Thursday, December 01, 2005

A jealous prediction...

We were minding our own business, sipping SoCos in the hooker bar, when "Wham!", the giant dancing liquor bottles appeared!

The rest of the night was a blur...


Fuck you Q...

No, not that Q...

The Bitch-Goddess Variance has finally decided to take some pity on my chapped, bruised junk and give me some of that "just a little better than the other poor sap" sugah. Final tables in just about every SNG. Backdoor straights against idiots playing weak suited ace-pairs.

In almost all the SNGs where I've gone deep, winning or seconding (after this month, I'll take it) I've found myself short-stacked 6-handed. Only 5 pay. My M, around .0000258. My Q, "Surrender Dorothy!"

I get KTo on the button. I'll feel the brush of a phantom ugly-ass Red Sox ball cap brim on the side of my head. "You gotta go," The Ghost of WSOPs Past whispers in my ear.

"Fuck you Dan," I say, folding. The big-stack SB pushes more than my stack anyway and the BB calls all-in. SB has TT, BB has KK. SB catches the case T, BB goes home, I make the money for what seems like the first time.

Yadda yadda, push, push, my aces over kings beats kings over aces for the win.