alcohol is retarded.

I’m thoroughly enjoying my little holiday in Australia, despite suffering from alcohol poisoning - there might be more retarded drugs than alcohol, but I’m not sure what they are - maybe paracetemol or pot?

The wedding on Saturday was lovely - I really like weddings, they remind me how socially retarded and immature I am. But it’s nice to see other people make relationships work. I’m very big on speeches, and I’m not an easy person to please when it comes to speeches or MC’ing, but the groom’s brother did a brilliant, unscripted job of the MC’ing and all the speeches were excellent - I was thoroughly impressed and felt I got good value.

The drinks were flowing extremely quickly, and I am a terrible dancer. This combination results in retardation, but I did do a very sexy and pretty tango with my friend Rodney before we headed out to a club and some of my friends were evicted for doing WWE moves on the dancefloor. I passed out not long after.

I slept for 15 hours, and despite needing another 15 hours sleep, I drove up to Brisbane to see my dear friends and spend another night drinking. I passed out again in Vos’ hotel room (he lives in Brisbane but his apartment is uninhabitable because he fell asleep in his shower and flooded his apartment). I know what you’re thinking - does his shower not have drainage systems of some kind? It does, but apparently his buttocks provided super effective plugging of the drainage system and the end result was his entire apartment got flooded as he slept on his shower floor last week.

I woke after a couple hours and felt very sober so I drove back to the Gold Coast. This was pretty retarded because halfway through the drive, I realised I was still completely drunk. At one point, I thought I was driving a computer game and laughed when my wonderful ABS braking system brought me from 120km/h to a deadstop in 2-3 seconds. As I sobered up, I realised this was not as funny as I thought it was.

—-

Something which is definitely also not as funny as it initially seems is the retardation that is Sarah Palin. The levels of her moronic stupidity appear to have no boundaries. After keeping her away from the media for weeks, the GOP allowed the mild-as-milk Katie Couric to interview her - the results were endless hilarity.

Couric is so tame, I’m pretty sure I could do a Couric interview and come out looking like Mother Theresa but apparently the incredibly easy line of questioning was too much for Sarah Palin, who dribbled her way through the entire interview, sending YouTube clip creators racing to upload clips of the interview.

CNN political commentators are calling her “pathetic” and even conservative commentators are calling for her to withdraw for the good of the party.

She is single-handedly losing this election for McCain - it’s really something special, I’ve never seen anything like it. Saturday Night Live has resorted to quoting her verbatim as comedy. It’s ridiculous and, in the words of Jack Cafferty, “pathetic”.

Obama is back under 1.50 now on Betfair, partly because of proof that the GOP cannot manage the economy and partly because Sarah Palin is just too stupid for words.

In other news, I want to marry Tina Fey.

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australia appears mostly tilt-free now.

I apologise to my many thousands of loving fans over my lack of recent updates, but the simple truth of the matter is I haven’t been high since my last long update below - which I initially deleted but then replaced upon realising it was full of awesomity.

I flew from Manila to Sydney to Brisbane and then hired a car to drive down to the Gold Coast today (where I grew up) for a high school wedding, which is tomorrow. I decided not to take my usual dose of Xanax and Valium for the flight and instead spent the entire time reading Newsweek and Economist and Time magazines and having a surprisingly untilting conversation with a non-moron in the seat next to me about many topics. He broke the ice by complaining about a fat obese prick who was taking up his space in his previous chair, and even though he took the free seat next to me, I found myself bonding to a kindred spirit.

I arrived in Sydney so exhausted I could barely stand up, and of course, the Manila retardation that is the NAIA 1 international terminal meant our plane arrived 30 min late in Sydney so I missed my connecting flight to Brisbane. Shockingly though, the good people at Qantas decided not to be horrendously ghey today and they got me on another flight leaving only an hour later.

I have tried to hire a car 3 previous times in my life, and all 3 times, every car rental place in the airport was booked out. The first few car rental places today were booked out and I was seriously considering setting up my own car rental company as it’s apparent these whores do more business than beavis turning tricks for crack in a Detroit alley. I finally found Hertz down at the end who had a Statesman available, which is about as big as my wang, which sounds great but, like my wanger, is simply too big for manuerverability. Faced with the option of getting a 2 hr train ride to the Gold Coast or hiring this huge Statesman, I grinded my teeth and hired the car. They threw in a free GPS thing, which is basically insanely brilliant, as I’d completely forgotten how to get around Brisbane despite living and driving in the city for years - without the GPS, I think I’d still be caught going back and forth over the Gateway Bridge.

I drove to my hotel on the Gold Coast, only almost dying twice, once when I almost fell asleep on the M1 and then when I almost missed the turnoff for Broadbeach when my GPS ran out of battery and stopped advising me on directions - I pulled out in front of an SUV which I’d like to say was in my blind spot but the simple fact is I didn’t check the mirrors as I’ve driven only once in like 2 yrs and had forgotten how to drive basically. Chauffeurs and taxis ftw. Driving is as ghey as shaving and showering.

I arrived at Conrad Jupiters pretty tilted and exhausted, and was ready to let fly at the moronic reception staff over the long check-in line, when a lady checking out in front of me got into a MASSIVE fight with reception over a minibar drink she claimed she didn’t drink but which was missing from the minibar. I considered paying for her $2.50 drink to move the line along but decided the entertainment was worth more, so I watched with increasingly heightened joy as the fight wore on and on. Eventually, the hotel manager decided to comp her the drink, and she walked away in righteous indignation and I thanked the good lord that I am no longer in a position where I need to dispute $2.50 minibar charges.

I slept a long time and then headed down to check out the Jupiters poker room. They had a 5/10 game going which looked extremely good, I got stuck on 2/5 for ages until I got a seat, and then played 2 hands and the full 5/10 game broke completely, leaving me sitting alone. wtf.

1. Dealing out of a shoe >>> dealing out of your hands. Crown needs to bring in dealer shoes for poker.

2. Jupiters has the dumbest rule ever. If you don’t announce raise, your raise is a call, no matter how many chips you put into the middle. If someone bets $10 on the river, and you push in $5000, you have called $10, even if your $5000 is 300 chips. Spastics. This rule cost me a lot of money when, according to the dealer, I overlimped KK after 4 limpers on the button dispite throwing in a mountain of chips.

I tried to play some full ring 2/5 but it was too painful, with players complaining about running bad and whining about how clueless players call off with bottom pair and whatnot and I began having thoughts of suicide. I cashed out and went strolling around Broadbeach at 2am in the morning. Having lived here for so many years, but suffering much memory loss due to my lifestyle choices, it was quite nice and nostalgic to cruise around the place where I grew up and spent the majority of my life. A lot has changed, but for the better. There are a lot more high-rises and restaurants and the whole of Broadbeach is really awesome now - I kind of want to move back here for good.

Were it not for the Nazi’s who staff the ATO, I think I would.

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dieting and Tong it.

Lately I have been on a special diet I designed and formulated myself. Prior to mass market release, I decided to test it on myself just to be on the safe side as I planned to trim my body into a male Brooke Burke lookalike so I could pimp out some Swiss balls on late night infomericals.

I believe the best diets are simple ones. My revolutionary diet took simplicity and dumbed it down so that even PokerCrack.com morons beavis and Antneye could understand it. Basically, I planned to lose a lot of weight by basically not eating anything. At all.

As brilliant as the theory was on paper, just like Communism and religion, it turned out that my diet strategy was utopian in nature and unachievable in real life. Specifically, I discovered that it is not actually possible to function for a week eating basically nothing.

As DH and others have recently taught me on PokerCrack.com, God created man in his own image. Image may be correct, but fuck, he really cut some corners on durability and quality control. As it turns out, after a week without food, your body starts to shut down or even impode into itself. I am not a 4 year old African kid cursed for all eternity because 48 generations ago, my forefather buggered his father in the buttocks when he was drunk (read your King James Bible if you don’t understand that reference).

Although I am generally accepted in the gangster rap ghetto community as one of them, I am actually whiter than Vanilla Ice and almost twice as cool, So I didn’t feel I deserved to feel like a starving African child as I was not cursed by Abraham.

I felt the unique feeling of my stomach attempting to digest itself somewhat uncomfortable and also really undeserved. I decided if I was going to do the time, I was certainly going to do the crime, so I began looking for someone to bugger in the buttocks. GodlikeRoy featured prominently in my thoughts in this regard, as I like to ride an exotic train once in awhile to keep my ghetto roots like Jenny from the Block.

As I was searching for my prey, it dawned on me that perhaps God is just a moron and made our bodies weaker than light beer. I can’t speak for you, but I’m almost certain I was Made in China. One lazy week without food, and I start running around trying to bugger people. It’s just bad quality control from the manufacturers and, if they had any sense of social responsibility, they would do a product recall.

—-

Rather than bugger people, I decided instead to fight fire with fire. If my stomach wanted to fuck with me, I wasn’t going to just sit there and take it like a little bitch. It takes two to tango, so I ordered the spiciest food I could find, and chili poured down my throat like cumguzzle down beavis’ throat when he heads to his weekly KKK meeting (or, as he calls it, his weekly Republican fiscal conservative meeting to discuss the progress of the war on terror).

I may be a liberal, but I’m not a fucking pansy. When something tries to fuck you like a whiney bitchy stomach, you have to go drastic. No fuken half-measures - take no quarter, expect none to be given. You can’t make a fluffy omelette without dicing the fuck out of ham, mushrooms and tomatoes and cracking a few chickens.

However, like a true liberal, I underestimated the power of my opponent, and my stomach fought back like a crack whore taking a vicious beating from a john in an alley. It was touch and go there for awhile, with my stomach definitely winning a few battles, but I’m pretty sure I won the war.

Cliffnotes: You WILL lose a lot of weight by not eating anything for an extended period of time. However, as it turns out, eating nothing leaves you as weak and exhausted as EP9 enjoying his daily tofu vegetarian carrot spinach wheat Metamusil blended shake after sweating his way through yet another taxing workout on his TV yoga routine to the hip sounds of Backstreet Boys ballads. Heroin chic is out (replaced by Crack Chic ™), but looking sick anorexic sexy hot is a tradeoff when you have to either do copious amounts of meth or take strong doses of Hydroxycut Hardcore to kill the appetite. Meth is illegal and, of course, everyone knows illegal drugs are bad for you. Indemapendant scientificic studies funded by the government have proved beyond dispute that meth makes you steal TV sets and bric-a-brac and haberdashery for your friendly pwnbroker. Hydroxycut Hardcore, on the other hand, is totally legal (I *think*) and will only send you mentally insane for weeks - a small price to pay for watching the kilos fly off literally day by day. You can always recover from mental illness, but the shame of being a fat little porky, you can’t ever live that shit down. Mental illness never hurt a fly, but fat people run rampant and unchecked through society like the AIDS. The day will come where fat people will be forced to pay for all their sins, and we can start by fucking making them pay for 2 seats on a plane instead of having them sit next to, or really on top of me on every flight.

I have previously been vocal about my hatred of gingas, but if I was forced to choose between shooting a flaming ginga or a massively obese Kirsty Alley and I only had one bullet in the pistol, I would be a very torn man inside.

——

The main reason for this blog entry was to annouce to the world that a new Tong It superstar has burst onto the scene. Tong It is a Filipino game which is stunningly awesome - I know, I was as surprised at you were. I was expecting a simpler version of Go Fish. But Tong It is actually like exactly 4.74 times better than Russian/Chinese poker and it will probably take over the gambling world.

Anyway, for cheap jokers who believe painting the town red involves downing 8 “bourbon and coke’s”, you can Google “Tong It” for instructions on how to play. For winners like me or other capitans of industry who want the fast-track to success, I am giving lessons in Tong It for $350/hr. Roy, please list me on the mypokertrainer.net coaching panel. I will buy you free drinks in Melbourne if you do and also throw in lifestyle coaching advice and teach you how to pick up women like garage13.

At the moment, I’m crushing all comers in Tong It - it’s like I was born to play this game. You can play me, but you will get molested and spend hours scrubbing yourself in the shower afterwards like a rape victim. Still, I expect random “I hate money” jokers like GodlikeRoy and Punty and Jihad Ali to challenge me and donate. Please refer your enquiries via your people to my people and we’ll arrange an online game - I will give 20% of all winnings to Charity and I expect Charity will spend it on Crack. I know I would.

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war is in the post…

(posted in my PokerCrack journal)

by Jonny Vincent on Sat Jul 26, 2008 1:17 pm
“Obama is 1.41 on Betfair now. That line is ridiculous.”

by Jonny Vincent on Wed Aug 06, 2008 9:10 pm
“Line is now 1.57 - This line WILL move to 1.90 before Nov 4.”

by Jonny Vincent on Sun Sep 14, 2008 1:08 pm
“Betfair line for Obama is now 1.87.”

I’m a special kind of unappreciated genius and I simply do not receive the accolades which are my due. If you didn’t listen to me and lock up a fortune either backing McCain or laying Obama, I have a new hot tip for you.

WAR IS COMING!

I have today come to the conclusion that war between Israel and Iran is inevitable. The question now is simply one of timing.

War is pretty fun, so long as I’m not involved it in, apart from watching it on CNN from the comfort of my living room with a Cornetto in hand and a wager on the result. It’s possible my boredom has been a contributing factor to my arriving at the conclusion that WAR IS COMING.

Still, as war is basically like a more entertaining form of the Olympics, we can only cross our fingers and hope than insanity prevails yet again, and the Iranians get all swept up in nationalistic love of their wonderful leader who wants to take his poverty-stricken country to war against two nuclear superpowers. In the meantime, he spends $5 billion on a defence force which will be utterly useless should he get his dream war with Israel and the US. I mean, it’s not like that money could be used elsewhere in Iran, with 90% of the country living below the poverty line.

Religion. You can bag it all you want, but there is no escaping from the fact that it provides a hell of a lot of entertainment. If I was a CNN reporter interviewing Ahmadinejad, I would ask him off the record if he truly believes that Allah will protect his poverty-stricken people from Jehovah’s nuclear missles when his desired war arrives, or if he’s just dribbling out that rhetoric to shore up political support from the Iranian Religious Far Far Far Right so that he can hold onto power. If I was a FOX News reporter, I would dribble retarded, non-sensical jibberish as that is what they do. Actually, stratch that, if I was a FOX News reporter, I would killself.

Any which way, lol @ Iran right now. Every country deserves the government it has. I have so close to zero sympathy these days for people who vote in or accept the rule of retarded leaders. I don’t make my own bed personally, but if I did make my bed, I would have to sleep in it. The Iranians will also be sleeping in a bed of their own making when the bombs rain down. The only innocents are the children, but Allah has them in his loving hands, and when you think about what a good job Allah is doing protecting innocent children all around the world, the Iranian children clearly have nothing to worry about.

Praying for war is just as logical as praying for success in war, so I offer up my prayer:

“Dear God, please let war arrive before Dec 31 - I am often bored and I will also very shortly have a lot of money riding on it. Also, if it doesn’t take you away from your current taxing duties of doing absolutely nothing as millions of innocents suffer and die needlessly under your watch, please also turn your direct attentions to shipping me the new Mercedes SCL600 which has no steering wheel or pedals but is driven by a joystick. Thy will be done.”

(Edit 15/09/08: As it turns out, morons run InTrade and they hate money and they make it hard to fund your account which means there is almost no volume so no money to be made. So please God, don’t ship war anymore as I have no money on it, but please still ship the Mercedes. Hallowed be thy name.)

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I’m retiring to bet politics for a living.

I have 11k on McCain on Betfair between $3.75 and $2.80.

He is now the favourite on InTrade.

That is all.

Respect my genius.

Prepare for WW3.

Posted in Random | 4 Comments »

endless rambling, victim of sabotage, girl advice, something for the whole family.

I haven’t slept for quite some time, numerous days as luck would have it. There is a purity derived from sleep deprivation which is quite comforting. Unreliable anecdotal accounts claim that for a period of 1-3 hours, I was prostrate and comatose on the carpet, but I have no recollection of this.

During the last couple days of hilarity and shenanigans, I had been putting in intermittent work on a journal / blog entry which I was convinced (at the time) would be nothing short of a masterpiece. My fingers raced across the keyboard delivering endless lines of prose and witty off-hand remarks and zany observations. I was certain that it would take its rightful place at the pinnacle of international literature.

By page 34, I was having trouble seeing the screen. Coherent thoughts were a luxury long since gone. Before I was about to publish it, a friend of mine proof-read it - he kindly suggested (in a smug tone) that I wait until the next day before punishing the internetz with my masterpiece. I dismissed his worthless advice off-hand and intended to immediately publish the brilliance which had taken me hours to write and perfect.

For reasons or events that currently elude me, I did not publish my masterpiece yesterday - only remembering about it (with some glee, I might add) just half an hour ago. I sat down to enjoy the fruits of my labour before sharing it with the world. I purchased a Cornetto and a cigar as celebrations were almost surely at hand.

Now, only two possible chains of events can reasonably explain what happened to my masterpiece.

Theory 1:

My friend, certain I would achieve instant worldwide fame and fortune from penning such a pithy and hard-hitting social commentary at the woes that befall the world, became consumed by a bitter and jealous rage at my brilliance, spending hours systematically editing my prose to remove anything remotely funny as well as replacing the written crack with nonsensical dribbling and ramblings.

I’m almost certain that my friend, working alone or perhaps even in tandem with others, dashed my chances of sitting on Oprah’s couch or doing lines of coke in the green room waiting to be entertained by models in the employ of Jimmy Kimmel. The only other alternative theory (below) is hardly believable and smacks of ludicrous fiction.

Theory 2:

If my friend is indeed innocent, the stark and glaring truth can only be that I cannot actually write to save myself. Material I thought was funny was not, prose I thought was poetic was not, gold I thought was pristine was not. The entire 34 pages consisted almost entirely of nonsensical jibberish penned by some sort of madman.

I mean, whilst the chances are extremely low, it’s not completely outside the realm of possibility that some villian who wished me harm may have intricately funneled some sort of amphetamine smoke into my bedroom for the day’s entirety, drugging me against my will and leading me to believe I was some sort of literary genius worthy of mixing it in the gutter with Oscar Wilde - but the chances of such a butterfly effect chain of events like this occuring is so remote it can basically be dismissed without consideration - leaving Theory 1 the only plausible theory remaining and my jealous ‘friend’ the only plausible suspect.

He simply could not bear to see me rise to the stars as he wallowed in my wake. Jealousy - such an ugly emotion.

———————-

Out of 34 pages of rambling, here are the only legible bits and pieces - they’re not worth salvaging so much as they are…simply legible.

Tip for young writers: When writing drunk or high, you should ALWAYS use multiple drafts to cut down on the rambling. However, my personal opinion on the use of drafts is that to use them is ghey as they require far too much effort. Drafts are mostly utilised by perfectionist girls who compose picture-pristine university essays containing not a single original thought – but merely 20,000 words of high quality paraphrasing stolen directly from the required reading lists.

Shakespeare said that “brevity is the soul of wit” but I’ve never met anyone that rates the drivel he wrote. I don’t use the crutch that is ‘drafts’ and I find ‘brevity’ suffocating, so if you don’t like the rambling and suffer from ADD and don’t have access to Ritalin, you should stop reading now and search for awesomeness elsewhere.

—-

Small talk makes me want to break holes in brick walls and possibly smash my head against coffee tables and mirrors. Just having a think about it now, I’m not sure there is anything in the world I hate more than small talk. If faced with a life of endless small talk or the AIDS, I would take the AIDS.

Once in an elevator in Singapore, this really polite Singaporean gentleman had a fascinating 80-floor conversation with me about the weather, what I thought of Singapore, his desire to one day visit Australia – he listed the Sydney Opera House and the Great Barrier Reef as his preferred destination, and if he had time, he also hoped to visit Ayres Rock, which I suspected he figured would be an amazing place to get photos and prove to his social set that he had an incredibly fascinating holiday in the empty desert before returning to the suicide-inducing box of hell that doubles as his 4 square foot cubicle ‘office’.

This gentleman was living proof that you can donk your way through life without ever coming close to saying anything remotely interesting and also that you can conduct a 10 minute conversation with a stranger wearing headphones without being even mildly dissuaded by a string of disinterested one-word answers. The thought of him having children, thereby perpetuating the endless boredom, frightened me considerably.

—-

Flirting dangerously with small talk, people often ask me what my goals are or what it is I want out of life. The answer is, and has always been, quite simple and starkly honourable: I want a cute girlfriend who is way out of my league.

That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Wealth and fame do not interest me. Public service and charity give me shivers. In my younger and more foolish days, I remember painfully dragging myself through countless nauseating, mind-numbing, repetitive conversations with the opposite sex in an increasingly futile search for a girl I did not deserve. As I was never a charming ladies’ man like Rohit or Vos, most of these encounters of mine invariably ended quickly in degrading, insulting and unhappy circumstances.

But one gloriously retarded day, I finally met an amazingly cute and witty little girl who was way out of my league, and I somehow managed to trick her into thinking I was not the moron I really was at the time, and pretty much still am.

I was unable to hold the attentions of this little girl for long with my meager personality, and she quickly lost what little interest she had. She would also annoy me often with her perky, positive attitude when I was downswinging online. And also, somewhat ironically – the final huge fight we had was over money. I was sick of paying for everything, and her position was that she’d never paid for anything in her life and she saw no reason to start now. I remember being furious at her arguing such an unreasonable and illogical position, especially as she was richer than I was. Fast forward a few years to now, and I don’t think I could ever respect a cute girl who pays her way. Don’t fight the logic.

The final breakup was dramatic and full of melodramatic excitement, as all good breakups are. The requisite doors were slammed, opened and slammed again. She politely returned these really expensive earrings I’d just bought her, and I threw them back at her – she caught them and, in one seamless movement with not a hint of emotion, calmly flicked them into the storm drain on the road. I think I fell in love with her at that exact moment.

The whole dramatic breakup was glorious and full of emotionally charged drama and excitement. When the wind whistles through the poorly fitted windows on my highrise on a warm summer’s night, and I realise I occasionally miss her sharp cute little laugh, I allow my thoughts to drift way back to that glorious day of emotional yelling, vicious insults and, after she’d left, a little crying and sobbing on my part…and I sigh and reminisce wistfully and tell myself that, if nothing else, it all crashed down in a fabulous world of high drama.

After that day, she never returned my calls. It was at this point (once she had packed up her tilt with her makeup and left with them both) when I realized that the hilariously embarrassing and degrading emotion women and children call ‘love’ may have been a factor for a short time. I think I tried calling her about 6 times over the next fortnight, including maybe another 5-10 text messages. All went unanswered. If I could buy back every single one of those unacknowledged attempts at contact for $10,000 each, I would do so without blinking and just hand over the money to the Dignity Police gratefully.

Dignity, once sacrificed, cannot be re-acquired. Ever.

I can’t see myself accidentally reversing into a relationship again, partly because I’m terminally incapable of conversing with girls without leveling myself and also because it’s almost impossible to avoid small talk in relationships. Girls play cute (if relatively simple) little games which are usually tolerable and not too tilt-inducing, however once the games end, the full blown tilt tends to kick into gear rapidly. I’ve noticed their most annoying habit is that they always seem to be around - it’s really quite disconcerting and even perhaps somewhat inconsiderate.

I don’t have too many regrets in my life (I did rollerblade once, the shame of which I can likely never recover from), but allowing the loss of dignity, even for a short period of time, is unforgivable. No redemption is at hand if you allow yourself to become a pathetic joke in relation to a girl. You have to live with that shame for ever. If you poor souls ever find yourself at the crossroads of choosing dignity over another option, always fight to retain your dignity and you simply cannot go wrong.

There is no emotional blow that can last over time - so long as you remain strong, keep your chin up, and don’t sell out to the gheyness. It was so long ago, but in the deep dark vaults of my memory, a niggling remembrance occasionally pops up reminding me of the greatest cringe moment of my life, a letter written in some pathetic tone of begging - and, as soul-crushing as this is to admit, the word ‘love’ may have even been included in the content of that letter. I mailed that letter with what little dignity I had left inside of it, sealed it with all the self-respect I had and stamped it with my remaining self-worth. I had clearly hit rock bottom.

This is unbelievably disgusting on both counts and horrifying on a number of levels and I will never forgive myself for it. You must strive to remember that no matter what happens, always remain stoic. You can recover from almost anything except unforgivable and unspeakable shame, of the kind I have stupidly admitted to above….

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