I went out for more poker last night, this time at the Commerce, and pretty much got my ass handed to me. First, because I wasn’t getting the cards. Second, because I started making the game personal.
There were three “young people” in their mid to late twenties at the opposite end of the table: a very pretty girl, her boyfriend, and their idiot friend. They were all playing pretty tight, and the girl was catching hand after hand after hand — it seemed like every hand she played, she’d flop a flush or a straight or a full house. And naturally, I had second hand in most of those pots, so she was taking me down pretty good. Her boyfriend was playing pretty well too, but I started to get a pretty good read on him toward the end and took a couple of big pots from him when I caught him bluffing. And the idiot friend was … well, an idiot. He had pocket 4s and flopped a set on an early hand and thought he was a poker god from that point on. Luck seems to love idiots like him.
But what made it personal for me was the idiot friend. Loud. Obnoxious. Wearing a HUGE bling-bling wristwatch, along with a purple dress shirt with French cuffs and cufflinks and his name embroidered on the cuffs. And he was a wigger. Except he was Asian, which I guess made him… What? A jigger? Chigger? Kigger? Whatever, he was a total pain in the ass. I ended up staying in hands, chasing cards that could never come, just hoping that maybe I’d get lucky and beat him like a red-headed stepchild.
First, his betting style. Every time — EVERY time — the action came around to him, he’d sit. And think. And pointedly look around the table at every person’s chips, counting them. Then he’d sit. And think. Some more. Even when it was obvious that he was going to fold, he’d do this. Because he wanted us to know that he was a force to be reckoned with.
And if he was betting… Oh my god, that was a production, too. After sitting. And thinking. And counting everyone’s chips. He’d slowly. Deliberately. Carefully. Count out the chips he was betting. Stack them neatly. And then slowly, oh so slowly, place his hand palm up on the table behind them and ssslllooowwwlllyyy slide them in, pushing with his fingertips. And then bring his hand back with a flourish.
And then if he won — either because everyone folded to his bet or someone called him and his hand held up… Oh. My. God. The celebration. He’d jerk in his chair, pump his fists, yelp “Yessss!!!” and then start up with what pissed me off the most: “GANGstah!!! Oh yeah, that was so GANGstah! We’re keepin’ it GANGstah!!!” at the top of his lungs. Pocket Aces? Gangstah. Eight high flush? Gangstah. Seven/deuce with a deuce on the river? Gangstah. And if one of his friends won, we’d get the same “GANGstah!” crowing, along with him leaning over the table and pointing at whoever had lost the hand and bellowing “DEVASTATING!!!”
I wanted to rip his head off and shit down his neck. And the other two were getting under my skin, too, with their choruses of “Ohhhh, SNAP!!!” whenever one of them turned over a winning hand.
And so I played too many hands, chasing cards that never came, and ended up doing exactly the opposite of what I wanted to do: I gave them all my money. And I’m sure they’re telling stories now about the fat old guy who walked away from the table DEVASTATED!!!!
I hate poker sometimes.