The last 48 hours have officially been the weirdest of my life. I can't even begin to sum them up, but I will try to the next time I get a good night's sleep.
Her name is Summer, and she is bisexual.
954 Braves +100
956 Under 7 1/2 (-116)
970 Astros +128
972 Twins +140
974 White Sox +154
This is the most disgusting obnoxious thread I have ever read. Why does an administrator allow this to be posted? This is a gambling site not a porn site!!!
This is the most disgusting obnoxious thread I have ever read. Why does an administrator allow this to be posted? This is a gambling site not a porn site!!!
Personally speaking, I've got a lot more tolerance for this than the posts with people going back and forth bashing each other and calling each other names. I'd suggest to just skip past this thread if you don't want to read it, since I think you know what you're going to get.
This is the most disgusting obnoxious thread I have ever read. Why does an administrator allow this to be posted? This is a gambling site not a porn site!!!
I'm devastated by that! I thought there were people who enjoy reading stories about the coarse underbelly of low rent advantage play gambling.
How can I make my writing less disgusting and obnoxious? Please tell me.
Hey Benny when you get a chance google Louis Myers, let me know what you think.
It really is mind-boggling that so many people have "solved" the Zodiac case. There have been quite a few confessions, but only one of them can be true.
You solve murders by studying physical and forensic evidence left at the scene of the crime, not by conjecturing about, "Well, x knew y and he told me this, this, and this, none of which can be corroborated."
The Zodiac was intelligent enough to have left a minimal amount of physical evidence behind, but still, advances in CSI type stuff more or less prevent people from doing stuff like this today.
IMO, the most persuasive evidence was that of the three eyewitnesses who saw him the night of the Stine killing. Officer Fouke, and the two children (can't remember their names, but they were on the second floor of the house at Washington and Cherry in SF). They each saw Zodiac without a mask on. Now, eyewitness testimony is notoriously unreliable and has resulted in more false convictions than any other kind of evidence. However, in this case, each of the three witnesses gave a description that aligned perfectly with the other descriptions. The composite drawing was an exact match for Kjell Qvale, and is one of the main reasons I think it's safe to discard the other main suspects (Arthur Leigh Allen, Rick Marshall, etc.)
In each of the murders, the killer had an exit strategy mapped out beforehand. Think about how he would have carried out the Stine killing. Would the killer really have 1) driven to a random spot somewhere in SF. 2) taken the bus downtown 3) hailed a taxi and asked the driver to go back towards his car. 4) shoot the cabdriver, walk to his car and driven away?
A more logical answer is that the killer lived within a short distance of that scene, or at least, had access to a hiding spot nearby. He wouldn't have counted on going to the Presidio and just losing the cops. This again implicates Qvale because he owned a house less than a block away.
OT
Not looking to pick a fight but did not appreciate the comment "just an old man" I am a senior citizen and proud of it with all the aches and pains that a man of my age usually has and a bit more. Have a wonderful day and I wish all on this site good health and much luck .
OT
Not looking to pick a fight but did not appreciate the comment "just an old man" I am a senior citizen and proud of it with all the aches and pains that a man of my age usually has and a bit more. Have a wonderful day and I wish all on this site good health and much luck .
Bay don't get so touching one old guy can call other an old guy but if I offended you I do apologize and it won't happen again. The reason why I said I was surprised because it was the first time a story like (Which I enjoyed) that was written by Benny so why not give it a pass and if it happens again (Which I hope lol) then just pass his threads. But I sincerely apologize if I offended you.
BP , that story was fucking great , Id invest in some condoms, am not sure why anyone would fuck anybody these days without a blood test or at the very least a condom, be save. luck
At 5:41 a.m., maybe a little earlier, Smith opened the northeast door to the Cal-Neva club and walked in to find the place quieter than a Franciscan church; it was hard to tell who was more bored, the customers or the employees, both equally overwhelmed by the kind of placid banality that only the lower middle class can ever appreciate or understand. He ordered a cup of water from the bartender, which he only needed to take his medications, six in all, each equally unpronounceable, pristiq, clonezapam, buspirone, he doubted they were anything more than placebos, psychiatrists for the middle class don't really care about being anything more than shills for the pharmaceutical companies, shrugging off your complaints that their medications don't do anything, it's just a matter of trial and error until we find the right combination to handle your specific blend of ptsd, sgad, anxiety, depression, whatever you want to call the fact that you wake up every morning, stare out into the world and swear that there has to be something, anything better than this.
He sat in the stool and stared at his reflection in the bottle of Campari behind the bar, wondered just how long those bottles had been sitting in those exact same spots, and felt odd that his complete lack of sleep lately hadn't made him more tired. The nightmares were still there every night, long, lucid, vivid horror movies that lasted at least four ours and that combined many odd elements of his past, people he had known, a night in June 2000, when he had been sitting at the base of Tower Falls in Yellowstone, talking to a group of people, most of whom had either taken acid or smoked cigarettes that were dipped in embalming fluid, one of them claimed to be a hitman from Canistoda, New York, said he was a nephew of Carmen Basilio, and Smith wondered if even that had been a dream, a xerox of a vague fantasy he had had at some point in the past, like so many others, all he wanted to do was daydream, constantly, it was his way of taking his way off the fact that he was going to die some day, that his existence really wasn't going to amount to anything. He closed his eyes and saw her face again, a bipolar type 2 whom he had somehow managed to love more intensely than any woman he had ever known; he called her the blue angel, because she almost always wore her scrubs, and she had cherubic cheeks, which he presumed to be the product of German, nordic genes. She was always able to inspire him, the kind of feeling you get when you're in a crowded public placce, and you seem a woman waling in the other direction. What strikes you about her isn't necessarily an immediate perception of immense physical beauty, your body's way of telling you that the children you'd have with her would be smart and beautiful. More of a feeling that she is simply not of this earth, there's a spark in her that no one will ever be able to understand, that wherever she's going and whatever she's on her way to do, it would be the greatest possible exhilaration simply to know who she is. Dressed elegantly but not expensively, clothes that announce to the world that she is a woman of depth and substance, full of passion and style that no one but her can grasp. They always wear nice shoes, something unique, not leather boots that every upper middle class woman thinks look great. Light blue pastel eyes, framed with smoke colored eyeliner, that reveal a profound intellect, with just a hint of trauma and sadness hidden underneath, the pain that inevitably accompanies having too much empathy in your character and caring too much about helping other people, feeling empty when your efforts aren't enough. Sexual trauma too, the kind that results from the wrong men looking at her and deciding that they need to possess her, that someone like that should submit, and somehow unlocking just the right method of coercion for doing so, and sometimes sociopaths decide that they need to destroy something beautiful.
The world you'll never know of who she's meeting, that whatever conversation she's about to have would be over your head, and you wouldn't be able to contribute anything to it. How they got better lives than the one you have and it's frustrating that all the effort in the world wouldn't clear it up for you.
He had dreamt of that night in Wyoming, the group had been sitting there staring at the reflection of starlight in a puddle of mud, discussing Zoroaster, other religions from ancient Babylon, and how mysterious it is that in the last several thousand years ago, mankind has made endless scientific advances, but we still can't find a religion that offers a cogent theory of everything. He could feel her kissing him on his eyelids, the sound of her voice as she told him he was the last man she ever wanted to know. He knew it was a lie, she had already said it to several men that year, and she would said it again to others. Just as suddenly as the dream had started, it shifted to him walking through a drab park in Auburn, Maine, a place he had been to in maybe late 1997, were those Douglas firs he was walking by, or had his mind merely created Douglas Firs for the dream. He was only there for ten seconds and his mind moved him to Milwaukee, one of those neighborhoods by the airport, during a time of year when you forget what season it is because the sky is never blue in Wisconsin, and you can't help but regret every decision you've made that has led you to this point.
Something inside of Smith told him it was the buspirone that was making him feel that way, that his body was having some kind of reaction to it, and his mind was having these dreams as a result. As much as he hated the dreams, he wanted to keep having them, feeling they might be some kind of a ticket out; he had experimented with astral projection years ago, never with any efficiency, but he wanted to leave the possibility open. He wouldn't tell his psychiatrist about them. In fact, he would probably have to lie during the next appointment and say that the medications were working so that she would keep giving them to him.
He checked his phone from the night before, and there were two missed calls from the night before, he recognized one of the numbers, but was at a loss as to why they would have called him. Guy looking for a late night drinking companion at a place like the Sands or the El Cortez, and he was glad he hadn't answered the phone because he would have had to come up with an excuse. Smith went back to staring at the Campari bottle, not sure if he would actually wind up doing something constructive that day, but he could still wander around downtown trying to find 100 dollars in ev that day. No long term vision or goals, just the knowledge that something better probably won't come along. More daydreaming, back to their first date, playing carnival games at Circus-Circus, she told him that she hated her dimples, he couldn't understand how anyone could hate dimples. That was probably the most compelling thing about her, that she felt anger and wasn't ashamed of it. He didn't trust anyone who didn't feel anger; it meant they were either delusional or not paying attention to what was going on in the world. Death was always in the back of his mind, how old he would be, what his last thought would be, how much pain would be involved, and it was just enough to give him an anxiety attack.
The man was sitting at a stool about fifteen feet away, an Italian from South Chicago, the kind you see in places like this from time to time, almost a caricature, a complete lack of stress in his face, black and white suit that was clearly made by a tailor with a shop somewhere near Comiskey, one of those buildings you see in that neighborhood that looks like it's been open forever. He was drinking something, Smith didn't recognize what it was, but he guessed it was bourbon, the kind of glass that's never empty no matter how many sips he takes. Benny couldn't remember his name, even though they had crossed paths several times since he had gotten back to town.
He checked the baseball stat sheet for the day's matchups. 951 Dodgers at Nationals. Greinke wasn't anything special on the road, but he wasn't too big of a favorite either. No opinion. 953 Giants at Pirates. He kind of like the Pirates, thinking they had underachieved all season, but he'd come back to that game. 958 was the Mets at the Marlins. A poster named Dr. H on betting talk had picked the Marlins, and Smith had bet them in the middle of the night on a William Hill kiosk. $650 at -130 when pinnacle was dealing -138. He needed to have his head examined for laying that big of a number on Florida, but he let the thought pass. 959 was Arizona at Milwaukee. The Brewers had overacheived, and it seemed like the market had reacted to that. But Arizona had been flat out terrible, and he wasn't even sure who was pitching for them. The name didn't ring a bell. If the line steamed up, he might corpar Dbacks to the over. 962 Twins at Tribe. Line looked like exactly what it should be. 963 looked very, very solid, although with lines over 200, the value of the correlation diminishes, and it's sometimes actually worth it to parlay the road dog to the under. He liked it though, and would almost definitely bet the Astros in some form. 965 was more line value, an average Mariners team that seemed to just be getting too big of a plus number. Not a great bet, but worthy of a few bucks. 967 was the Yankees getting +155 against an Angels team that doesn't seem like anything special and that had just gotten blown out by Texas. Check the injury report and put it in the maybe pile. The interleague games were a bizarre mismash, and he had never had any luck with that subset, so he put those off till later. He'd probably bet the Padres. No way the Royals should be a road favorite, ever. This wasn't 1985 anymore.
I have decided to finish the blackjack thread once and for all. I have 11 casinos I need to go to, and they are all in Elko county. I am leaving to do that tomorrow. If anyone is still interested, I will write up a trip report.
Comments
did I miss the update?
I have some good stories, but nothing like meeting a nipho.
Personally speaking, I've got a lot more tolerance for this than the posts with people going back and forth bashing each other and calling each other names. I'd suggest to just skip past this thread if you don't want to read it, since I think you know what you're going to get.
I'm devastated by that! I thought there were people who enjoy reading stories about the coarse underbelly of low rent advantage play gambling.
How can I make my writing less disgusting and obnoxious? Please tell me.
916 Yankees +124
958 Marlins +101
972 Astros +123
It really is mind-boggling that so many people have "solved" the Zodiac case. There have been quite a few confessions, but only one of them can be true.
You solve murders by studying physical and forensic evidence left at the scene of the crime, not by conjecturing about, "Well, x knew y and he told me this, this, and this, none of which can be corroborated."
The Zodiac was intelligent enough to have left a minimal amount of physical evidence behind, but still, advances in CSI type stuff more or less prevent people from doing stuff like this today.
IMO, the most persuasive evidence was that of the three eyewitnesses who saw him the night of the Stine killing. Officer Fouke, and the two children (can't remember their names, but they were on the second floor of the house at Washington and Cherry in SF). They each saw Zodiac without a mask on. Now, eyewitness testimony is notoriously unreliable and has resulted in more false convictions than any other kind of evidence. However, in this case, each of the three witnesses gave a description that aligned perfectly with the other descriptions. The composite drawing was an exact match for Kjell Qvale, and is one of the main reasons I think it's safe to discard the other main suspects (Arthur Leigh Allen, Rick Marshall, etc.)
In each of the murders, the killer had an exit strategy mapped out beforehand. Think about how he would have carried out the Stine killing. Would the killer really have 1) driven to a random spot somewhere in SF. 2) taken the bus downtown 3) hailed a taxi and asked the driver to go back towards his car. 4) shoot the cabdriver, walk to his car and driven away?
A more logical answer is that the killer lived within a short distance of that scene, or at least, had access to a hiding spot nearby. He wouldn't have counted on going to the Presidio and just losing the cops. This again implicates Qvale because he owned a house less than a block away.
Not looking to pick a fight but did not appreciate the comment "just an old man" I am a senior citizen and proud of it with all the aches and pains that a man of my age usually has and a bit more. Have a wonderful day and I wish all on this site good health and much luck .
Bay don't get so touching one old guy can call other an old guy but if I offended you I do apologize and it won't happen again. The reason why I said I was surprised because it was the first time a story like (Which I enjoyed) that was written by Benny so why not give it a pass and if it happens again (Which I hope lol) then just pass his threads. But I sincerely apologize if I offended you.
914 Cubs +124
924 Royals +115
You ever hear from the Dude anymore?
He sat in the stool and stared at his reflection in the bottle of Campari behind the bar, wondered just how long those bottles had been sitting in those exact same spots, and felt odd that his complete lack of sleep lately hadn't made him more tired. The nightmares were still there every night, long, lucid, vivid horror movies that lasted at least four ours and that combined many odd elements of his past, people he had known, a night in June 2000, when he had been sitting at the base of Tower Falls in Yellowstone, talking to a group of people, most of whom had either taken acid or smoked cigarettes that were dipped in embalming fluid, one of them claimed to be a hitman from Canistoda, New York, said he was a nephew of Carmen Basilio, and Smith wondered if even that had been a dream, a xerox of a vague fantasy he had had at some point in the past, like so many others, all he wanted to do was daydream, constantly, it was his way of taking his way off the fact that he was going to die some day, that his existence really wasn't going to amount to anything. He closed his eyes and saw her face again, a bipolar type 2 whom he had somehow managed to love more intensely than any woman he had ever known; he called her the blue angel, because she almost always wore her scrubs, and she had cherubic cheeks, which he presumed to be the product of German, nordic genes. She was always able to inspire him, the kind of feeling you get when you're in a crowded public placce, and you seem a woman waling in the other direction. What strikes you about her isn't necessarily an immediate perception of immense physical beauty, your body's way of telling you that the children you'd have with her would be smart and beautiful. More of a feeling that she is simply not of this earth, there's a spark in her that no one will ever be able to understand, that wherever she's going and whatever she's on her way to do, it would be the greatest possible exhilaration simply to know who she is. Dressed elegantly but not expensively, clothes that announce to the world that she is a woman of depth and substance, full of passion and style that no one but her can grasp. They always wear nice shoes, something unique, not leather boots that every upper middle class woman thinks look great. Light blue pastel eyes, framed with smoke colored eyeliner, that reveal a profound intellect, with just a hint of trauma and sadness hidden underneath, the pain that inevitably accompanies having too much empathy in your character and caring too much about helping other people, feeling empty when your efforts aren't enough. Sexual trauma too, the kind that results from the wrong men looking at her and deciding that they need to possess her, that someone like that should submit, and somehow unlocking just the right method of coercion for doing so, and sometimes sociopaths decide that they need to destroy something beautiful.
The world you'll never know of who she's meeting, that whatever conversation she's about to have would be over your head, and you wouldn't be able to contribute anything to it. How they got better lives than the one you have and it's frustrating that all the effort in the world wouldn't clear it up for you.
He had dreamt of that night in Wyoming, the group had been sitting there staring at the reflection of starlight in a puddle of mud, discussing Zoroaster, other religions from ancient Babylon, and how mysterious it is that in the last several thousand years ago, mankind has made endless scientific advances, but we still can't find a religion that offers a cogent theory of everything. He could feel her kissing him on his eyelids, the sound of her voice as she told him he was the last man she ever wanted to know. He knew it was a lie, she had already said it to several men that year, and she would said it again to others. Just as suddenly as the dream had started, it shifted to him walking through a drab park in Auburn, Maine, a place he had been to in maybe late 1997, were those Douglas firs he was walking by, or had his mind merely created Douglas Firs for the dream. He was only there for ten seconds and his mind moved him to Milwaukee, one of those neighborhoods by the airport, during a time of year when you forget what season it is because the sky is never blue in Wisconsin, and you can't help but regret every decision you've made that has led you to this point.
Something inside of Smith told him it was the buspirone that was making him feel that way, that his body was having some kind of reaction to it, and his mind was having these dreams as a result. As much as he hated the dreams, he wanted to keep having them, feeling they might be some kind of a ticket out; he had experimented with astral projection years ago, never with any efficiency, but he wanted to leave the possibility open. He wouldn't tell his psychiatrist about them. In fact, he would probably have to lie during the next appointment and say that the medications were working so that she would keep giving them to him.
He checked his phone from the night before, and there were two missed calls from the night before, he recognized one of the numbers, but was at a loss as to why they would have called him. Guy looking for a late night drinking companion at a place like the Sands or the El Cortez, and he was glad he hadn't answered the phone because he would have had to come up with an excuse. Smith went back to staring at the Campari bottle, not sure if he would actually wind up doing something constructive that day, but he could still wander around downtown trying to find 100 dollars in ev that day. No long term vision or goals, just the knowledge that something better probably won't come along. More daydreaming, back to their first date, playing carnival games at Circus-Circus, she told him that she hated her dimples, he couldn't understand how anyone could hate dimples. That was probably the most compelling thing about her, that she felt anger and wasn't ashamed of it. He didn't trust anyone who didn't feel anger; it meant they were either delusional or not paying attention to what was going on in the world. Death was always in the back of his mind, how old he would be, what his last thought would be, how much pain would be involved, and it was just enough to give him an anxiety attack.
The man was sitting at a stool about fifteen feet away, an Italian from South Chicago, the kind you see in places like this from time to time, almost a caricature, a complete lack of stress in his face, black and white suit that was clearly made by a tailor with a shop somewhere near Comiskey, one of those buildings you see in that neighborhood that looks like it's been open forever. He was drinking something, Smith didn't recognize what it was, but he guessed it was bourbon, the kind of glass that's never empty no matter how many sips he takes. Benny couldn't remember his name, even though they had crossed paths several times since he had gotten back to town.
He checked the baseball stat sheet for the day's matchups. 951 Dodgers at Nationals. Greinke wasn't anything special on the road, but he wasn't too big of a favorite either. No opinion. 953 Giants at Pirates. He kind of like the Pirates, thinking they had underachieved all season, but he'd come back to that game. 958 was the Mets at the Marlins. A poster named Dr. H on betting talk had picked the Marlins, and Smith had bet them in the middle of the night on a William Hill kiosk. $650 at -130 when pinnacle was dealing -138. He needed to have his head examined for laying that big of a number on Florida, but he let the thought pass. 959 was Arizona at Milwaukee. The Brewers had overacheived, and it seemed like the market had reacted to that. But Arizona had been flat out terrible, and he wasn't even sure who was pitching for them. The name didn't ring a bell. If the line steamed up, he might corpar Dbacks to the over. 962 Twins at Tribe. Line looked like exactly what it should be. 963 looked very, very solid, although with lines over 200, the value of the correlation diminishes, and it's sometimes actually worth it to parlay the road dog to the under. He liked it though, and would almost definitely bet the Astros in some form. 965 was more line value, an average Mariners team that seemed to just be getting too big of a plus number. Not a great bet, but worthy of a few bucks. 967 was the Yankees getting +155 against an Angels team that doesn't seem like anything special and that had just gotten blown out by Texas. Check the injury report and put it in the maybe pile. The interleague games were a bizarre mismash, and he had never had any luck with that subset, so he put those off till later. He'd probably bet the Padres. No way the Royals should be a road favorite, ever. This wasn't 1985 anymore.
Not in a very long time. I always liked him and MLB totals. I hope they're still handicapping and winning.
963 Astros +239
976 Padres +105
911 Astros +165
960 Dodgers +110
967 Twins +216
974 Mariners +109
968 Twins +113
971 White Sox +165
922 Twins +140
927 Tigers +104
Headed to Idaho soon to scout some casinos there. I will probably be back right around the time you're leaving.
if plans change let me know...
909 Mariners +186
917 Tigers -113 (That is not a misprint. I am trying something different)