"I Want My First Marriage To Be Legitimate"

This past Easter Sunday, I met and played poker with a really fun woman who perhaps can best be described as a PG-13 rated version of my pal Prudence.  I was originally thinking that she may have been a G-rated version, but then I realized that during our time together, we discussed Strip Clubs, butt implants, prostitution, “full service” and maybe a few other topics not fit for the kiddies, so perhaps PG-13 would be safer.

The lady in question was already seated when I took a seat at this table.  She was chatting with a couple of guys near her.  She was cute and about the same age as Prudence.  But I noticed an accent.  At first I thought British—but then no, it was clear the woman was from Australia.  I did learn her real name but we’ll call her “Kate” since that somehow feels Australian to me.

She was in the middle of a conversation about her efforts to get a work visa to relocate to the U.S. But she wasn’t moving from Australia.  She was currently living in Canada.  She had taken a job there as a stepping stone to moving to the states.  She was talking about how difficult it was getting into the U.S. (legally, at least).  She seemed to be saying she was considering marrying a U.S. citizen just so she could get into the country.  She mentioned a male friend of hers who lives in Vegas and who would probably agree to such a sham marriage in order to help get in the country.  Since they were friends and knew each other well, she could probably convince the authorities it was legit.

And then she said, “But no, I would never do that.  I always say, I want my first marriage to be legitimate.”

Hours later, I found out that the whole discussion had been a misdirect. She already had been approved for a work visa because her employer had transferred her to the U.S.—Southern California, in fact.  All she was waiting for was the paperwork to work its way through the bureaucracy.  She had just been kidding around.

I recalled that, the night I met Prudence (see here), she said a lot of things that turned out to be just her yanking our chain too.  Was it possible that Kate was already living in the U.S.—or even Vegas—just like Prudence was?  No, that wasn’t true.  I don’t think.

Kate was extremely friendly and out-going. And all the guys at the table couldn’t help themselves coming up with things to discuss with her.  I suspect the fact that she was both cute and the only woman at the table contributed to this.  But she was not at all dressed provocatively.  She was very conservatively and properly dressed.  In that sense, she almost stood out, as most women in Vegas anywhere near her age usually wear much more revealing clothing—especially now that the weather was heating up.  It’s one of the main reasons I go to Vegas, of course.

This was a club night and surely she wasn’t planning on going to the club this night.  They wouldn’t let her in.  Seriously, I don’t know what the dress code is for the club, but I’m pretty sure any woman not dressed like a slut  will be turned away at the door, and she was not at all dressed like a slut.

At one point early in the session, Kate looked at me and asked if I was a local.  I said I wasn’t but that I came here a lot.  She said I looked familiar and she was sure that she’d played with me before.  This was the room she mostly played in when she came to Vegas—which was quite frequently.

I acknowledged that was quite possible, although I honestly don’t see how.  How could I have possibly not remembered such a cute, talkative female poker player?  It’s what this blog lives for.  And the delightful Aussie accent?  I’d forget that too?  Not a chance.

Perhaps she had seen me in the room though, and remembered me even though we had never played together.  It makes sense, being such a handsome devil and all.  Yes, of course a much younger woman would remember my face.

When I found out she was moving to Southern California, I asked if she thought she might play at the Bike or some of the other card rooms down here.  She said she that was quite likely.  Now, she had mentioned there’s a poker room about a two hour drive from where she lives, but she never goes there.  She doesn’t feel like driving two hours to player poker, she’d rather play in Vegas.  She said that even though she also maintained that “all poker rooms are the same.”

And here she was talking about driving to the Bike (probably a good hour and half drive from where she was moving to) to play?  Didn’t make sense to me.  Plus, she’ll be only an hour away from Vegas by plane (and a much cheaper flight) or a four hour drive. 

At one point, my ears pricked up when I heard Kate say, “I think I saw a woman with butt implants at Subway yesterday.”  Huh?

“Subway? Which one?” Not that I would go to a Subway just to see a woman with butt implants. It just seemed like an odd observation to make.  I didn’t really know if there was any context to this revelation.  It seemed to have come out of the blue.

But I misheard.  “The Sapphire Club.  It’s a strip club here in Vegas.”

Ahh.  Yes I’d heard of it.  Not that I would ever patronize such a place.

“Oh, a Strip Club.  Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”  I explained what I thought I heard and everyone found that amusing. 

Before I could get to the alleged butt implant, I had to ask her about the strip club, because this is an issue that totally baffles me.

I’ve already discussed this subject previously, in the post here.  I don’t understand women wanting to go to strip clubs where women take their clothes off.  I just don’t get it.  Sure I can understand them wanting to see male strippers (and for posts about male strippers, see here and here.)

So once I realized that this otherwise proper woman was telling how she and her female friend had visited a Strip Club the other night, I had to ask about it.

“I don’t get it, why do girls go to strip clubs?”

She actually seemed surprised by the question, like it was ridiculous.  She acted almost as surprised as if I had asked why a guy would go to a strip club.

“Why not?  It’s fun.  I enjoy watching the dancers, most of them are good dancers, certainly better than male dancers.  And we can go there and not get harassed by the guys.  The guys pretty much ignore us, they’re paying attention to the dancers.  So it’s hassle-free. Women don’t like male strip shows. It’s not appealing. It’s just weird.  It’s not fun or sexy at all.”

Wait.  People go to strip clubs to see the girls dance?  Really?  I though they went to strip clubs to see naked girls.

She also said it’s not expensive.  Just $30, including the limo there and back, one drink.  I guess she didn’t spring for any lap-dances.

So I said, “It’s just weird to me. In my day, no woman would ever, ever go to a strip club.  Not one with girls stripping that is.  Maybe a Chippendales show, but not to see naked girls.  It just wasn’t done.  They would never do that.”  Note: I actually mentioned in an early post a story about a woman going to a strip club “back in the day” here, but that was a rare exception to his rule.

Kate—and everyone else, all much younger than me—acted like I was speaking a foreign language.  When was “back in the day” they demanded to know?  Like, the 70’s?.

Someone—I don’t think it was Kate—associated the ‘70’s with Farrah Fawcett.  True she was a big sex symbol back then.  They got that right.  But there was more to the ‘70’s than Farrah.  Anyway, they all went back to basically insisting that women in the ‘70’s went to strip clubs just like the women of today do.

And then Kate proclaimed, “It’s just like it was then.  The only difference with women then and now is less hair.”  Although Farrah was famous for her long, flowing blonde hair and her personal hairstyle, I can assure you this was not the hair that Kate was asserting that there’s less of.  She was referring to the hair down under—so-to-speak.

Before I could argue, I was interrupted by the dealer, Dennis (for a really early story about Dennis, see here).  As you can tell, Dennis has been dealing to me for a long time.  I was sitting immediately to his right and he spoke to me, kind of in a whisper.  “Why are you saying ‘back in the day’? Don’t do that.  You’re not old, don’t talk like you are. Don’t make yourself seem old.  Stop it with the ‘back in the day’ crap.”

Wow.  It was nice that Dennis didn’t think of me as old, or that he was trying to prevent me from looking and sounding old.  The irony was that I was in town to celebrate my birthday and the birthday poker game was going to be held the very next night (see here).  So maybe I was feeling a bit old.

But of course, I was right about what I was saying.  I was there and most of them weren’t—at least not as sentient adults.

But chastened by Dennis, I stopped trying to convince Kate and the others they had no idea what women were like “back in the day.”  And as such, I never got to make my other point.  So I’ll make it here.

Not only would a woman back then never be caught dead at a strip club, if your wife or girlfriend ever found out that you (a guy) went to a strip club, you would soon be found dead yourself.

Seriously, you could never admit to a woman you were interested in that you liked strip clubs.  You could never admit to a woman that you ever, ever, ever had been to a strip club.  You just couldn’t.  She would think you were a pervert—totally updateable.  You were not fit to associate with.

In fact, if you were in a relationship with a woman, and she found out you went to the strip club with your buddies, she would accuse you of cheating on her.  And this was before the lapdance was invented!  You were cheating on her just by paying to see some total stranger shake her tits in front of you for a couple of minutes.  Simple as that.  And one girl you could be sure of never seeing naked again was that now ex-girlfriend. Guys who went to strip clubs back then did so secretly.

But I didn’t pursue it.  So I had no choice but to pursue the girl with the butt implants.

“So tell us about the butt implants.”

Kate said one of the strippers appeared to have a fake butt.  She tried to describe it and even used her hands to try to show us the unnatural curve of her ass.  It was pretty funny.

Truth is, this did not surprise me at all. As an observer of the scantily clad ladies who frequent the night club, I’ve noticed for some time that some of the girls seem to have something extra filling out that short skirt.  Is there such a thing as butt falsies?  I dunno, but I see some unnaturally large backsides these days.  Some nights I wonder if I saw more butt jobs than boob jobs. There are lots of gals I see I suspect have had plastic surgery both upper front and lower back.  I wonder if they get that all at once or it if it takes two separate visits? Is there a volume discount?

It seems that big asses on women are really in these days.  I blame Kim Kardashian for this.  I’m pretty sure she started it with her humongous derriere. I’ve heard that the Postal Service has given her ass its own zip-code. Personally, I’m not a big fan of the enormous tush.

The accompanying picture was sent to me by fellow blogger MrBen, who visits Vegas frequently from the U.K. I’ve mentioned a session with Ben most recently here.  On a subsequent visit, when I wasn’t in town, Ben and his wife noticed some women who appeared to have butt implants.  He mentioned it his report here.  I commented about the trend and Ben was kind enough to send me a pic his wife had taken of a woman who they suspected had a fake ass (or as they say in the U.K., “arse”—or perhaps “bum”).  Thanks, Ben.  I knew I’d find a good use for that photo!

The discussion of the strip club triggered an interesting comment from the New York Indian, so I better introduce him.  Yes, I called him the NY Indian, and yes, I know the baseball team known as the Indians is located in Cleveland.  This guy lived in the New York metropolitan area but was clearly of Indian heritage. The country of India, not “native American.”  But he didn’t have the accent of someone raised in India.  Actually, he had a thick New York accent and it was kind of weird hearing the New York accent come out of him.

He was hours away from his redeye flight back to NY.  He definitely had a New York attitude, if you know what I mean.  And a very foul mouth.  Every third word out of him was the f-word.  He said it like some people say, “you know” or “like.”  It was, you know, like, “I have a few f-ing hours to f-ing kill before I have to f-ing leave for the f-ing airport to catch my f-ing plane back to f-ing Newark.”  Surprisingly, only one dealer warned him about his language.  He tried unsuccessfully to cut down on the f-bombs, with minimal success.

At one point he joked (or was it a joke?) that he gets through airport security really fast because he has dark skin.

As I said, he spoke like a New Yorker, not like an Indian.  But for some reason, at one point, he took on the persona of actual native Indian and did a three minute monologue impersonating one of those tech guys you get on the phone when your router doesn’t work (see here).  The funny thing was, if he had started talking like that first thing, we wouldn’t have thought anything of it.  But having heard him talk like a New Yawker for an hour, it was hilarious.  It would have been totally insensitive and perhaps racist if he wasn’t of Indian descent himself but….well actually, it might have been insensitive and racist anyway.

And that's the end of part 1.  I’m going to leave you hanging as to his comment in response to Kate’s strip club story. But here’s a hint:  It involved midgets.  And the second and final chapter also involves discussions of prostitution around the world, a little more on strip clubs and oh, I may just be able to squeeze in a little poker.  Maybe.  Part 2 can be found here.

"Jack-Ball Me!"

I wrote a post on my birthday last month (see here).  It was written after I was awakened around 5AM by a fire alarm. I mentioned in that post that the previous night I had played in a “crazy dealer’s game at BSC.  The game was actually organized by my buddy Mike to celebrate his birthday, which is the day before mine.  Mike usually does this on birthday and that was just one more reason for me to be in Vegas on that day.

This year, Mike was kind enough to actually add my name to the official Birthday event on the Facebook invitations.  Many of the people invited saw my name and had the same reaction.  “Who the hell is ‘Rob’?”  It was actually very touching.

No seriously, it was really nice of Mike to put my name on there. It makes up for all the times he’s bitched about how my blog posts are too long to read (preposterous!) or all the times he’s cracked my pocket Kings.  True, every dealer in Vegas has (or will) cracked my Kings, that’s no great accomplishment.  But Mike’s been doing it longer and more consistently than anyone else.  And honestly, he was cracking my Kings before it was even a thing.

So in an attempt to thank Mike for his courtesy, I am going to start the story of this game off with Mike’s finest moment of the affair. Sadly, I didn’t witness it; it happened after I had left.  So I have to rely on second-hand sources, and I don’t have all the details because I didn’t take notes on it (since I wasn’t there).  But I have three reliable sources for it.  Well, make that two.  Mike was quite drunk and he could easily have been hallucinating.  But both Brent and Abe insist it really happened.

It seems that after I left the game, Brent pushed into deal and pushed Mike the very first pot of his down.  And the next one.  And the next one.  And at least six or seven more.  Seriously, Brent told me the next night that Mike had won an incredible number of pots in a row, from the very first one he dealt.  Mike could do no wrong.  Sometimes he had monsters and sometimes he had weak hands but he won with them all.  Apparently he even won an Omaha hand with nothing more than a pocket pair—it seems everyone else missed their draws.  It was quite amazing.  And since this game had a ½ kill, after the second one, they were all kill pots.

Next time I saw Mike, he had been too drunk to recall if I had been there to witness this incredible hot streak of his.  I informed him that Brent had informed me but I hadn’t seen it myself.  Mike was disappointed.  He wanted his epic run to be immortalized on this very blog.  You see, Mike only reads my blog when he appears in the story.

But I said I would work it in to the post as a personal favor to him.  And so I have.

As with last year, the game was going to rotate Crazy Pineapple and Omaha High.  No stupid “Reverse Hold’em” (as covered in this post).  It was 2/4 limit with the aforementioned half-kill.

The turn-out was quite a bit down from the previous year (when we had three games going).  Not sure why but a lot of folks you’d expect to show up didn’t.  We were never able to start a second table.  One disappointing no-show was Prudence, for example.  In fact, most of the wild, crazy ladies who’ve attended previous such events were absent.  As such, this will almost be a salacious-free post, sad to report.

What salaciousness there was was supplied by Angela, one of the truly wonderful people who works at BSC.  She’s not a dealer and I’ll just leave it at that.  She’s always incredibly nice to me and I suspect she treats people who she doesn’t see as often as me just as well.  I’ve never seen her play poker, but while she was wearing her BSC uniform, she came by the table once or twice to check in on us and say hello (she was on duty).  At one point, of the players in her game ask to see her “ink.”  Until that moment, I didn’t know she had any ink.  And her response was intriguing.  “Well, I’ll have to take my shirt off.”  I don’t think anybody would have objected to that.  Well ok, perhaps her boss.

In fact, later, she did come by with her shirt off.  Her uniform shirt.  She was of course completely covered by a sleeveless t-shirt.  And the ink she was showing off was all on her arm.  At least, the ink that we could see.

And Mike again had his South Park character figurine with the huge balls that I discussed in last year’s birthday post (here).  He was again asking random women he works with if they would like to lick his balls.  Angela wasn’t interested.  Mike said, “I’ll shave them for you.”  As Angela left the table, she shouted, “You’ll have to wax them.”

One potentially wild, crazy lady who did show up, albeit briefly, was Didi (see here).  I haven’t mentioned her in awhile.  She hasn’t been in the room very often lately.  And the last few times I saw her, she was quite restrained, I witnessed none of the antics that I had described in my posts about her.  She didn’t even call me “Patch Adams” when she saw me.  But on those occasions, she was with her boyfriend (a regular player in the room as it happens) and that may have had something to do with her more ladylike behavior.

Didi had some news; she is moving away from Las Vegas. There are poker rooms in the state she is moving to; I wonder how her act will play there?  She also brought us all some cupcakes, which were much appreciated.  But again, she was quite subdued when she said hello to me—and wished me a happy birthday.  She did ask if I would miss her and I said of course I would.

Didi and her boyfriend did not stick around long enough to play, however. I dunno if they would have if there had been spots for them, or if they had to get somewhere anyway.

One person who was there was a regular I’m going to call “Kevin.”  He’s in the room playing a lot, and is pals with all the dealers.  For some reason, I haven’t actually played with him more than once or twice.  I do recall him once seeing me and saying “Hi, Rob” and wondering how he knew my name. 

He’s quite nice guy and certainly didn’t deserve what I did to him on a particular hand.

For awhile, I was just losing chips like crazy.  This despite the fact the game had started out a lot tamer (less raising, three-betting and capped betting rounds) than usual for a game of this nature.  I just couldn’t hit anything and when that happens, you’d be surprised at how fast you can bleed chips even in a 2/4 game.

The only way I could win hand, it seemed, was to get quads.  Which I was getting quite often, at least at first.  In a Omaha hand, I had a pair of Jacks, and an Ace to match the suit of one of the jacks.  Don’t remember the other card.  There was an Ace on the flop, nothing else, but I called a bet (maybe even a bet and a raise).  The turn was an Ace.  Trip Aces isn’t really a good hand in Omaha, so I just called a bet, didn’t raise.  But the river was also an Ace.  Even in friggin’ Omaha, quad Aces is a good hand. I think I bet the hand and only got one caller, but it was a decent pot.

A little later, I had pocket 8’s in Omaha and who knows what else.  I paid to see the flop, which had a couple more 8s on it.            I checked it, there was a bet and a raise which I of course called.  I checked the turn, and someone bet, and of course I called.  I believe there at least three of us left to see the river.  I checked again, assuming the aggressor would bet out and I could make my check-raise.  But this time he checked, and there was no betting action on the river.  “No one bet into my quads?” I exclaimed as I showed my hand. 

Then came the hand against Kevin.  This was Crazy Pineapple.  I had pocket 3’s and some meaningless card.  I limped in and then had to call a raise from Kevin.  The flop was Ace-3-x, two clubs.  I led out because of the flush draw.  Kevin raised, and I called.  Did he have a set of Aces?  Or merely Ace-King, Ace-Queen, that kind of hand?  I just called.  I really was thinking it was set over set, and that maybe I should just call it down.

Until I saw the turn, which was the case 3.  Now of course I checked and Kevin bet and I just called.  I can’t tell you anything about the river card except it wasn’t an Ace. I’m not sure if I led out this time and he raised, or if I checked and he bet.  But he only bet or raised one time.  When I raised, he just called (and remember this was limit, so it was increments of four bucks). Did he really put me on quads? 

Umm yes, he did.  He showed his boat, Aces full. He had flopped a set of Aces.  I showed my quad 3’s.  So I had one-outed him.  He was smart enough to lose the minimum there.  He’s such a good guy, I came as close as possible to feeling sorry for taking his money. I mean, when I apologized for the suck-out, it almost felt like I meant it.

And then I went like forever without winning a hand.  Seriously, I was soon losing money.  How the heck do you lose money in a limit game when you get quads three friggin’ times?  And in case you’re wondering, because we weren’t playing Hold’em, there was no jackpot drop and thus no high bonuses for us.

But somehow I did lose money  In fact, I was getting short stacked.  Now, back when I was a regular limit player, I would never allow myself to get short stacked, because that’s really stupid to do in a limit game.  You need to have ammo if you do get a monster and you control to a large degree how much your risk, unlike NL where your stack is in play on every hand.  I would see players buy in for $20 and think how crazy that was.  They ran out of money long before the river and thus, when they did have a winning hand, they’d win a lot less than they could have.

But by now it was getting late I kind of felt if I ran out of my buy in (I think it was $100 and then I added on $40 when I was running low), I’d just call it a night.  I thought I had enough anyway because there wasn’t as much raising and capping as in the past.  Until this hand.  I had Ace-10 of diamonds and a random card in Crazy Pineapple.  I called a raise but then it was re-raised and I think it ended up being capped before the flop.  I flopped the nut flush draw so I had to call a few bets and raises.  On the turn, I picked up a gut-shot to the wheel.  By now there was a 5,3,and 2 on the board.  So of course I called a bet and a raise.  I had $6 left!

The river was a four, but not a diamond. I really didn’t think my straight was good, fearing the other guy had at least a 6-high straight.  So when he bet (and everyone else folded), I just called and kept the two bucks.  I was gonna throw it to the dealer if I lost.  But all he had was the Ace too and we chopped it up.  There was so much money in from the other players that I actually had a pretty nice stack after that, more than enough to play and call all the raises I would have to without rebuying.

Which brings us to Michelle.  Michelle of course is the dealer who “never pushes me a pot.”  I used to keep a running tally in my head of now many pots she owed me (down from 100, because she once said she owed me 100 pots).  But that’s as a dealer. As a player, Michelle is the poster girl for the term “No fold’em, hold’em.”  In her case, it doesn’t matter whether she’s playing limit. 1/2 NL or even 2/5 NL (or so I’m told), she never met a hand she didn’t like.  At the previous Crazy Pineapple/Omaha game, Michelle’s boyfriend gave her this advice, “Try to fold at least one hand per orbit, honey.”

When Michelle first arrived, she couldn’t get into the game as we were full.  Then Mike took a break and allowed Michelle to play over him (play with his chips).  Of course, in a serious game, this would be strictly forbidden, but the rules are looser in a game such as this, which is basically a home game.

And when she was playing with Mike’s money, she was playing much tighter and saner than she does when she’s playing with her own money. She’s actually a decent player when she wants to be.  It’s just that, left to her own devices, she wants to see every flop, almost every turn, and pretty much all of the rivers too.

Mike returned, but soon a seat opened up and Michelle took it.  She was in a particularly good mood.  In fact, although she hadn’t had a drop of alcohol, she was acting rather tipsy.  She played every hand of course, and wasn’t particularly shy about saying what card she needed.

Thus one time, before the flop, she shouted out, “Come on, Jack-Ball me!”  I believe she probably addressed the dealer by name, and it may very well have been Jack—but remember, Jack isn’t his real name, so it wasn’t as ironic as it sounds.  I think the first time she shouted this, Jack did indeed put a Jack on the flop.  My memory is hazy but she might have hit a set of Jacks that time.

Everyone was laughing at her “Jack-Ball me” line and it became a running gag.  For awhile, she said it before every flop, even though she surely couldn’t need a Jack every time. Sometimes there would be a Jack on the flop and she’d actually fold to a bet, and we’d remind her that she had indeed been “Jack-Balled.” But she’d fold anyway.  Other times she’d raise when there was no Jack on the flop and we’d joke about that too.  And once she got tired of saying it (after about 45 minutes or so), we’d always point out to her whenever there was a Jack on the board and remind her that she had been “Jack-Balled.”

It was inevitable that Michelle and I would eventually get into a hand.  Soon after the wheel hand I described, I had Ace-7-6, all hearts, in Crazy Pie.  An off duty dealer had raised preflop and Michelle and I and maybe some others called.  Note: I’m not giving the off duty dealer a blog name because I’m too tired to think of one.  If and when he does something else blogworthy, I’ll come up with something.  Anyway, the flop was 5-3-2, two diamonds and no hearts.  In a game like this, it’s almost always worth it to call a flop bet if you have a gut shot.  The preflop raiser bet, Michelle and I called (and maybe some others) and I threw out the Ace and went for the gut shot.

Which I hit on the turn, a lovely 4, and not a diamond.  What had happened was that the preflop raiser, (a dealer in this very room), had actually bet $4 blind blind before the turn card was exposed.  Michelle immediately raised it to $8 as soon as she saw the 4.  At which point, the dealer tried to claim that he hadn’t actually bet the $4 and tried to take it back!  WTF?  He of all people should have known his bet was binding.  But the actual dealer had to call the floor over to rule.  He tried to explain why it wasn’t a bet—I didn’t quite get what argument he was making—but of course the floor ruled that his bet stayed and Michelle was allowed to make it $8.

Which was great for me because that allowed me to make it $12.  The dealer folded and Michelle just called.  She checked the river and called my $4 bet.  She had just the 6 for the straight and she was pretty sure that I had the higher straight, as I did.  As she said, explaining why she didn’t raise me back, “You can’t raise Robert….he never plays a hand.”  Damn, I do have to loosen up my image, don’t I?

That hand put me pretty close to even and I played until we switched back to Omaha.  I thanked Mike for the party, wished him a happy birthday and said my goodbyes.

In addition to learning about Mike’s incredible run the next day, I heard that after the table thinned, they actually played a round of Razz.  This is significant because it is a game that Abe excels at.  Except that he usually gets the best Razz hands when he’s playing Hold’em.  When he told me he won some nice hands at Razz, I said I assumed he would get nothing but quads playing it.

Anyway, it was another fun birthday/poker affair.    

The Night of the Grump

The title of this post has a double meaning.  On the one hand, it refers to the most powerful hand in poker, the mighty deuce-four, as immortalized by semi-retired blogger Poker Grump. In his honor, deuce-four is referred to as “The Grump,” just as Ace-King is called “Big Slick.” The Grump is featured in a couple of noteworthy hands from this evening.  But the title also refers to a general grumpiness exhibited by several players during the evening, most notably my pal Abe.  It is Abe who suggested the title of this post, for which I’m grateful.  But I’m even more grateful to him for another reason, as you’ll see when I get to “the hand of the night.” 

Another possible title for this post could have been, “Protect your hand—Read the Damn Board edition.”  Previous posts in the “protect your hand” series can be found here, here and here.

Before Abe had shown up, I was already stuck $100 and reloaded the $100. While waiting to get called to a game, Abe explained that he was feeling especially “salty” this night.  Normally the nicest guy in the poker room, on this night he was extremely out of character. He was having a bad day and I can't reveal why. But I know the reason and I can assure you he was justified in being “extra salty” this time.

I had lost the $100 without any memorable hands, just the usual drip drip. Actually, at one point I was close to being stuck $200, and then I made back a few bucks at one point calling a guy’s bluff with a lonely pair of 3’s. 

Before Abe got a seat, I was under the gun plus 1, and looked at deuce-4 offsuit.  At the risk of getting thrown out of the Grump club, I confess I don’t usually raise in that position.  But I was having a bad night and felt like this was a good spot to try to mix things up.  So I raised to $10 after UTG limped in.  Five players called.

The flop was Ace-9-5, rainbow.  I really couldn’t see myself c-betting in that situation, with so many in the hand, even with the gut-shot.  But the guy to my immediate right, first to act, bet $12.

Now, this kid was an absolutely terrible player.  He limped into most every pot, called down with almost any piece of the board, middle pair, bottom pair, almost regardless of the board texture.  I was frustrated that I hadn’t gotten any of his money yet.  The donk bet of $12 into a $60 pot was more evidence of what a bad player he was.

OK, I decided to call.  That was cheap enough to see another card, and I figured there was at least a decent chance there wouldn’t be a raise behind me.  There wasn’t.  Only one other player called.

The turn was a beautiful 3, completing my gutter.  The kid bet out again, this time $15 into a $90+ pot.  I supposed I could have just called there, but I don’t really like slow playing straights.  I made it $60 (arguably too small a bet for the size of the pot).  The other guy folded and the kid who led out thought for a bit, said, “Oh, I guess you have it,” and folded. 

I texted Abe the news that I had raised with the Grump and turned my gutshot. Soon, he took a seat at the game I was at and proceeded to prove his saltiness by texting me nasty messages about various dealers and various players in the game.  Then, he refused to chop the blinds with his neighbor, saying, “I’m feeling salty so I’m not chopping tonight.”  He has always chopped before.

Then the kid next to me—the really bad player—pissed him off. The kid had won a few drawing tickets and kept saying he was trying to hang on to enough of his chips to still be playing when the 10:00 PM drawing would take place.  At one point he bet half his stack and said, “Please don’t put me all in, I need to be playing at 10.”  Yikes.  Luckily for him, no one called that bet.

Anyway, Abe had raised preflop and the kid of course called.  I don’t recall the action but by the river the board was Jack high and had a pair of 8’s.  I don’t remember if Abe checked first or not, but the kid went all in for his last $12.  The pot was like $70-$80 I guess.  In other words, there was no way Abe could fold there.

Except he apparently didn’t have much, if anything.  He even said, “I can’t fold this, but it’s too embarrassing to call.”  He tanked for a bit and even though he was sure he was beat, he just couldn’t justify a fold for only twelve bucks.  Finally, he threw the $12 into the pot and said, “OK, show me your Jack.”

The kid hesitated for a few seconds.  Then he said, finally, “Only one?”  And then paused a bit more and finally showed his cards—two Jacks.  He not only won the pot with his full house, but got a drawing ticket too.  As it happened, this was actually the last hand eligible for the drawing, so he had to hurriedly fill out his final ticket while the floor person waited for him.

Meanwhile, Abe was pissed about the slow roll.  And he said so in no uncertain terms.  “I can’t wait to take your money, boy.”  Or something like that.  A few players kind of went “whoa” when they heard that.  I was one of them.  I was really surprised that he said something so nasty, even knowing that he was feeling “salty.”  I said something like, “Wow, I’ve never heard you talk like that.”  He explained, “Well, I only do that when I’m being slow rolled.”              

The guy was oblivious to Abe’s comment, concentrating on filling out his ticket.  Just a few minutes later they had the drawing.  The first person picked wasn’t there.  But the second ticket pulled had the name of the kid who had just slow rolled Abe.  Yuck.

At this time, there were envelopes worth $100, $400 and $1,000.  We heard whooping and hollering….but he didn’t grab a $1K envelope.  He was satisfied with $400.  As he said when he came back, “I was actually hoping for $400, that was good enough.  I didn’t want to get greedy.”  Huh?

He didn’t play anymore, he really was just hanging around for the drawing.  So he sat at the table, taking up a seat for at least 15 minutes while waiting to get paid.  Later, when I passed by the shift manager, I said to him, “You know that guy who won the cash drawing?  Worst poker player I ever saw.  The only way he could win money here was by hitting that promo.”

After he left, the guy who had been sitting in seat 9 took over the kid’s seat, seat 5, to my immediate right.  This guy is crucial to the climax of our story, i.e., the hand of the night.

It was getting late and I was pretty much ready to call it a night.  Maybe an orbit or two more.  I had about $210 or so in front of me, meaning I was down almost $100 for the evening.  By this time, my buddy Jack was dealing.  He had been waiting to push in when Abe got slow rolled.  In the post here, I linked to a previous post and said a much better post involving Jack from this trip would be forthcoming.  This is that post.

And so, Jack dealt me a couple of red Aces in the small blind.  Three people had limped in, including the button, the guy who had recently moved to my immediate right.  I made it $14,

The big blind called.  And all the limpers called.  So it was a $70 pot (before the rake) on the flop.

Obviously I wasn’t thrilled about running my Aces against four other hands.  The flop was 5-3-2.  The deuce was red, the other two cards were both clubs.

First to act, I put out $60.  What else was I supposed to do?  I suppose I could have bet a little less? It went fold, fold, fold……shove.  Yeah, the guy on my immediate right, after thinking for a bit, went all in.  He had me covered.

I was immediately inclined to call just based on feeling pot-committed by my original bet.  I thought it through some more and was thinking his shove was more likely due to his being on a draw than having a made hand, like a set.  Though I suppose he could shove with a set to get a flush draw to fold.  Or to get someone who felt pot committed with a losing hand to call.

Well, I called, knowing that if I lost, I was done for the night.  Too late in the evening to think about a rebuy.

We didn’t show.  I figured last thing I wanted to see was any club.  The turn was a harmless looking red card.  The river was also a red card—a 4.  My first reaction was just relief that there was no third club.  I flipped over my hand and Jack called out, “pair of Aces.”

The other guy didn’t say anything, he just turned his cards over.  It was the Grump—deuce-four. Oh yeah, it was also suited.  The suit?  Clubs, of course. Now, because the betting action had ended after the flop, I kind of stopped thinking about anything except clubs.  Obviously I knew he could turn over pocket 5’s, 3’s or 2’s for a set, but I was thinking “no clubs.”  So there he was, showing his busted flush draw.  And all I was thinking was, “He shoved with a baby flush draw?”

Then I looked again and realized that he had a flush draw and a pair of deuces on the flop.  And before I could think any more, I heard Jack say, “He’s got two pair, deuces and 4’s.”

Shit.  I had just lost a big pot.  I had been rivered.  What a suckout.

Jack was just about to turn over my Aces when Abe spoke up.  I was still looking at the hands and reconstructing everything.  It was about this time I noticed that, with his suited Grump, the guy had flopped a monster draw.  An open-ended straight flush draw, along with the pair.  He had a zillion outs, no wonder why he hit one of them.

But wait, what was Abe saying? Just this: “Wait.  There’s a straight.”

Huh.  Oh yeah, indeed there was.  The four of course, gave me the wheel.  Last time I checked my cheat sheet, a straight beats two pair, even if it’s two pair with the mighty deuce-four.  I vaguely recalled thinking on the flop that I had a gut-shot, but that was so unlikely to hit I promptly forgot about it in all the excitement of the guy shoving and me calling.

Suddenly, Jack was now turning over the other guy’s hand and I was still trying to process everything.  I repeated aloud what I was thinking to myself.  “So he had on open ended straight flush draw, with the pair.  And the 4 that gave him two pair completed my gut-shot.”  Duh.

In response to my comment, Abe, still being incredibly salty this night, got real sarcastic and a bit nasty and said, “Yeah, very good.  Way for a poker writer to read the board. Very good.”

Then he turned his attention to Jack, who is also his pal.  “And a professional dealer.  He couldn’t read the board either.”

Jack had already apologized to both the other player, for teasing him with a big pot he didn’t actually win, and to me for almost giving my pot to the wrong guy.  He kind of giggled at Abe’s nasty comments and apologized again.

Now of course, I should have been grateful to Abe for saving my ass there, and pointing out Jack’s huge error that I hadn’t caught.  And I was.  But his tone was so uncharacteristically sharp, I had to give him a hard time about it.  I said, “OK, just for your nasty tone, your nasty comments, I’m not going to tip Jack.  You can tip him.  You give Jack a buck.”  I seem to recall also saying I wouldn’t tip Jack because he had made such a huge error, though I’m not sure about that.

Abe would have been justified in telling me to go f myself, but no, he said, nastily, “Alright” and threw Jack a buck.  Meanwhile, in the commotion, I had totally forgotten to put my stack out in front of me so that Jack could count it and collect the right amount from the deuce-four guy who was muttering about how he could miss when he had so many outs.

Abe noticed this too and so, still in his nasty mood, said, “Are you gonna push your chips out there and double up, or are you gonna just stare at the board a while longer?”

Oops.  No, a double up was just fine.  I put my chips out and Jack counted it and by the time I had stacked all my chips after the win, I had just a bit less than $500 in front of me.

Of course, I did indeed tip Jack generously for the pot.  Oh, and yes, the next night, I gave Abe his buck back, the one I made him give Jack.  And yes, although I didn’t do it this night—just because he was so salty—I thanked him the next day, both by text and in person, for catching Jack’s error that I should have noticed myself, of course.  An important lesson in protecting your hand, as I said at the outset.

Now, I think I probably would have realized I had the straight a few seconds later if Abe hadn’t caught it first. My mind was headed there. But the question then becomes, even if I had, would I have caught it time to save the pot?  Most likely not.  And then instead of this post, I’d be doing a post about how I had a brain fart at the table and cost myself $500.

I stayed a few more orbits, and very late in my session, some old guy had the dreaded pocket Kings. And believe it or not, he lost his stack with them to somebody’s two pair.  He was not amused as he rebought, and was muttering to himself.  He was acting like you’re supposed to win with that awful hand.

He was a bad sport, showing hostility to the other player and even the dealer as he sold him some more chips.  Now really, sir.  Littered throughout this blog are lessons in the proper way to lose with pocket Kings.  With grace and dignity.  You laugh it off, you smile.  You say, “Oh well, that’s poker.”* But this guy actually had the poor dealer asking if he had done something wrong.  Well yes, he had. He had given the guy pocket Kings.

So he was the final “grump” in the Night of the Grump.  For all the grumpiness, for all the saltiness, for all the near-disasters, it turned out to be a good night after all.

*-the other option is to silently seethe and then write a 25,000-word blog post kvetching about it.