My submission for BadBlood.
I thought about sobering up before the tournament started. But decided to just go with it. Saturday had been spent watching the NFL draft, drinking beer and eating wings at Hooters. Kinda like pre-game ritual as of late.
When I woke up on Sunday morning, I was tired but excited about the prospects of winning a seat into a WSOP tournament. I had run well, even winning a tournament the prior week. I got out of bed, hung over. Went into the bathroom to pee and shave my tongue. Why the hell did I smoke that Dutch Master cigar? I see my car on the street. I recall not driving home, so that is good.
I look at the clock and see that is is 11 in the morning. Just then the phone rings. It is my partner in crime, Brian. We had run up the bill pretty well at Hooters yesterday. The beer portion was higher than the food portion- a sign of victory. And we always have at least 50 wings when we are there. Brian wanted to go to the Brewers game. He wanted to get in some tailgating before hand. I feel my brain swimming in alcohol still. Somehow I mumbled a “sure, let me take a shower” and hung up the phone.
He shows up 20 minutes later and we are heading to the stadium. As he drives he is telling me about the crazy stuff I was doing last night. Like ordering a pitcher of Guinness. He asks about who this Iggy guy is and how could I drink that much Guinness so fast. He says I was drinking everything in sight. I did shots of SoCo, dedicating them to Al, Heineken saluting BadBlood, and even found some Red Stripe giving shout outs to the “good Dr.”. He told me how he had to stop me from trying to pick up the cardboard cutout chick that was the Miller Lite display. He also said to stay away from that bar, as the owner may not appreciate me hurling on the front steps.
After we parked, he thrusted a beer into my hand and told me to drink up. I did. That hurt at first but hey, hair of the dog always works. The game goes well, or at least what I remember of it. Next thing I know I am logging on for the blogger tournament.
I arrive in Hellmuthian style, 20 minutes late. I have lost some chips to the blinds but am in a respectable place. I notice some familiar names. Human Head, Dr. Pauly, BG. Others I not familiar with. I am sure I make a great impression with my drunk typing.
I must be making an ass out of myself as I try to horn in on the continual side bets between BG and Dr. Pauly.
I play some hands but don’t win a single pot. I don’t deserve to win a pot playing K 4 unsuited or J 7. I am impatient as not a single hand is coming my way. I get visited by the Hilton Sisters and make a silly move by pushing my 1000 all in with blinds just 20/40. It cracks someone’s aces and I being applauded by some. Ok, I am applauding myself for getting lucky. From there, the deck hits me silly. Pocket rockets come by twice in 5 hands. A Q suited flops the flush and I slow play it well. I fill a straight flush with 3 4 suited from the button. It is like I can do no wrong.
I play well, though I am legally still drunk. I get to the final table in second place only to BadBlood. I figure I can wait and just play good cards. That is when I get a call. This chick that has been badgering me about sushi calls and yelling at me about some call I made last night. As I argue with her I decide to try and steal the blinds but make the mistake of moving all in instead of just raising it up. A 2 won a tournament for me before so why not now?
Weeks later I am in Vegas, strutting down Fremont Street. I proudly display the banner of the WPBT on my shirt. I go right on in to the Horseshoe with a beer in my hand to the back looking for the tournament. But the poker room is quite bare. Only 3 tables are in play. I check my watch. No I am on time. Just at the wrong casino. Crap!
I grab a taxi just in time to see the winner of the satellite slam the Hammer down on the table. I buy the bloggers on the rail a round of drinks. They begin to talk about how my flopped set of aces lost out to the Jack Hammer that hit quad 4s. Damn you Blood, damn you!