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Poker Blog established in 2003 as the first stop for poker news, poker stories, and bad poker advice.

June 15, 2005

Trigger the Blastoplast

by G-Rob

I'm not sure the woman was drunk, but we weren't, and I'm a good judge of another's buzz when I'm still clean. She wore tourist trousers, khaki bermuda shorts and a "Welcome to Vegas" T. In each hand was a filthy rack of Rio chips and on her puffy face a look of confusion. As she learned over the end of our table she asked a stupid question, "Is this table 135?"

I was to BadBloods left, which is like hitting cleanup behind Barry Bonds. Holy Steroids! Dr. Bicep is a better player than me, and with him to my left I'd at least have a good indication of when to fold.

"I dunno," offered Blood, "but you have to wonder why they hung that sign." He then pointed to the numbers, a foot in diameter, hanging above our table. BadBlood is a smartass. He and I were of similar mind.

I knew my time had come

The Rio was packed with those WSOP-wannabes. Event 2 was still underway and the stench of Hellmuth filled the room. We'd been warned that the game was soft. I also warned the waitress that I was well behind and would need her comfort.

An aside :

Ever wonder just how much of your Vegas bankroll is spent tipping? You tip the dealer on every winning hand. You tip the waitress for every round. In crowded rooms I always tip double what the other players do. It keeps the girls coming back. If I had gone to a bar, I'd have some estimate of what the booze cost, but if they're chips from a poker stack I really have no idea. On this trip the tips were a fair allowance.

BadBlood took a mighty suckout here. A fella called all-in while chasing his RUNNER-RUNNER flush. BadBlood made up for some of that by crushing me on an earlier hand. I came out even and the hands were pretty dull. I do remember this : Everytime the waitress came by she'd already have a full tray but she could never remember who placed the order. I'd just raise my hand and pull a bottle from the tray...every time she walked by...and hand her a tip. I never placed a single order. For some reason, it was always Corona, which means there was an angry bandito somwhere along the Rio Grande.

We played there for about 2 hours, which is far less time than we spent waiting for the table. The fabulous wives were done with their coasters and we were called to storm the castle. Most of the other degenerates were already there and the games were in typical blogger style. I sat down at a 4/8 half-kill and we put the whole table on tilt.

To enter the Delta

I sat down with CJ to my left. I think I was in the 4s. Further down, crap, was it Wes(?) in the 7s? and I know Otis was in the 9. Anyhoo, that's not the point. Actually, it is the point. But I suck at telling stories. Here goes nonetheless :

CJ caught the hammer (this is 7-2o for new readers) in EP and raised it up. He found 3 callers and the flop gave him trips.

All four players saw the turn which was CJs 4th 7.

CJ bet like he had it and 1 poor woman stuck around to find out. He showed his quads and she showed her dominated boat. She grabbed her chips and stormed away while CJ spun the Excalibur wheel.

Excalibur, which is exactly what a poker room would look like if poker playing 5th graders wrote a paper about the middle ages, has a cash wheel which players can spin if they lose with pocket aces or win with quads. CJ spun and took down another $100.00.

Another Aside

Since when are the dark ages an acceptable theme for anything? Yee-Haw! Ignore the purple sores! Kids Stay Free..Adults Die Young! The beer wenches dress wenches, the whole place is carpeted in a royal maroon and there's the unmisakeable feeling that all the customers are fools in a corporate King's court. Good thing the booze is free.

A few hands later, I also played the hammer. After a few more Otis did the same. Most important, it won every time. Soon the grumpy middle aged yahoos (I tried to tell them I was a bisquick saleman from Amarillo) were afraid of every 7 or 2 on every flop. If a 7 came, they were sure we had it and they were all ready to fold. Poker is stupid but its fun.

Soon, however, enough bloggers had joined our limit game to make it an impossible score. My bankroll sreamed in terror and my eyes scanned the room for the perfect NL game. I found it just a few tables back and the 1s was open.

Normally, I hate the 1 seat. I have a great view of the dealers left elbow but I can hardly see across the table. It makes it hard to read the morons. Fortunately, the monkeys here were unwilling to be read. 7 of the other 9 players were wearing shades. 6 were wearing hats. 4 of them were listning to I-pods so they could be entertained while they lost their tuition. Not a player at the table was a minute older that 22. There were some serious Poker-on-TV types here and I just hoped they thought "Celebrity Poker" was the real thing.

I sat down with about $200 bucks I'd brought over from the limit game. I was broke inside an hour. On one hand we had a raise from $2 to $10 and a caller behind that. I found pocket Q and made it $50 to go. The guy to my left called and the others all folded.

The guy to my left was one of those "community card" types. His buddies all pulled up chairs around him and after each deal he'd show them his cards. He had his own commentary on each hand designed to show his schoolboy chums his vast expertise on poker and he'd successfully proven his stupidity.

The flop comes all garbage and I kept my eye on his friends. All of them made it clear the flop was a whiff. One of them actually said, "Crap!". I felt good about betting my remaing $80.00, which he immediately called....With A-3 off.

The turn was an Ace. So was the river. I was too steamed to continue.

I stumbled away to find a new venue for my drunken moans and found my wife and Mrs. Otis cold chillin' in the Excalibur lounge. When I sat, both women were being carded by the wench-in-charge. I had another Corona just to piss off the bandito.

Moments later the act got to singin'. It's a Fleetwood Mac cover act and the first number was a medley of all the hits. The singer belted out the first familair tune and then strolled into the crowd with her cordless mic. She was rolling (frankly she was covered in rolls) into the second song, which I recognized but didn't know. Next thing I knew she was straddling my lap.

I like a good lap dance. I especially like a good lap dance from a lounge singer while my wife looks on. I have to admit I was aroused, and I let the singer know it. I bobbed my head to the rhythm and thrust my hips to the beat. She held out the mic so I could join her in the chorus, but remember I DON'T KNOW THE SONG!

So...I took the mic away...and sang my own words.

"I...I...I.IIIIIIIIIII...Don't know the words to this song!" I screamed. It was suprisingly in key by the way.

They clapped louder for me than they did for her. They should. I had bigger breasts.

My wife thought this was the perfect chance to instruct me of all the pleasures Vegas had to offer AWAY from the poker table. But I don't learn lessons well.

In fact, tomorrow, the worm turns. I made a poker profit from this stupid town.

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