Bat Takes Offense–Self Absorbed Humans


The Bat recently rode an elevator and saw a similar note as above.  Why not just post that note?  Well, if the Bat had one of your fancy dancy fuckbook phones the Bat would have taken a picture of it.  Instead, the Bat is rocking a Matrix slider phone and proud of it.  Doesn’t matter if the 9 key has fallen off, the Bat has excised any friends with 9s in their number.  It’s a simple purge.  When the 5 or some relevant number falls off the Bat will get a new phone.  What about dialing 911 you ask?  Okay, you didn’t ask it but smarter people did.  It begs the question after all, dialing 11 doesn’t do much.   That’s fine because the Bat has his own emergency number it’s called Mr. Colt 45.  Not talking about Billy D. Williams either.   Won’t spell it out for you libs but don’t come knocking on my door after dark unless you want to get acquainted with the business end of Lando Calrissian.

Anybody that seen’s the Bat jog knows he should have an ambulance on speed dial.  That’s fair enough as there are other uses for 911.  That’s why the Bat wears one of those medical alert necklaces.  Yes, the Bat wears it like a watch because the Bat is thick but it’s still there under a fold of skin or two.

Anyway, while in Vegas for the World Series of pissing on the shoes of Eurotrash hipsters in the Rio bathroom, the Bat saw a sign like the one above in the apartment he rented out.  Probably written by that oompa loompa Matt Marafionetti.  Being about a crotch lice’s hair over five fiddy the Bat doesn’t take the stairs ever for no reason.  If there is option between one step and a handicap ramp that swirls around the building the Bat takes the ramp.  Now, on the face of this, these types of notes make a little sense.  Folks on the 20th floor can’t get to the 20th floor quick enough when all the fat and lazies insist on riding the elevator up one floor.

In a way, the note is everything the Bat stands for, anti-laziness and it’s anti self absorbed greediness.  Being a self loather, the Bat doesn’t even mind the obesesism, however it’s ill conceived.  Who is the self absorbed?  It’s got to be the assholes who insist on riding an elevator up one or two floors to the detriment of everybody else in the building or is the writer of the note?  Obviously, the assholes that live there pay to service the elevator so it’s their right to ride it however few floors they want.  The people with the views on the upper floors have to just suffer through it and it’s another cost of living.  Still, on the other hand those lazy biatches could use the exercise.  However, if the writer of that note were really concerned about efficiency, the Bat would ask if he gets off two floors early and walks up to his own floor.  After all, two floors is the arbitrary amount the writer has determined is the litmus test for fat and lazies, but it’s obvious nobody gets off two floors early to hump stairs.

In way that’s not realistic, but to make the example more pronounced what if the note-writer was the last person on a full elevator.  The floor two below his was punched and every floor above his was punched.  Would he immediately spare the rest of high livers by getting off two floors early?  Of course not because he’s a self-absorbed fat and lazy impatient fucker who doesn’t want to wait for anybody, he’d punch his own floor and get back to praying somebody favorited his tweet about daffodils and his girlfriend’s dingleberried ass.  Let the rest of the unwashed masses walk up two flights of steps, let us eat cake too, but no not the fucking lazy notewriter he won’t be walking any stairs.  The Bat says fuck you passive aggressive note writers.   Either grow a pair of balls and write a plain aggressive note, with your apartment number on it, or don’t write a note and hide behind anonymity.

Okay, the Bat’s been meaning to get that rant off his chest for a couple of days now.  Once the Bat gets rid of his man tits there will be nothing left to get off the chest, but for now, let’s talk some poker.

The World Series has been a brutal series of self-inflicted fistings that would make a porno convention squirm.  That enough poker talk for you?  The Bat couldn’t win a hand if he was holding half the fucking deck.  Poker has been like giving head to a piledriver for a solid month now.

The cards have been especially unkind to the Bat.  Not only that in one of the only tournaments the Bat has had any luck in,  the Bat finally went deep in a Rio deep stack event, agreed to a five way chop only to have the guy that signed for first take off with all his share and the other four of us staring at one another like the friggin’ Happy Days bunch when Fonzie’s wasn’t in a scene.  The Bat is ready to break some fricking heads over this.  Talk about a bad beat.

Meanwhile, over on Lock poker the Bat can’t stop snapping off tournaments.  All the Bat’s run-good is tied up in that site.  Which the Bat was happy with… then the Bat hears a couple of the poker kids Lucky Chewbacca and R2D2 Patel talking about the site not paying out again while the Bat was getting his head handed to him in PLO.  The Bat can’t win for losing.   Don’t even ask the Bat about the guy he bought a piece of for the one drop.

Talking about these brats, the Bat has heard enough of the lingo, three and four and five betting.  Everybody piles and is “piling” and snaps off and is “snapping off” and “ripping.”  They sound like they haven’t figured out how to light a bong yet.  They’ll learn.

Anyway, the Bat’s been through the slop before.  Only a matter of time before the world series of poker main event is his.