There's little doubt that I can't play poker. Which begs a question: why do I keep trying? I busted on a pair of 7's, which, in case you don't really know poker, is...um...well, I guess it's not that good. Because, you know, I don't know poker (see: sentence 3 above).
I'm not entirely sure why I don't find poker (card games in general, really) that entertaining. Oh, I have a good enough time--most of the people we play with are fun to hang out with (except for certain individuals who will remain nameless). But I literally stopped paying attention half way through the second to last hand I played, and accidentally wound up throwing all of my remaining chips into the pot. Even though the hand was done. In other words, I simply GAVE Scotty my remaining $1+ of chips, which illicited plenty of consternation from the rather more serious poker starz at the table. And, even though I was desperately trying to convince them that there was no shame in not fishing my cash out of the pot, they still insisted. Which was immediately followed by the aformentioned bad-luck 7's.
So I'm still stuck on what it is that I have against poker. I think at least part of it is my inheirant lack of attention span, and another part my unwillingness to learn something new. There's a healthy dose of the usual intense, burning rage that clouds my thoughts, causes a red film to gather through my vision, and grinds my molars to dust. That kind of makes concentration difficult. And then there's...Kenny.
Kenny. Beneath the humble, chicken-shilling visiage--the rheumy eyes and weathered brow, the pursed lips hiding rows of cracked, yellow teeth--beats a heart black as pitch, turned dark by a cruel world of hip-hop and harpstrings.
You gotta know when to hold 'em...
In dungeons dank, where dead things wend their way to dust, he has toiled; in the dark, where the crystalline click of scarab feet scratch on scaly surfaces, he works his weird.
Know when to fold 'em...
With poison pen, hewn from things unspeakable, he scribes his vile chant; on parchment borne of death, the leathern wings of his dark fancy beat the still, humid air.
Know when to walk away...
His song takes flight, and the world, and all that glisters and gleams within it, is no more.
Know when to run.
"His is become death. The destroyer of worlds."
[this is good] Ryan just thinks it's "fun" when he "gets in your head." He has a future in CIA mind control experiments. Me? I think he spent too much time in a frat house back in the day and now we have to pay the price.
But yeah, poker is very dependent on focus, math, and a little but of luck. Maybe you could pop a few Riddlin before you come over.
Posted by: Patrick Berry | 01/11/2007 at 11:20 PM
Posted by: War2D2 | 01/12/2007 at 09:11 AM
Are you implying that you don't like hanging out with Pat, Ryan, and me?
Posted by: sjungling | 01/12/2007 at 10:24 AM
No. I was merely trying to be ironic, since you're the only ones who will ever read my blog. I guess I was being too cute for my own good.
Posted by: War2D2 | 01/12/2007 at 10:50 AM