The Truth Hurts

Every month, I get a check from Uncle Scam for things I did in a previous life. You know, the Uncle Scam who spends $300 on a hammer and $10K on a toilet seat, you know the guy. So once a month, I take this modest check
and go down to the strip on the weekend and try my best to clean up on the poker tables, when they're the most drunken.

The problem sometimes is, that as hard as I try to be a 'serious winning poker player', I end up being the most drunken. Surprisingly, this seems not to be such a large disadvantage most of the time. Always though, a good time is had by all, regardless.

 I started my session at O'Shea's casino at about 10:30PM. I intended to sit down at the 1-5 spread limit table as soon as i got there, but in typical form, those sitting at the table had planted solid roots, and were going nowhere. I waited and watched for about fifteen minutes for someone to go busto and relinquish to me my rightful seat. The problem with this game though, is that NO ONE GOES BUSTO.............. EVER!!!. And if they do they always plop another twenty spot on the table. So to bide the time, I decide to short buy into the 1-2 NLHE table, which I usually tend to avoid because my variance is too high for the $123 that I allow myself to play with on these occasions.

Third hand of no limit, I see pocket tens in early position and bump it up to my standard raise of $9. Flop comes rag/rag/K with two hearts. Of course I check, and fold to a ten dollar bet, rightly. The turn comes a ten. A few hands later, I have pocket fives in middle position and over limp a couple of players behind me. The flop doesn't help me, there are checks around to the button who throws down ten and I fold, rightly. The turn comes a 5. The straw that broke the camel's back came when I'm in the small blind looking at 24d, no raises to call. I consider limping, but you know, I'm scared money and I don't want to waste the dollar. the flop comes A25, the ace and the five conveniently diamonds. At this point I'm just a little bit sick, but not violently yet. After what seems to be the standard post flop bet of $10, and a call, and a call, and another call, the turn comes a black deuce. I don't even know what came on the river because I picked up my remaining $25 so fast to just get off that table....

So the waiting ended at that point when Jen, the shift manager came out to the front of the house and made the 1-5 spread game nine handed just for me. She loves me, and I love her just the same.I don't know if I could call it the single pivotal point in the night, but up to it, I was so completely bored with the game that I was playing that maybe I was just praying for a way out. After about four hours of pure grind, at a table so drunken and clueless that confounded me almost to the point of snappage how I had not at least doubled up yet, two dealers from Imperial Palace that I know sit down at the table with a plan. You know, the usual post shift hijinks. Drinking and donking, to be precise. Perfect - finally some players who will give me the action I need playing the nitty game I am.

They concluded long before they sat that it was time for shots. They concluded immediately upon recognizing me that it was time for me to do shots with them. Shots ensued. Shots gave way to Guinness draft in excess, and of course, more shots. Some newfangled Midori/Southern Comfort concoction, I don't recall the exact nomenclature of these hideous things, and on the subject of Southern Comfort, an Alabama Slamma for good measure.

Needless to say, the game became much more interesting. It was a fun table before, exclusively drunken, except for myself. After all, that's why I come to this place at this time. Now, I have myself become the target which I seek. Strong work there, Ike.

And now a long story becomes even longer. Eventually, the O'Shea's game breaks, and in my state of mind, I absolutely cannot settle for a $50 loss, and MUST chase. I call up the FlamingO poker room, where I'm almost certain that there is a highly geriatric 2-4 limit game going. Upon confirmation from the boss, I'm wheels up for FlamingO. I'm confident that I can get back to even in this game, as I have a remarkable win rate against the elderly.

I get to sit at this table for about an hour or so when the dealer asks us if we're going to play the freeroll tournament at 9AM. Confused for just a moment, I suddenly remember that if you accumulate only four hours of play, you become eligible for a freeroll tournament for FlamingO/O'Shea's players. I'm in.

I'm out. Nothing really to say on the matter but that maybe my all-in blind steal raise with K7 of clubs should have been a little smaller. I guess it looked suspicious to the big blind who thought it a good idea to call me with Q6 offsuit for the win. Anyway...

Ever reluctant to say die, as I walk toward the front of the casino, I'm pestered by a solidly drunken Canadian to sit  as the fourth hand in a new 1-2  no limit game that's starting. Of course I will. And as the dealer is scrambling the cards, or stacking the deck, or whatever it is they do, I ask the other players at the table sincerely if this is going to be a real game of poker, or if it's just going to be shove-fest oh-ten. Assured by the others that it's going to be a good game, I limp on the button with pocket fives, you know, to flop a set and stack a fool. Mr. Canadian, ever so inebriated, announces raise, and throws out two redbirds on top of his small blind, making it eleven to go.  His two buddies slowly and agonizingly fold, and when they do, I just insta-shove. He has to call. He just has to.

I would probably like AQ hearts in his spot too, considering he had me outstacked by about 4 to 1. It just didn't hold up. I double up. About a fifteen minutes of blind trading maneuvers pass until I pick up pocket sixes on the button. I raise the obligatory $9, and get what amounts to a minimum raise of two red chips, making it $22 to go. I just flat call and see a flop.

The flop is 929, two clubs. The big blind checks to me, and I bet out $25. Big blind guy writhes in his chair a bit, ponders, grunts once or twice, and I think I heard him make some kind of squealing noise, not normally of human origin. He calls, I devise reluctantly. The turn is the beautiful six of clubs, making what could likely be his high card flush, but making my full house. He checks again.

I put my entire stack forward, almost into the pot. He squirms in his chair again, this time for about three times as long as before. In what I can only describe to you as a moment of weakness, I say, "If it helps, I turned a boat."

He insta-calls, and turns over two jacks in the hole. The river comes a jack.

The truth hurts.