I hate poker...
Sometime I feel like this....
Taken from dickshagwell.com
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I Hate Poker.
As you may have been made aware recently, poker is taking the country by storm. Games are sprouting up in basements and garages and dining rooms everywhere (the dining table is actually useful!), and more than ever we see the rise of low ante structured and no-limit games. What does this all mean?
If you see Dick, prepare to win all his money.
Especially in no-limit hold ‘em.
Last night I hooked it up at a brotha’s house, who was hosting a tournament for whoever wanted to come. Unfortunately, we don’t like to fuck around, so the buy-in was a flat $100, and we saw the attendance of some businessmen and other well-to-dos who had no better use for a hun than to throw it away in an entertaining fashion against some long-time players and experts.
But that’s just more easy action for everybody, so I can’t complain. Especially after their third beer.
I’ma be real with y’all: I’m no world-class player. Hell, I’m not even a strong player.
I’ma be even mo’ real witchy’all: I suck. Like Ali’s daughter in the ring sucks. That bad.
The fuck I was doing buying in for a hun evades a brotha, even to this moment. Out of the fourteen of us starting out on the two tables, I went out second. Only because this kid was so balls-out drunk he went all-in on a hand he definitely shouldn’t have (offsuit 10-5? The fuck you doin’ in my pot?). Although he rectified later, I got pretty close, though, didn’t I? with a stupid grin on his face. Close only counts in horseshoes and bangin’ your girlfriend’s sister.
If there’s one piece of advice I can give you bitches about poker, its leave your phone off. You don’t want your bitch calling you at 2 in the moan-ing concerned with regards to your whereabouts. You don’t want to blurt out anything in a drunken stupor. Or even let her know you’re drunk. Hell, you don’t want to exchange a single word whilst your crew crowds around and blurts out obscenities while your bitch is almost in tears “worried about you”.
Plus, you don’t want her to know about the stripper serving drinks.
So, I was gone; went out like a sucka.
I got busted on my last hand when I went all-in on a Queen-Nine ‘o hearts before the flop. Two others called, and I sat back and watched my ass get handed to me on a felt platter.
I flopped the nut straight (8-10-J), in diamonds. Fuuuuck me. The two others got into a huge pot, and another off-suit eight came on Fourth St. As long as another diamond—well, later guys. The three-of-dees came on Fifth, and with four diamonds on the board, all it took was a pocket diamond to break me.
Both those crackas had ‘em at the showdown, and I was out with the fucking worst bad beat of the night.
Sometimes, I hate poker.
But then the stripper gave me a consolatory feel-better lap dance that—quite effectively—lifted my sorrows.
Sometimes, I love strippers.[/color:4a9f46f340] |
