Coin-Slot Eyes Loves Olives
No, I must admit that I do not happen to actually know what this guy’s real name is; it was that last Keno girl that just zipped by on roller skates — the one with the bobbed tangerine hair, the loud snapping watermelon-scented gum, and the really REALLY tight and short skirt — who had called him Coin-Slot Eyes as she swiped away his latest drained glass.
I don’t think he came by those eyes naturally — though I've heard the rumor running through the coffeeshop on Tropicana that he was born in not so distant Mt. Olive, so who knows? But, the way I figure it, those peepers are probably the unnatural result of consuming more than a brace of dirty martinis in a few too few late night hours.
I would imagine that when this guy’s night on the town started some 18 hours or so ago, after he donned his favorite peculiarly patterned shirt and slicked back his favorite peculiarly coiffed wavy hair and lightly spritzed his breath with his favorite caramel-menthol lozenge spray, he didn’t really picture himself eventually here, at a cafeteria table in the Volcanocopia Buffet at the Caldera Casino in Pahrump, Nevada, just down the road a piece from the fabled Chicken Ranch, pickled and poor and propped up and pooped and pixilatingly pie-eyed (OR coin-slot eyed, as the case may be).
But if you love olives so much that you always order martinis, and if you love olives so much that you can’t even bring yourself to eating just one of them as you’re sucking down those multiple martinis — thereby depriving yourself of even that potentially sobering and stomach-settling solid morsel of nutrition — then you’re bound to end up just as schnockered as this dude, and you too will assuredly refuse to divulge (Or perhaps even be able to remember) your own given name.
So, from now on he’s Coin-Slot Eyes, and that's that.
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