Introduction

by Lotgrinder on June 9, 2016

Hi, I’m Lotgrinder.

I play poker for a living and enjoy writing about politics, pop culture, poker, sex, relationships, music, religion, and all sorts of other topics in my spare time. I am currently working on three books that are tentatively titled “Felt,” “Car Lot,” and “The Chronicles of Swine.” You can check out excerpts from each book by clicking on the appropriate sections listed to the right on this website. If interested and you haven’t already done so I can be added on the following social media platforms.

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Thanks for checking out my page.

-Lotgrinder

“Ex Husband”

by Lotgrinder on June 15, 2017

“What do you do when you’re not playing poker?” She asked.

“Nothing.” I replied.

“Wow. You sound just like my ex-husband,” she said. “I have a thing for men that do nothing.”

“Then you’d love me,” I said. “I swear to god I don’t do shit. Not a god damn thing. I even pay for professional movers to help my best friends move rather than help myself because I’m lazy and these muscles were made to only be worked out in the gym. I’m a real piece of shit I promise you.”

“Don’t Try”

by Lotgrinder on June 11, 2017

Yesterday I woke up at 3pm, got my grunt on at Powerhouse gym, and then for some strange reason decided to dress up nice for the casino. I put on my brand new blue Brooks shoes, the nice soft white khaki shorts with pockets down by the knees that I usually fill with drugs at a music festival, and a red Polo t-shirt my that was one of the last things my Papa bought me before he passed away. The outfit, quite simply, could have just been described as”American Glory,” so that’s what I signed into the poker list as with hopes to piss off any lying crooked hill-bots lurking around the poker room.

Eventually, “American Glory,” was called over the MGM loud speaker and I could see a few guys whose mother’s and wife’s still dress them start to groan, but when I got to the table I sat down and started holding court as usual. One of the girls that usually plays there who doesn’t think I’m completely disgusting yet says, “Wow dish washer! You look really nice today! Did you just come from a date?” I wanted to make sure she knows that I am never going to play soft in a pot against her like so many other pathetic men do so I say, “No. I would never get all churched up like this for a woman. I would never do anything desperate like that. You don’t get to where I am in life dish washing by trying, at anything. I’ve done a lot of stupid shit in my life, but I quit dressing up for a woman or asking one out on a date a long time ago and I actually get to have sex now. Dating is for complete losers. I’m just a loser whose boss stakes him into the poker games.” “What’s marriage then?” She asked, and I was hoping she would because the two sour liberal pussies I don’t like at the poker table had wedding rings on so I replied, “A jail cell. Sometimes even a death sentence.”

Then a nice old lady named Gloria and an older gentleman named Sam who I am fond of were like, “What do you mean not trying has got you to where you are in life? You try to win at poker!” I replied, “No. No. No. I don’t. I never ever try to be the best player at the table. I wait for all the morons to try to be the best poker player and I capitalize off their egos and mistakes. If you try too hard at anything. You fail. Take women for instance. I used to call them and call them all the time in my teens and early twenties. Ask them how their day was and stuff like that. But I was like Trump when he offered to buy that married woman furniture and didn’t get fucked. I failed. And I failed because I tried too hard. But, then I had my epiphany.”

“And what was that?” They both asked. “Please tell.” And I could tell the entire table, dealer, and even the once hot waitress who now looked sickly because of all the uppers she’s strung out on was eating out the palm of my hand. So I continued, “Well, one day, I was washing dishes at Hawaiian Island Chinese restaurant in Trenton, and there was this pesky horse fly buzzing all around the back of the place like some douche bag at a nightclub that spins deep house with a bro hawk walking around talking to all the girls trying to get numbers. And me, Lee, Peggy, Ai Ci Li, and all the line cooks who were experts in martial arts could not put this motherfucking thing down. We were all swinging at it with fly swatters, news papers, rolled up “Barely Legal” porn magazines from the employee bathroom, open hand slaps, roundhouse kicks, spinning back-fists, hyrukens, and even a dumb fat white American guy exercising the glory of his gun ownership rights emptied the clip trying to kill the bastard, but to no avail!

This went on for hours. I even went to the cooler and pulled out a case of beers so we could start drinking together, catch a buzz, form a bond as a team, and maybe think outside the “To Go” box of egg rolls on how we were finally going to get this little fokker. But, the harder we tried. The harder we failed. It was like trying to talk sense to a flat earther and I could tell the owner, Lee, who was exerting the most effort, was the one who was the most tired and humiliated. So, he made a point to say in front of all the employees to make himself feel better, ‘Jussshtin, if you no kill fly by time you go home, no more dishh washher job and poker shatakkking for you. Now everybody go home except you, Jushhtin. Hawaiian Island is closed for the night!’

So, there I am all by myself scrubbing the sad cruel plate of life itself, thinking to myself while I’m listening to the buzz of this cocksucking insect, ‘How am I going gonna get this god damn horse fly?’” I just stand there and keep thinking. Keep scrubbing. Keep washing. Keep sanitizing the plates. Keep making sure there’s no spots on the silverware. Keep thinking about how to make sure there’s no leftover downriver warthog lip stick left on the outer rims of the wine glasses. And slowly but surely I hear the buzzes get closer. And it is no longer one continuous buzz because it seems the horse fly is now buzzing from object to object, moving closer and closer.

Finally, I could see the little bastard out of the back of my eye on a rack of dirty plates. So close that I thought if I turned quickly and slapped it with my wet cloth I could probably get it. I pondered doing so, but then that taunting little motherfucker had the audacity to do one more quick little buzz and goes on to land on some gray water pipes dripping from steam and condensation just above the dish washing machine itself. The god damn thing even looked like the lead singer from Primus the more and more I gazed at it.

So, there I am in a drunken stupor about to strike Les, the horse fly, and it hits me, ‘This is the closest I been to killing this thing all night, and I got to where I am right now because I didn’t try. I just stood here working, suffering, thinking, doing nothing important and keeping to myself, and now what has alluded me for so long today is right in front of me and staring back at me.’ The bug made no move, it was clearly mine. So I offered up a truce and dropped my dirty wet towel on the floor. Then calmly lifted a clean white sparkling plate to my nemesis or perhaps new found friend. And wouldn’t you know that pesky little bugger climbed right on to that plate and I swear to god he jedi mind tricked some Mr. Miagi like shit into the back of my mind and said, ‘Very good. Daniel son. Now walk me to the the back door slowly, and open it.’ And I did. Then I watched Les fly off into the cold pale moonlight and I thought to myself ‘God damn. I am never going to try again. At anything. Never. Not at all. And I’ve lived a god damn good life since.’” But what I didn’t tell the table was I stole that precious little white plate for myself and I still use it to this day to offer up a buffet full of illicit drugs at my poker home games while I tell this story.

Always remember, don’t try.