Written By Otho
Feb. 22, 2020, 11:46 a.m.(10/19/1012 AR)
Well, Piss. Once again, that swill-belly used my lucky whalebones to roll himself a 3-pair, right after he huffed his hot ginny breath all over them - for luck's sake, he says, and then rolls a 3-pair of sixes, all in a prim little row, nails in my coffin. So goes straight away into a fit about it, whooping, throwing his hands up -- for a quarter-hour this goes, red-faced and chirping merry, big roaring guffaws at my expense. This fellow's a real cut of cloth -- set a record, far and away, for the longest bit of gloating I've seen in my 65 years - I do not exaggerate, journal; I mulled it over, and that's the hard fact of it. I've never welched, not once, and wasn't starting now - so I placed a full day's wages right in his sweaty mitt. Well, good on him - all I can say is: enjoy that haul, jolly jumble-guts - you'll not swindle another day's wages out of me, least not over a game of lucky tumbles.
If he's keen, we can have ourselves a game of savvy next time, something with a spot of cunning, something with some sport to it -- a pig could roll 3-pair if you perched some dice on its snout and gave it's ass a whack. Let's see how ye fair in a match of wits, jumble-guts - I'd burn a hole through your purse so fast you'll have to poke yourself a new belt-loop. Mark my words, journal - my name is Otho Felpspur and that's the last time I'll make an arse-smart wager like that. I'm marking the date, putting a circle 'round it. Tossing these lucky dice in with the dirty socks: they're shite.
Piss!
Goodnight.
If he's keen, we can have ourselves a game of savvy next time, something with a spot of cunning, something with some sport to it -- a pig could roll 3-pair if you perched some dice on its snout and gave it's ass a whack. Let's see how ye fair in a match of wits, jumble-guts - I'd burn a hole through your purse so fast you'll have to poke yourself a new belt-loop. Mark my words, journal - my name is Otho Felpspur and that's the last time I'll make an arse-smart wager like that. I'm marking the date, putting a circle 'round it. Tossing these lucky dice in with the dirty socks: they're shite.
Piss!
Goodnight.
Written By Otho
Feb. 11, 2020, 10:36 a.m.(9.783349867724867/23.867592592592594/1012.7319458223104 AR)
Sending my smoke a-dancing, through the latticework and out the window -- this is a fine tobacco, procured at a finer price. My boots are drying by the fire, but they're taking their time at it - just poked around the soles and they're wetter than an otter's pocket. Ho-hum; there's worse ways to pass the time than burning a good bowl of cavendish.
Written By Otho
Feb. 8, 2020, 5:34 p.m.(9.589940889550265/20.036689814814814/1012.7158284074625 AR)
Old Pearly busted a reed last night - I heard a hiss as I squeezed her low B-flat. Found her sagged over the side of a crate this morning, guts splayed open - I was three scotches deep and had a mind to fix her. A fool’s errand, no doubt - and now I’m out a melodeon. As it happens, she lost her tone a fair bit ago - it’ll be fine enough to be free of the racket. I can find another way to keep these old fingers from idling.
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