’m going to try and make your next trip to Las Vegas a much easier experience. I was born and raised in L.A. but I moved to Vegas in 1992 and became a casino dealer. I primarily deal 21, Roulette, and Pai Gow Poker. I also deal Let it Ride, Caribbean Stud Poker and 3 Card Poker.

In my fifteen years as a dealer I have grown weary of all the usual complaints from the average tourist – many of which are not the fault of the tourist. This is no accident on the part of casino management. Everything in Vegas…EVERYTHING IN VEGAS is designed for only one purpose…ONLY ONE PURPOSE – to take every dollar you have in your wallet, your bank account, your kids’ college fund, you house payment, car payment and whatever you have hidden in that coffee can in your closet.

This may sound redundant since most people already realize this, but
do you realize to what degree the House (the casino) goes to guarantee their win?

In this informative and hopefully enjoyable multi-part Rantasaurus Mini-Series I will do my best to dispel all the usual myths, misconceptions, and legends that surround Las Vegas gaming, due in part to movies, television, and those “Professional Gamblers” the Travel Channel hires to bullshit you.

As I do it, please be advised of one thing: Whether or not you (or I) think it’s a question of right or wrong, good or bad, fair or unfair, you must understand that casino management doesn’t care what you or I think – it’s simply THE WAY IT WORKS IN LAS VEGAS.

The rules and procedures are in stone and there is no grey area, as this is the most “Black and White” place you will ever see. There are winners and there are losers, period. The casino concerns itself with NOTHING ELSE. The sooner people realize this, the happier you’ll be when you’re walking the length of The Strip in the middle of August when it’s 118 degrees in the shade weeping about their upcoming home foreclosure…

My first two points reference a lack of customer service in Vegas. If you are the kind of person who enjoys Top Drawer Customer Service on your vacations, and you are the typical hard working member of the “Working Class” who lives on a budget without money to burn, do not come to Las Vegas because you will be kicked in the teeth. In Vegas you are not a customer. You are not a guest. You are player, a gambler, a MARK.

After you make that long, boring drive on Friday night and you walk into a busy casino expecting the staff to be at your beck and call, you have watched too many re-runs of The Love Boat. A casino is not a cruise ship nor is it that all inclusive resort you stayed at in Cabo last year – and it’s certainly not Fantasy Island where there is “Smiles everyone, smiles!”

1) Customer service here will not find you – you will have to search it out because there are fifty thousand other people trying to accomplish the very same thing at exactly the same time. For every ten frowns you will find a smile. Ask that employee what his/her schedule is and stick with them.

Ever since Corporate America invaded Las Vegas, the typical casino staff has been cut down to a minimum and this is the number one reason why you WILL WAIT. Many employees are on the “Extra Board” which means it’s possible they work six day weeks, back to back. People tend to get tired and cranky as they’re working twelve straight days.

2) Just because the cocktail waitresses wear those tight, revealing, sexy outfits it doesn’t mean they are whores, strippers or will provide you with a lap dance. In many cases they are hard working parents with kids to feed just like you and they don’t appreciate inappropriate comments, mindless come-on’s or a well placed pinch. If you plan on parking yourself at a gaming table or a slot/video poker machine and will be ordering drinks, keep one very important thing in mind: YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY PERSON DRINKING.

When a single waitress is handling one whole side of the pit or an entire section of machines, YOU WILL WAIT. After taking fifty drink orders she will then battle her way through the crowd to the service bar. She will wait behind the five other girls ahead of her while the ONE BARTENDER fills everyone’s orders. After you have been waiting twenty thirsty minutes do not ask the dealer “WHERE THE HELL IS THAT FREAKIN’ WAITRESS??” because you will not like the answer. Unless she is a mean spirited bitch, it means she is waiting for your drink to be made among the other two hundred.

In upcoming rants, I will address gambling procedures, tipping etiquette, card counting, shuffle tracking, myths about Nevada law and other important things you need to know about Vegas. Don’t be shy – feel free to leave any comments you want and ask any questions you have. I will be honest and very candid with my answers. I feel very strongly about this because I’ve seen too many people have a very bad time in Las Vegas.

Rantasaurus Says: Now, I’m not one to argue but… but… can’t I just give that waitress one little pinch? For good luck? I hear it’s all about luck in Vegas.

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Dear Obnoxious Drunken Tourists,

Thank you for visiting my fair city. I appreciate the money you’re spending here. Here’s a few ground rules to help you not incur my wrath (and the wrath of others who live here)?

  1. Please do not pee/spit/crap/eliminate other bodily fluids on the street or on residents’ porches. When I’m walking down the street and I have to step around your giant loogie, or watch you on the corner urinating on someone’s porch, it makes me angry.
  2. Yes, you’re in New Orleans. Yes, it is awesome. Please stop screaming and “WOOO”ing at the top of your lungs in a residential neighborhood at 3 in the morning. People do live in the French Quarter, and they are sleeping. This is an effective way to catch a faceful of plant from the person who has a shrubbery on a second floor balcony.
  3. Heterosexual men: Please do not assume that every woman on the street wants those cheap-ass beads hanging from your neck. Some of us are from here and could really care less about a 3 dollar set of beads. Also, just because a girl will not show you her boobs does not make her a “big fat d*ke”.
  4. Women: You wouldn’t have to explain to your kids/parents/husbands/girlfriends why you’re on the Girls Gone Wild commercial if you didn’t flash your stuff. We know you want those beads around that dude’s neck so you could prove that you were on Bourbon Street, but how’s about buying a postcard or decorative plate instead? By the way, I suggest you not show the lower ladybits (or manbits) unless you want a one-way ticket to the closest jail cell.
  5. Religious fanatics: We understand that you are here to spread the word of whatever deity you worship. That’s fine. However, please refrain from chasing people down the street, grabbing at their clothes, and screaming about how they’re going to burn in hell for all eternity because they’re in New Orleans. I don’t see you screaming that at the people who go to church on Sunday mornings, and they’re in New Orleans too. Oh, and as for that “God Hates F*gs” preacher guy? You’re not allowed here ever again.

If you stick to these rules, we’ll get along a lot better. If not, we’ll just have to come to your town and pee in your plants, scream at the tops of our lungs at 4 in the morning, harass people walking down the street, show our naughty bits to random passerby, and smack people over the heads with giant wooden crosses and assorted Chick Tracts.

Thanks,
Karen

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Someone just landed on RantasaurusRex.com by Googling:

“steel reserve nightmares”

Now, that has to be the most twisted thing I’ve ever heard!

For those of you fortunate enough never to have tasted the bitter urine that is a 40 oz of Steel Reserve, the 11% alcohol malt liquor… consider yourself lucky.

Apparently, it either gives you nightmares after you drink it or you wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat thinking that you’ve been drinking Steel Reserve.

Either way, hopefully this never happens to me and the poor soul that typed that into Google, may our site help you in some small way and may God have mercy on your soul.

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