How’s it coming with the cards, you are likely wondering? Well yesterday I tried to shuffle and it’s as if the thing on the end of my arm has been replaced with a dishrag. My shuffling fingers don’t work. I merely kind of threw the cards into my other dish towel and then looked at my useless hand-type-thing and said “ouch!”
Maybe my hand needs to juice? I don’t care if my testicles shrink.
Anyway, I haven’t yet tried today because I’m afraid but I’m sure at some point I will. Okay, I’m impatient. That point is now:
I’m sorry, did someone replace this deck of 52 cards with 85 cards? That’s not very nice. Whoever slipped a deck of Old Maid into my regular deck better fess up.
Bad news: Today is worse than yesterday.
I need some kind of magic guardian angel to appear in my living room in a poof of smoke.
Now look out, because I’m going to drop a name: Harry Blackstone, Jr. He was my dad’s best friend and my family often spent the holidays with his and he was the first person who changed my diaper I’m told. And no, he didn’t do any magic tricks with it. His daughter is the one who told me it was called The Russian Shuffle. Once he brought out a deck of cards and showed me a few things. I can’t remember what they were, but I’m pretty sure I’m doing nothing similar. What was my point? Oh yes, I knew Harry Blackstone and you didn’t. Also, my hand is useless and smells like cards.