What would a holiday gathering be without family, booze, illegal narcotics, bratty children, shitty gifts, NRA members, and poker? It would be like sitting on the toilet with nothing to read…mind numbing, nauseating, depressing. Mama sure did do her darnedest to make sure the suicide rate from this year’s jamboree plunged from last year’s.
“Here’s your fucking gift!” she exclaimed to me the second I walked through the door, replete with long cigarette, accompanying voice, and a hug that made me wish a certain San Francisco tigress were still alive.
“Oh GAWD ma, it’s awful!! Where’s the gift receipt?”
“Eff you. You didn’t even open it yet.”
“Ok ok you got me!” I muttered as I tried to maneuver through her maximum security wrapping. If only our nation were this locked down…
“Holy SHIT!” I screamed orgasmically.
“Goddamm it Jason do not write the word ‘orgasmically’ in front of the children,” says mother in that once a year authoritative tone. “Show everyone what the best mother in the world got you.”
“Gramma you’re so lame. I know what sperm is,” my little smart ass 8 year old nephew interjects. What an awful child. I love him.
“What a little shit! Where’d you get that kind of language?” demanded mama. Before he could answer with something like “I learned it by watching YOU, Gramma,” I belted, “COPAGS!!!!!!!!”
“Mother…this is like…the best gift ever! What happened to your 30 year long streak of caring just enough to give the second best?” I asked while the foam around my mouth did not yet make speaking unmanageable.
“Eh, fuck it. I won’t be around next year, and I had $19.95 plus shipping and handling to spare. I wanted to live long enough to see my least favorite child enjoy at least one holiday,” she answered. Ah, yes, the ever famous promise of death I’ve been hearing since 1983 when my great-grandmother had that line trademarked…
“Well crap then let’s get a game going.”
“Ah we can’t yet, there’s cooking, the kids, my chain smoking…”
“Yea yea yea bla bla bla woman gather up the gambling gurus and haul your aging caboose to the table! Child services can watch the kids for a few hours!” I proclaimed impatiently as I had quickly arranged 8 really neato chip stacks and just as many beer bottles. “Come on! Let’s move! $20 No-Limit freezeout. If you’re a child, watch Dora or porn or something!”
It was picturesque…real cards, real chips, real beers, real shitty players. Cards were in the air. Where was ESPN when we needed them? I was even willing to drink
Hand number one using the best “fucking gift” ever was a lousy Q-3 offsuit. What a bunch of crap. Each hand got progressively worse. Looking at the first Q on several occasions offered promise, but quickly proved a tease when it was accompanied by garbage. I haven’t seen so many offsuit queens since the last time I was in
“What the hell, Jason?” mother asks as she is hooking up her nicotine IV. “You wanted to play this and you haven’t seen a flop yet. Look at all these people here exchanging chips and you’re sitting there like a log!”
And then, it happened. The ever cliché fireworks went off…BINGO…BANGO…BONGO! Oh…shit…that was just the scumbag next door shooting holiday dinner. As usual, I was just dealt another Q-5 offsuit. Blah!
With mother continually pestering me to play a hand, I couldn’t help but think “star/asterisk/pound sign/at symbol/squiggly little circle thinger/carat/ampersand/tic tac toe board/BIFF/POW/KABLAM!” Oh, and I thought “fuck you” as well. But, the blinds were on the rise so it was indeed time to join the pokerie. After establishing such a tight table image, it was time to bluff, bitchslap, and bullshit my way to the money. It was a good time as I started raking in a few of the pots with absolute douchebaggery in my hand. I even showed two of the deceptions, much to the dismay of people silly enough to believe me. Then, I retightened to gain some action with the best hands. It’s Poker 101, but I’ll call it “a secret weapon.” Mama was on the rails because she sucked, along with a few others, so we now have the final three. The blinds are chugging along, and chips are merely being shuffled among the three of us until someone who wasn’t me hit a miracle flop against someone who was me. I called an all-in preflop raise with A-J against someone holding J-7. “Beautiful. This shit is mine. Money in the bank,” I thought until the flop came 7-7-bullshit! I couldn’t believe my eyes as my poker future dimmed. The turn and river were as inconsequential as a politician’s promise and I was pummeled into the poker pavement. Moral of story? The best hand doesn’t always win. But there is no shame in that as long as you outlast your mother.
1 comment:
I love you.
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