The strongest homosexual impulses of my life have come with surging desires to rape winning loser just to put him in his place. The three most terrifying words in the world to him are “high school reunion.” Someone, usually several people, at every table is better-read than than he is, more professionally accomplished, gets laid more, is wittier, wealthier, better looking, better traveled, better at math, more fit… life is not his strong point. Yet, if he successfully bluffs one of his superiors in a fucking game of poker, he feels that he has surpassed them and is entitled to crow about it. I don’t condemn the winning loser for his shortcomings, but for his belief that being able to win, or even support himself at the poker table warrants a seat alongside Tom Brady and The Game atop Alpha Mountain. He is cock of nothing.
The “Gus Hanson Sucks” guy
A close cousin to the Blue Chip Phil Hellmouth— in fact some people achieve both distinctions. However, even as you move up in limits, you will find people willing to pass on “insider” knowledge about the ineptitude of well-known pros. The implication is always that the “Gus Hanson sucks” guy is better than the pro, and in many instances he will claim to have played with and bested the pro. “Oh, I play 80/160 with David Sklansky all the time… he’s terrible.” Then why are you getting thumped like Jenna Haze in a 20/40 game with lil’ ol’ me? Online, Gus Hanson Sucks Guys congregate in great numbers at poker message boards and newsgroups. After each televised poker event, you can go online and find a swarm of experts with such credentials as finishing 8th at a $5+$1 event on Ultimate Bet at 4:00am critically dissect the play of geniuses. Only in fucking poker. When a bunch of kids in AP chemistry start shitting on the Nobel prize winner, I might be willing to consider an argument that poker is not the worst thing in history.
Since he started playing the hold them, this drooltard’s wife bought him a book about poker for his birthday. Now, he operates on the assumption that nobody else in a poker room has ever read a book about poker or has any knowledge about the history or traditions of the game. He has taken it upon himself to enlighten us. “Well, I’m not going to play Jack-five… AKA, Motown. Ha ha. “ “Hey, maybe 10-2 isn’t so bad. After all, Doyle Brunson won two world championships with it!” “Well, ya know, any pair is favored over the “big slick” unsuited, before the flop.” The most pathetic part about Mr. Trivia is that he thinks his behavior is a sly means to inclusion with his fellow idiots. In reality, what he’s doing is equivalent to strolling around Dodger stadium bellowing about how Pete Rose is the all-time hits leader, Roger Clemens took steroids and The Giants suck. We know, please shut up.
Chuck Liddell with a Safety Net
Arguably the most loathsome of our vile denizens is this tough talker. Even your typical Amish realizes that a casino is one of the most secure places you can possibly be. There’s a team of security watching you on a camera, armed guards seconds away from any spot, not to mention floor men and supervisors whose duties include nipping trouble in the bud. This is the environment in which Safety Net chooses to threaten his adversaries and perhaps ask them to step outside. Step to where, moron? If you’re on the strip, the nearest place not overrun with security and cops is in Utah. If you’re in an LA card room, you will probably both be shot if you step one foot off casino property. As Safety Net knows perfectly well, he’d have more chance of giving Obama a wedgie during the G-10 summit than of actually being forced to back up his tough talk. A table full of rolling eyes and a dealer actually yawning when telling him to calm down somehow do nothing to diminish Safety Net’s conviction.
You will seldom find a more barren realm, in terms of arable pussy, than the poker room. So imagine my shock when I looked one table over and saw one of the 100 most beautiful women I had ever seen in my life playing in a ridiculously raked satellite. This chick’s hotness had the allure a fatal car wreck. I spent a good hour helplessly gawking at her, nearly ignoring what was, for me, a big game until she looked back and smiled, which was like that commercial where “Mean” Joe Green gives that kid his jersey. So, I’m busy ignoring the game and deluding myself with thoughts like “well she likes poker and I play poker,” when James Woods, who had been in another game, comes up and gives her a peck on the cheek. “Oh.” Fuck Woods, not to mention Jerry Buss, who I see more than my roommates. You’ve got money and celebrity. You could be dining in Paris, tagging goddesses, or making a snowman out of cocaine. How did you even get so old? Because if I was you, I would have died at 45, weighing 400 pounds, carrying 12 STDs, having lethal amounts of four different drugs in my system and my last thought would have been a mental chuckle about impossible puzzle I was leaving the coroner. And here you are, pissing away money in a shithole casino where only two things can happen: in middle stakes games, you win less money over the course of a day than you earned in dividends, or in high stakes games, you are feasted upon and secretly laughed at by mega mouths.