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Fun with names

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  • Fun with names

    Ah the things one will do when bored. The following story will make NO SENSE whatsoever. I took 10 names from each page of the PSO rankings and using absolutely no skill at all wrote a little story that used each and every one of these names. The story is not meant to offend anyone, it's meant to be fun. If I left your name out, it was probably unintentional, I'm sure I could find some way of demeaning your name as well, so feel free to request to be added and I too, will insult your name.

    Enjoy (or in this case, not enjoy).


    My name is Randy Samz and I am run the Magic Hands Detective
    Agency here in Crazy Duck, a small town in Guam. The story I am
    about to tell you happened one weekend at the Diamond Royal Hotel
    which is the only hotel off our one major highway. I reckon I had better hurry this up before I miss my tee time with that grudge bringer cop friend of mine, Martan Solo. Little does he know that I b bangin his girlfriend Suzie Q. In fact the other day while we were in my Land Rover she was holding the nuts for my Minnie Me and she had a poker face that woulda scared an arctic wolf. Darth Vader had nothing on her and I was cannon fodder while she had hold of the good ole club maker.

    Anyway, where was I. Oh yes. So this shoeless dude named Joe walks in looking like Jack the Ripper, saying he just flew in from Vega$. He reminded me of that guy that got kicked off of that show servivor. I had some bad vibes about him, though, he had an overload of 57sauce all over the pocket of his pair of slacks. "Trust me," he says, a grin coming over his face that woulda put the bad Mr. Frosty to shame. "Do you have any Champagne?" he asked. "Do I look like that strip club Razorzz?" I laughed, thinking to myself this guy is one born loser. He probably still listened to that bad 80's hair band Winger. "So what's the score of the Astro game?" he asked next.

    I stared out the window, pretending to count the number of cars that went by. The red neck was sipping on some of my Wild Turkey now and dialing some 1-900-babe-4u phone sex line. I listened in to some of his conversation, stifling a laugh as I did. "You my Lil Playa aren't ya? Tell you what Countess, here's sumthin' that'll put a little smile on our face. Pretend I'm the Boogie Man, and I come up and scare you. Instead of running, you give the good ol' jack rabbit a little tuggle while I whistle the ode to the floppy ladybug." This guy has stuck one too many slimjim's in his souphole I thought. He was planeloco, like one of them gamecock's I see runnin round the island near Quartz Force Point.

    Of course I could spot one of them loons from a mile away. Like
    that fireman Dave up in Yukon Territory back in 85. Or that friend of my Uncle Mik's, Mr. Kegweiser, in Wyoming back in 92. He was always saying whassup and swore he was one of the founding members of Steely Dan. I get shimmers running through my spine just thinking about the days hanging with him, Big Daddy, and The Swamie at The Weak Ace Saloon. I feel a little guilty even thinking about it. One day down at Tattoo Ralph's steam baths we had run into a bonafide prostitute known as The Leper who was offering a special known as the rivermanbj. Now you and I both know you'd have to be the Moron to even go near that, but Dave thought he would be lucky and not get anything. Sure enough, three months and a nice catch later Dave was seen chanting "aha" 12,877 times out the window of the local insane asylum.

    Is it just me or does being a private investigator seem like a high risk job? I miss the days back when I was a professional tree hugger. I would look up into the sky, sitting in the meadow, and think to myself "now this is not a high risk job." Then of course, sprouting out of the ground like some Handyman in the projects was this big ol' worm. Now I knew if I was gonna be Mr. Prudent and play 2 win that I was gonna have to do somethin. I took out my bottle of jaeger meister, wolfed it down like a Dutch Banker and was on it's Fatz ass quicker than you could say Shamar.

    That commercial where everyone goes mikeylikesit drones on in the
    background and Joe is chowing down on a shadrak of ribs making a
    general mess. The dude needed a biba for sure. "Hey, you got any Busch man?" he asked. Just then, in walks three people. The local drug dealer, Jack Potts, this Tahoebabe - she was a red head who worked for the FCC, and big blind Bob. "Whassup Jack?" I asked, trying to be stricky and glance at the red head's crazy legs out of the corner of my eye. "We're looking for a rare video Randy, can you help us?" Joe is slurping down some Jellow now out of what looks like a chemistry beeker and there is some Sac o Shiba juggler on the tube named Adam Schramm talking bout his upcoming appearance at the Rivered Again Wild Card casino up in Key West. You could bet my sparkie rusty nail that my iron side wouldn't be found near that place. I new Jane would go, though, along with her grave robber boyfriend who sounded like Forrest Gump.

    One of the things that made me a good PI, was that I ran wel and
    was light as a feather, and I wasn't into joining no clique's. I was my own man. "Sure Jack," I said, deciding I better say yes before I got cold feat. Joe was mowing down on some Duckhook Stewed now and accidentally inhaled some pepper into his left nostril. He sneezes and this big ole buffalohead comes running down his cheek and the red head says "Atindell" to the red neck. He pushes himself up and says "I'll be back later Randy, I have a meeting with this sailor named Moe down at the Polar Bear Inn. Did Steve tel you about Moe? He sure is a grumpyone." I about danced a jige as he left the room, and while I still had to face Jack, the redhead and the blind man, it sure was the lessner of two evils.

    "So what is this video about?" I asked finally.

    "Well," Jack started "It's highly confidential and you have to promise me you'll keep quiet about it."

    "Sure," I said, not really giving a flying flip but agreeing nonetheless.

    "Well, it's about this girl, her name is Kristin, but she goes by the alias of gatorhb. She uses black magic to convince everyone that she is some kind of poker goddess or pool shark. Well my boss, Tony D, ya know the fat Italian dude who always sits in the corner at the Old Hatter? Well he bout Chuck Upped in my Mustang and spoiled my dinner telling me about this video and why he had to have it."

    "It turns out that this gal is nothing more than a she wolf in red rabbit's clothing. We were within a wiscer of catching her at a holdem 101 class but she managed to slip us and caught a ride on the Wyd Track railline. Who knows where she is moving about to now. If I have my way, she'll be a poker widow 1 of these days. But I don't think Austin Powers, or a russian ace, could catch this splendid example of humanity. So, we're down to our last resort. You."

    He proceeded to tell me the details of the video. Apparently, it
    starts out in the desert with a guy named Wild Bill. 41, the highway that is, was right before the wall that protected the world's largest sand dune. Well Bill had contacted Layla, another alias for gator, for one of her world famous jojobs. Attired in nothing but a cylky nightie she gave the man's poker a good pep talk. Her game pimp, Joy Bell, interrupted their little foray. Apparently, she told them to scoot j butt over and gave them little time 2 think before she left Bill with an mt wallet. Sho nuff just as Bill was about to kick the livin daylights out of joy, a frito munchin hitman, called the Mad Professor barged into the room.

    Now word had it that the Professor had a link to the drug king pin, Trumpin Joe, known as the Chemist, over at the University, affectionately known by locals as bumble beer U because of the
    flying hornets mascot. Now this dude was a blind bat 7 times over and boy was Joe all in his face about getting corrective eye surgery. But mainly, the Professor would sit at the casino playing jaksorbetr, or sitting at some home poker game praying for rolled up aces.

    Now I was starting to fidget and had the urge to tell Jack to get out now. This story was going nowhere. "Muck it man. Get to the point."

    "Oh, I'm sorry Randy," Jack sheepishly replied looking like an oil doe in the headlights. He continued. After Layla, Kristin, whatever her name was got her fillmore from that rascally rabbit, Bill, she asked him for a tictac man - so she could freshen her breath. Bill, though, wasn't done. The shadey man from near the Rio Rita, took out a chino lined cold blue steel vibrator he called "The Bone" The gator in sheep's clothing looked admiringly at the device. It had a sorta zipman lighter kinda feel to it. "Yo Pauly," she said, reaching over for it.

    Now I ain't now Spenser for hire, and I didn't want to raise a big Stalinski about how stupid this story was getting, so I once again interrupted Jack. "Look Jack, I come in peace and all but are you floppin nuts? Get somewhere with this before I take out my 24karet gold knuckles, put them on my fingaz, and do some slamdunkin on your az hard ballz.

    The next thing I knew I was laying on my pokermats, waking up, the shiny fluorescent starrs on my ceiling staring down at me. It had all been a dream. Some terrible nightmare, I had this dreams 32,097 times in the last 6 months, so it wasn't no flash in the pan kinda dream. I was literally a reck, and my psychologist Mark told me that I needed to lay off the Kahlua and Abskalut. I walked outside, the apryll showers were in full force that day, and thought about how this had all started.

    You see, I am a poker player at a place called PSO. I go by the
    name Black Aces. Now some people say I am rather debonair, but
    I'm certainly no Bruno or Clay Knight. Anyway, it all started when I met this gal from the school for the first time. Little did I know I was drawing dead. What I thought was a hukilau good time was merely an illusion . You see, I don't have any payshints, and I rushed things to much. Maybe it's because I didn't want to be some old geezer and be all alone, but I just had to have her.

    So I took her to this restaurant that I heard was magical. It was said to have some kind of alien eyes effect on women, and could get them to do whatever you want. They had a chef who went by the name of Chef Pain. His specialty concoction was a mystery to all of us, but one of my sources now tell me that it consists of some canned ham, a little rosita, and some pasta dug out of his cockroach infested cellar. Apparently it was the noodles that did it.

    The next thing I knew my shooter was out, I had sticky fingers, and my minpin had turned into some enormous Pocket Rocket. Well, here's the sad part of the story. I was in for some big surprise when I started undressing her. It turns out gatorhb really was a wolf in sheep's clothing. Turn's out she was some dude from Louisiana who goes by the name of Freddie Boy. Who woulda thunk?

  • #2
    GOOT JOB! hazy.

    I may still be laughing this time next week. :lol:


    • #3

      :lol: :lol: :lol: :lol:


      • #4
        super as always


        • #5
          Truly a gem !! This one's a keeper for sure ! Nice job, Hazy !




          • #6
            Too funny Hazy :lol: :lol: :lol: Great story like always :!:


            • #7
              yipeee my name got used. Recognition at last.


              • #8
                Originally posted by rover
                yipeee my name got used. Recognition at last.
                Me too! But I cant tell if I am a vibrator or a lighter. :?



                • #9
                  I'll let you decide that one zip. I would never ever, call you a kitchen utensil though. Honest.


                  • #10
                    hell, why not? I specialize in the "aunt jemima" treatment.


                    • #11
                      How funny was this story? Soda pop out the nose, spontaneous urination, rolling around the floor looking for lost buttocks funny.



                      • #12
                        Well, you got the debonair part right, anyway.



                        • #13



                          • #14
                            pokermats was the closest thing I could find to mattress.

                            Hey enjoy it, you had an 80 year old toothless geezer (BlackAces) laying on you.

                            Awww come on Chris, not funny? Not even just a little?


                            • #15




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