Why are you pretending to be an embicilic fag Arab lawyer who doesnt know shit about bird law?Originally Posted by coach belly
I'm surprised to read that, mr a cunt in question.Originally Posted by accountinquestion
That is speculation, it's not a fact, or a fact of the matter.
Why are you saying that it's a fact, mr a retard cunt in question?
Are you so delusional that you think it's a fact?
Bird law?...get a grip.Originally Posted by theywontpayontuesday
But just to be clear...who is pretending in your fantasy?
They're both you mdawg.Originally Posted by coach bellyBird law?...get a grip.Originally Posted by theywontpayontuesday
But just to be clear...who is pretending in your fantasy?
Why "Bird Law" Matters
Habitat Protection: Some bird laws extend to protecting the habitats and environments necessary for birds' survival.
Commercial Trade: The laws prevent the illegal commercial trade of feathers and other bird parts, which would threaten wild bird populations.
Enforcement: Violations of the MBTA can result in significant penalties, including fines and imprisonment for felony offenses.
OK I get it now.Originally Posted by theywontpayontuesday
Bird law matters.
I don't know shit about bird law.
Mdawg and I are the same person.
Would you like to add anything else before I sentence you?
Stop posting fagOriginally Posted by coach bellyOK I get it now.Originally Posted by theywontpayontuesday
Bird law matters.
I don't know shit about bird law.
Mdawg and I are the same person.
Would you like to add anything else before I sentence you?
Motion denied...your bird law arguments are dismissed.Originally Posted by theywontpayontuesdayStop posting fagOriginally Posted by coach bellyOK I get it now.Originally Posted by theywontpayontuesday
Bird law matters.
I don't know shit about bird law.
Mdawg and I are the same person.
Would you like to add anything else before I sentence you?
......m
Last edited by theywontpayontuesday; Yesterday at 02:37 AM.
The fluorescent glow of the sports betting kiosks cast long shadows across the lobby of the Venetian. For Coach Belly, the harsh light was a familiar enemy, illuminating every wrinkle and gray hair as he squinted at the lines on his phone. Across the bustling space, amidst the clanging of slots and the murmur of the poker room, he found MDawg.
MDawg wasn't hard to spot. He was holding court by a high-limit baccarat table, surrounded by an eager audience hanging on his every whisper. He would gesture dramatically at the felt, a knowing smirk playing on his lips, before making a bet that was either unbelievably lucky or deceptively brilliant. The Vegas Casino Talk forum knew him as the master of the "long-disproven voodoo crap" of betting into streaks, and he leaned into that reputation with a performer’s flair.
Coach Belly wove through the crowd, a sense of grim duty settling on him. Today was supposed to be different. The ring in his pocket felt like a hundred pounds, and his stomach was doing nervous flips worthy of a bonus-whoring offshore bookie. He finally reached MDawg, who was just collecting a massive payout.
"Dawg, can I get a word?" Coach Belly asked, his voice a low growl.
MDawg turned, his wide smile fading slightly. "Coach! Just in time for the fireworks. The streak is hot tonight. Another five hands and I’m going to have enough to buy that Tesla outright."
"We need to talk," Coach Belly insisted, pulling MDawg toward a quieter corner of the casino floor, away from the watchful eyes of the pit bosses and the adoring fans. "Not as forum members. As future family."
MDawg's smile vanished completely. "About what? The wedding venue? The menu tasting? The..."
Coach Belly cut him off. "The wedding. Our wedding. My love, we’ve been engaged for a year, and we haven't made a single plan. Every trip to Vegas, you get caught up in another 'adventure,' another 'challenge.' We need to start thinking about us."
MDawg’s eyes darted nervously. He was a master of online deflection and sophistry, but he was no match for Coach Belly's real-life, human-to-human scrutiny. "Of course, sweetheart. It’s on my mind. Just one more trip. One more streak. The money we'll win will make the honeymoon unforgettable."
"The honeymoon isn't what I care about," Coach Belly said, his voice softening, a hint of vulnerability creeping in. "I care about the marriage. About a life with you that doesn't involve your weight fluctuating with your win-loss record or you vanishing for days at a time to chase some phantom advantage".
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring box, opening it to reveal a simple, elegant platinum band. "I didn't want a huge diamond. I wanted you. But I need you to be present. I need you to be real."
MDawg looked at the ring, then back at Coach Belly's earnest, worried expression. The confident gambler, the man who could spin a narrative of a half-million-dollar win out of thin air, was gone. In his place was a man who felt a familiar internal reckoning. For seven months, he had lied about his big wins online, and now a smaller, more important lie—that gambling was his top priority—was catching up to him.
"I can be real for you," MDawg said, his voice barely a whisper. He took Coach Belly's hand. "No more chasing streaks. No more baccarat fantasies. Just you and me."
A hint of skepticism remained in Coach Belly's eyes, but he saw something else there too: a deep-seated hope. "Is this a new network of lies, or is this for real?" he asked gently, referencing the online rhetoric that had surrounded them for years.
"It's real, my love," MDawg promised, squeezing his hand tightly. "I'll marry you right here, right now, in this casino chapel, and we can spend our honeymoon counting our winnings, all the while knowing the biggest score was finding you."
Coach Belly laughed, a genuine, heartfelt sound that echoed softly through the noise of the casino. "As long as you leave the sports betting phone at home, you big buffoon."
And as the two of them walked toward the gaudy chapel, hand-in-hand, they left behind the fluorescent lights and the lure of the tables. For the first time, MDawg and Coach Belly felt like they had finally found the jackpot they'd been seeking all along.
In the shadowy world of high-stakes gambling and online forum rivalries, the names MDawg and Coach Belly were legends, but perhaps not in the way they imagined. On the Vegas Casino Talk forums, MDawg built a mythos of spectacular wins and unparalleled fortune, a man who claimed to have an almost supernatural ability to beat the house. Coach Belly, his online counterpart and self-professed fiancée, was his steadfast defender, parroting his claims and fighting off legions of trolls who dared question the improbable stories.
In reality, their kingdom was a modest one: a two-bedroom apartment in a non-descript Las Vegas suburb, far from the glittering high-roller suites. On a Sunday morning, the glow of the casino floor was replaced by the softer light of a television screen as they watched the morning sports highlights.
"Another $100 on the Niners, Coach," MDawg said, his thumb hovering over his phone's betting app. "It's a lock. The line is a sucker bet."
"Are you sure, honey?" Coach Belly asked, not looking up from her coffee. Her name wasn't actually Coach Belly, of course. Her real name was Brenda, but she'd long ago embraced the online moniker. "Remember what happened with that baccarat streak? You said it was a lock then, too."
MDawg bristled. "That was different. That was a bonus whoring run, not my pure analytical skill at work. This is the real deal."
Brenda knew better. She had seen the spreadsheets, the meticulously tracked losses disguised as strategic play, and the frantic late-night posts crafted to perpetuate the myth of MDawg's success. But she played along. It was easier than having to face the cold, hard math of their reality.
Later that day, as Brenda was browsing the forums, she saw a new thread titled "The Day the MDawg Died," posted by their arch-nemesis, the perpetually cynical kewlJ. The thread contained a screenshot of a conversation claiming to expose MDawg as a fraud and a link to a blog detailing his supposed lies.
"They're at it again, honey," Brenda sighed, showing MDawg her phone.
MDawg's face, usually puffed with a sort of self-satisfied bravado, deflated. "That troll never gives up. He just can't stand that someone like me can beat the system."
"What are we going to do?" Brenda asked, a genuine note of fear in her voice. "What if people stop believing us?"
MDawg stood and began pacing the living room. "We can't let them win. I have to go to the casino. I have to show them."
Brenda's heart sank. "You're going to bet again? We're so close to having enough for the down payment on the house."
"We'll be closer after tonight," he insisted, grabbing his jacket. "You just watch. I'm going to find the biggest whale in the high-limit room, make friends with him, and turn this whole thing around."
He kissed her on the forehead, the ghost of a promise in his touch. But as he left, Brenda knew the truth. There was no whale, no system, no magic streak that would save them. The only thing that was real was her love for the flawed man behind the online persona. And as she watched the door close behind him, a sense of weary acceptance settled over her. She knew how this night would end. It always ended the same way.
First of all, you have to be a flaming faggot troll to start a thread like this in the Las Vegas subforum. Would be in whatever's on your mind if you weren't being a gay troll.
Second, I agree Mickey Crimm isn't gay. It's definitely true because he was wears a t shirt that said "I'm not gay but I suck Trump's dick"
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