- Joined
- Feb 17, 2022
The gambling guy is more sad than anything else as someone who knew a guy with a terrible gambling addiction. Shit is hard to watch. Still funny
"Mad at the Internet" - a/k/a My Psychotherapy Sessions
- Thread starter Null
- Start date
- Joined
- Jan 29, 2021
I think the corpse cake was referencing this woman: Marina Abramović
This is the image that gets passed around
This is the image that gets passed around
- Joined
- Sep 26, 2018
At least we got some Eagles. "We are all just prisoners here of our own device" and "You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave" are pretty kino for a gambling addict.
- Joined
- Jan 29, 2021
This isn't the win you think it is. All those groypers being told to marry an 18 yr old at 50 will just create more groypers for the next Fuentes.
- Joined
- Feb 17, 2022
Speaking of anime Panchiko machines..
- Joined
- Feb 5, 2023
Gambling addiction is a hell of a thing. I had a roommate who would bet on sports games he wouldn't even watch. He told us that if he ever won 10,000 dollars he would disappear, and we would never see him again, as if 10,000 dollars was enough to start a whole new life, and not half the worth of an new car.
- Joined
- Oct 28, 2021
Eagles was definitely the kino part of the gambling lol
- Joined
- Feb 13, 2020
I think he wants the clicks specifically, not the shooting sounds.
- Joined
- Oct 28, 2021
- Joined
- Sep 28, 2022
What I'm getting out of this stream is that Stake should increase their ESG score by targeting troons so that the troon community can experience the joys of gambling. Stop being bigots Stake and get those troons on your platform.
- Joined
- Dec 12, 2022
Josh thinking that Piers Morgan was a woman had me in tears.
- Joined
- Oct 3, 2022
I really like the content slot, it brings relatively unknown lolcows to a new audience. That should be a regular thing.
JackoVerde
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Dec 13, 2022
before you can build rail in the united states, especially if it's cross state rail, you need to get permission not only in every state but every individual county along the way and buy up land to be able to build that rail, some people refuse to sell so you could be tied up in courts for years before that land is given up
this is where eminent domain happens, where the government forces them to sell for a fair market price, but some people refuse to sell so it could be tied up in court for years before any rail can even be built.
there's a high speed rail system being built from dallas to houston and it's been in the works for over a damn decade.
they finally got all the permissions to do it. the eminent domain court cases can take years as i said.
in countries like china, you dont own any land, so the government can take it, then build right away. they have 70 year leases and i think 50 for businesses. someone correct me if im wrong. so china and russia can sezie that shit day one and build the next day theoretically. in america it could take forever. there's also zoning and complaints.
"nooooo stalker child, no loud trains near my property."
this is where eminent domain happens, where the government forces them to sell for a fair market price, but some people refuse to sell so it could be tied up in court for years before any rail can even be built.
there's a high speed rail system being built from dallas to houston and it's been in the works for over a damn decade.
they finally got all the permissions to do it. the eminent domain court cases can take years as i said.
in countries like china, you dont own any land, so the government can take it, then build right away. they have 70 year leases and i think 50 for businesses. someone correct me if im wrong. so china and russia can sezie that shit day one and build the next day theoretically. in america it could take forever. there's also zoning and complaints.
"nooooo stalker child, no loud trains near my property."
- Joined
- May 6, 2020
Good gambling stream. And now, an excerpt from American Gods by Neil Gaiman:
Entering the casino, one is beset at every side by invitation—invitations such that it would take a man of stone, heartless, mindless, and curiously devoid of avarice, to decline them.
Listen: a machine-gun rattle of silver coins as they tumble and spurt down into a slot machine tray and overflow onto monogrammed carpets is replaced by the siren clangor of the slots, the jangling, blippeting chorus swallowed by the huge room, muted to a comforting background chatter by the time one reaches the card tables, the distant sounds only loud enough to keep the adrenaline flowing through the gamblers veins.
There is a secret that the casinos possess, a secret they hold and guard and prize, the holiest of their mysteries. For most people do not gamble to win money, after all, although that is what is advertised, sold, claimed, and dreamed. But that is merely the easy lie that gets them through the enormous, ever-open, welcoming doors.
The secret is this: people gamble to lose money. They come to the casinos for the moment in which they feel alive, to ride the spinning wheel and turn with the cards and lose themselves, with the coins, in the slots. They may brag about the nights they won, the money they took from the casino, but they treasure, secretly treasure, the times they lost. It's a sacrifice, of sorts.
The money flows through the casino in an uninterrupted stream of green and silver, streaming from hand to hand, from gambler to croupier to cashier to the management to security, finally ending up in the Holy of Holies, the innermost sanctum, the Counting Room. And it is here, in the counting room of this casino, that you come to rest, here, where the greenbacks are sorted, stacked, indexed, here in a space that is slowly becoming redundant as more and more of the money that flows through the casino is imaginary: an electrical sequence of ons and offs, sequences that flow down telephone lines.
In the counting room you see three men, counting money under the glassy stare of the cameras they can see, the insectile gazes of the tiny cameras they cannot see. During the course of one shift each of the men counts more money than he will see in all the pay packets of his life. Each man, when he sleeps, dreams of counting money, of stacks and paper bands and numbers that climb inevitably, that are sorted and lost. Each of the three men has idly wondered, not less than once a week, how to evade the casino's security systems and run off with as much money as he could haul; and, reluctantly, each man has inspected the dream and found it impractical, has settled for a steady paycheck, avoided the twin specters of prison and an unmarked grave.
And here, in the sanctum sanctorum, there are the three men who count the money, and there are the guards who watch and who bring money and take it away; and then there is another person. His charcoal-gray suit is immaculate, his hair is dark, he is clean-shaven, and his face and his demeanor are, in every sense, forgettable. None of the other men has even observed that he is there, or if they have noticed him, they have forgotten him on the instant.
As the shift ends the doors are opened, and the man in the charcoal suit leaves the room and walks, with the guards, through the corridors, their feet shushing along the monogrammed carpets. The money, in strongboxes, is wheeled to an interior loading bay, where it is loaded into armored cars. As the ramp door swings open, to allow the armored car out onto the early streets of Las Vegas, the man in the charcoal suit walks, unnoticed, through the doorway, and saunters up the ramp, out onto the sidewalk. He does not even glance up to see the imitation of New York on his left.
Las Vegas has become a child's picture-book dream of a city—here a storybook castle, there a sphinx-flanked black pyramid beaming white light into the darkness as a landing beam for UFOs, and everywhere neon oracles and twisting screens predict happiness and good fortune, announce singers and comedians and magicians in residence or on their way, and the lights always flash and beckon and call. Once every hour a volcano erupts in light and flame. Once every hour a pirate ship sinks a man o' war.
The man in the charcoal suit ambles comfortably along the sidewalk, feeling the flow of the money through the town. In the summer the streets are baking, and each store doorway he passes breathes wintry A/C out into the sweaty warmth and chills the sweat on his face. Now, in the desert winter, there's a dry cold, which he appreciates. In his mind the movement of money forms a fine latticework, a three dimensional cat's cradle of light and motion. What he finds attractive about this desert city is the speed of movement, the way the money moves from place to place and hand to hand: it's a rush for him, a high, and it pulls him like an addict to the street.
Entering the casino, one is beset at every side by invitation—invitations such that it would take a man of stone, heartless, mindless, and curiously devoid of avarice, to decline them.
Listen: a machine-gun rattle of silver coins as they tumble and spurt down into a slot machine tray and overflow onto monogrammed carpets is replaced by the siren clangor of the slots, the jangling, blippeting chorus swallowed by the huge room, muted to a comforting background chatter by the time one reaches the card tables, the distant sounds only loud enough to keep the adrenaline flowing through the gamblers veins.
There is a secret that the casinos possess, a secret they hold and guard and prize, the holiest of their mysteries. For most people do not gamble to win money, after all, although that is what is advertised, sold, claimed, and dreamed. But that is merely the easy lie that gets them through the enormous, ever-open, welcoming doors.
The secret is this: people gamble to lose money. They come to the casinos for the moment in which they feel alive, to ride the spinning wheel and turn with the cards and lose themselves, with the coins, in the slots. They may brag about the nights they won, the money they took from the casino, but they treasure, secretly treasure, the times they lost. It's a sacrifice, of sorts.
The money flows through the casino in an uninterrupted stream of green and silver, streaming from hand to hand, from gambler to croupier to cashier to the management to security, finally ending up in the Holy of Holies, the innermost sanctum, the Counting Room. And it is here, in the counting room of this casino, that you come to rest, here, where the greenbacks are sorted, stacked, indexed, here in a space that is slowly becoming redundant as more and more of the money that flows through the casino is imaginary: an electrical sequence of ons and offs, sequences that flow down telephone lines.
In the counting room you see three men, counting money under the glassy stare of the cameras they can see, the insectile gazes of the tiny cameras they cannot see. During the course of one shift each of the men counts more money than he will see in all the pay packets of his life. Each man, when he sleeps, dreams of counting money, of stacks and paper bands and numbers that climb inevitably, that are sorted and lost. Each of the three men has idly wondered, not less than once a week, how to evade the casino's security systems and run off with as much money as he could haul; and, reluctantly, each man has inspected the dream and found it impractical, has settled for a steady paycheck, avoided the twin specters of prison and an unmarked grave.
And here, in the sanctum sanctorum, there are the three men who count the money, and there are the guards who watch and who bring money and take it away; and then there is another person. His charcoal-gray suit is immaculate, his hair is dark, he is clean-shaven, and his face and his demeanor are, in every sense, forgettable. None of the other men has even observed that he is there, or if they have noticed him, they have forgotten him on the instant.
As the shift ends the doors are opened, and the man in the charcoal suit leaves the room and walks, with the guards, through the corridors, their feet shushing along the monogrammed carpets. The money, in strongboxes, is wheeled to an interior loading bay, where it is loaded into armored cars. As the ramp door swings open, to allow the armored car out onto the early streets of Las Vegas, the man in the charcoal suit walks, unnoticed, through the doorway, and saunters up the ramp, out onto the sidewalk. He does not even glance up to see the imitation of New York on his left.
Las Vegas has become a child's picture-book dream of a city—here a storybook castle, there a sphinx-flanked black pyramid beaming white light into the darkness as a landing beam for UFOs, and everywhere neon oracles and twisting screens predict happiness and good fortune, announce singers and comedians and magicians in residence or on their way, and the lights always flash and beckon and call. Once every hour a volcano erupts in light and flame. Once every hour a pirate ship sinks a man o' war.
The man in the charcoal suit ambles comfortably along the sidewalk, feeling the flow of the money through the town. In the summer the streets are baking, and each store doorway he passes breathes wintry A/C out into the sweaty warmth and chills the sweat on his face. Now, in the desert winter, there's a dry cold, which he appreciates. In his mind the movement of money forms a fine latticework, a three dimensional cat's cradle of light and motion. What he finds attractive about this desert city is the speed of movement, the way the money moves from place to place and hand to hand: it's a rush for him, a high, and it pulls him like an addict to the street.
- Joined
- Oct 31, 2021
Great show, ended on one of my fave songs!
Joshcore is so good, I wonder what it’s like to hear yourself though when it’s not actually you, must freak you out a bit
Joshcore is so good, I wonder what it’s like to hear yourself though when it’s not actually you, must freak you out a bit
- Joined
- Feb 22, 2021
Today's ending song is sponsored by Radiohead.
Before anyone throws another autism fit about it being the clean version, the studio acapellas that Radiohead released use the clean versions so take it up with Thom Yorke.
Before anyone throws another autism fit about it being the clean version, the studio acapellas that Radiohead released use the clean versions so take it up with Thom Yorke.
- Joined
- Dec 12, 2022
Just in the case that Josh talks about the Troon "Science" thread in the future streams. I suggest that this should be the outro song.
Btw, great stream Josh, I had a blast watching it all the way through.
Btw, great stream Josh, I had a blast watching it all the way through.
- Joined
- May 15, 2018
Konami has released a bunch of Pachinko machines, too. Metal Gear, Silent Hill, Castlevania, you name it.
I still fucking hate them to this day for this and convinced me the Yakuza had their hands in that time.
- Joined
- May 7, 2018
I agree with Jersh talking about people who say he/other people don't hate lolcows enough. It's also always cows who are just kind of weirdos/losers, and not actually evil or anything. Cyber moralism is very pathetic, especially when pointed at someone who's worst crime is being terrible at videogames.
- Joined
- Dec 17, 2022
Mad at the Internet 2023-07-28: