Feather Falls Casino Buffet

Buffet!  Buffet up Oro Dam, air slick as olive oil.  Ballet the Chevy Silverado, speedboat in tow: beat their ass to that buffet!  Buffet past the cherries and 7s and screams—yank go the Laotian fishermen, logo-less caps low, yank go the ladies in muumuus and drugstore monocles, yank go the douche buckets, yank go the PE coaches—ahoy!  Hamburger casserole!  Apple cheesecake dumpling pie!  Baked macaroni!  Butter flavored butter!  Instant mashed potatoes!  Eat!  We are anti-weather.  We are pro-smoking.  Day after Christmas?  Buffet!  Sundays in July?  Buffet!  Waitress for drink orders; the rest is on you.  Do you tip?  Nah.  Save that shit for tokens.  Vie for the free Escalade.  Randy Travis tickets.  Quarters for laundry.  High above the pit, the captains of local radio jingles are held captive by candidates for mayor.  Sir, I don't have a tribal badge.  This is California, son!  Fortune country!  Sir, I don't understand your notions of atonement.  Son, I'm shitting in cotton here.  You just hush and explain the color scheme.  Well, sir, every slot machine light hints the guests to a corresponding buffet item.  Yellow: omelet.  Orange: buffalo wings.  Red: cranberry sauce.  Hang on, son, we still have cranberry sauce?  Sir, all lack expired last week.  Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle. Bad day at Bedrock?  Buffet.  Any occasion to seek communion among the unlit, tithing their Social Security checks for CENSORED.  Son, tell that MC Oroville of yours to lay off the revelations.  Sir, he's not MC Oroville.  It's for MC Oroville.  I don't care if it's for Joe Monfuckingtana.  It'll end up in my ass crack if it rags on my goddamn casino. That's Feather Falls Casino!  Can't miss it.  Hate your family?  Haul 'em in.  Can't remember how to cry?  Lay your arm and pull.  We've got so many lights you'll go blind and tidy.  We've got deals for seniors, crackwhores and bus drivers.  Let me offer you a gold old-fashioned guarantee: for only PRICE CENSORED, you'll win so fat that you'll wake up in a puddle of your own parking lot scars.  Who is that big fat winner, you'll say.  Is that me?  
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