Monday, February 21, 2005

"As I was reading your column on bad beats in online poker, I couldn't help but think of something my dad always tells me: Never assume malice when stupidity will suffice."
Chris to ESPN's Jackpot Jay

God, I love Party Poker.
I can't even explain some of the insane, awful plays I saw today.

Damn, it's late and I'm drunk. And happy as a clam. I'm not going to write about my earn rate today, but suffice to say, it was one of my best days ever on Party. Oddly enough, I much prefer to write about poker after a big losing session; so no insights tonight.

Go read the new CardPlayer if you're looking for insights.

Just wanted to run a few things out there for loyal readers. First of all, I re-read the rest of Losers, Inc., and was bummed to realize it's only a nine part series, not ten. Anyway, the remainder of this superb report is posted below.

Allow me a few random tidbits before getting to the story.

Nugget #1: Announcement coming soon. Sometime this week - stay tuned.
Announcements are cool.

Nugget #2: I promised Fast Eddie's $25,000 hand on the bad-beat jackpot tables on Party Poker.
I'm happy to deliver:

***** Hand History for Game 1599361290 *****
15/30 TexasHTGameTable (Limit) - Wed Feb 16 08:13:48 EST 2005
Table Bad Beat Jackpot 993545 (Real Money) -- Seat 2 is the button
Total number of players : 9
Seat 1: chicothemad ( $878)
Seat 2: Fast_Eddie ( $1405.75)
Seat 4: NAKED_WEAPON ( $68)
Seat 5: badpoker10 ( $602.5)
Seat 6: mattfitz22 ( $2131.5)
Seat 7: fullyh ( $1021)
Seat 8: monsterP ( $652.25)
Seat 9: scottycards ( $1058)
Seat 10: VOXXY ( $152.5)
badpoker10 posts small blind (10)
mattfitz22 posts big blind (15)
** Dealing down cards **
Dealt to Fast_Eddie [ Jh, Th ]
fullyh calls (15)
monsterP folds.
scottycards folds.
VOXXY folds.
chicothemad folds.
Fast_Eddie calls (15)
badpoker10 raises (20) to 30
mattfitz22 calls (15)
fullyh calls (15)
Fast_Eddie calls (15)
** Dealing Flop ** : [ Qh, 9d, Kc ]
badpoker10 bets (15)
mattfitz22 folds.
fullyh calls (15)
Fast_Eddie calls (15)
** Dealing Turn ** : [ Kh ]
badpoker10 bets (30)
fullyh folds.
Fast_Eddie raises (60) to 60
badpoker10 raises (60) to 90
Fast_Eddie raises (60) to 120
badpoker10 calls (30)
** Dealing River ** : [ Ah ]
badpoker10 bets (30)
Fast_Eddie raises (60) to 60
badpoker10 raises (60) to 90
Fast_Eddie raises (60) to 120
badpoker10 calls (30)
** Summary **
Main Pot: $641.5 | Rake: $3 | Jackpot Contribution: $0.5
Board: [ Qh 9d Kc Kh Ah ]
chicothemad balance $878, didn't bet (folded)
Fast_Eddie balance $1762.25, bet $285, collected $641.5, net +$356.5 [ Jh Th ]
[ Royal Flush -- Ah,Kh,Qh,Jh,Th ]
Doctor_Gus balance $200, sits out
badpoker10 balance $317.5, lost $285 [ Kd Ks ] [ four of a kind, kings -- Ah,Kd,Ks,Kc,Kh ]
mattfitz22 balance $2101.5, lost $30 (folded)
fullyh balance $976, lost $45 (folded)
monsterP balance $652.25, didn't bet (folded)
scottycards balance $1058, didn't bet (folded)
VOXXY balance $152.5, didn't bet (folded)

Damn, the kid is not only good, but lucky as hell.

From the Yikes Department comes the latest in nutty eBay poker auctions.
Famous Pink Bunny Poker Auction - Body Advertising
I wish I could have him wear Bonus Code IGGY on that suit....

My man over at CardPlayer's Journal just enjoyed a nice hit upon returning to Party Poker. $500 in 30 minutes ain't bad.

Bonus Code IGGY, damnit.

Couple RPG highlights for you. I enjoyed this legal advice for RGP posters:


Important legal notice

As one of the few regular posters to RGP who is willing to admit he has legal training, I feel compelled to warn the laypersons here of the potential legal liability they face when expressing their thoughts, ideas, and opinions on this forum.

I am gravely concerned that many posters (some of whom are not even published authors, proven professionals, or poker celebrities) are dispensing advice, opinions, thoughts, and ideas without regard to the fact others may rely on these ideas, and that such advice, opinions, thoughts and ideas may well not be in accordance with the opinions of David Sklansky.

To offer such worthless ideas to the poker playing public at large is tantamount to inviting a lawsuit, and worse, a lawsuit that is probably indefensible.

I therefore urge all my friends on RGP, out of an abundance of caution, to
include a disclaimer at the end of each of their posts similar to the sample
offered below. Due to my inactive and uninsured legal status at the moment,
I urge all of you to seek qualified legal advice as to the sufficiency of
the disclaimer. The sample is offered only for information and discussion,
and does *not* constitute legal advice.

DISCLAIMER: The ideas and opinions expressed in the foregoing post are
subject to the approval of David Sklansky and as such should be regarded as
worthless and patently wrong unless and until said approval is obtained. In
the event such approval is obtained, these ideas and opinions become the
sole property of David Sklansky, and should only be implemented or repeated
only with his express permission. The reader of this post acknowledges that
consideration of any of the ideas or opinions expressed herein without the
prior approval of David Sklansky is done strictly at the reader's own risk,
and with full disclosure that the ideas have no merit whatsoever.

Moving along, buried in a ridiculous thread about a terrible limit hand, I found this wonderful new word that I encourage everyone to adopt:

Sarchasm (n): The gulf between the author of sarcastic wit and the person who doesn't get it.

Ah well, screw this.

RIP Hunter S. Thompson.

I'm sure everyone just wants to read the finale of the Losers, Inc. tale. I'll save my drivel and links for a future uber-post.

Thanks for stopping by and reading.
Enjoy the finale:


Losers 08 - "We have bush!" (Booger, Revenge of the Nerds)

A quick dip into the reader mailbag:

Alert reader SaintMatty (name used with permission) wrote to ask: "what
exactly is an upper decker?"

An upper decker is simply taking a dump in the tank part of the toilet, as
opposed to the bowl. Disgusting. Because it is so cruel, it should be
reserved for only the most deserving of victims. Not as easy as it sounds
to execute, especially when you're three sheets to the wind, which you
generally will be anytime taking an upper decker seems like a good idea.
Wear a crash helmet.

Another reader asked us what we thought was the best dance establishment
we've ever been to. It depends on what you're looking for. Without
beating the details to death, we'll answer it this way: If we were going
to spend the rest of our lives at one club, it would be The Cheetah in

One more note: We had the home game last week and someone showed
Spaulding the post requesting "more Spaulding" in this report. He was
frigging unbearable all night. He's full of himself enough as it is, so
please do not encourage him. Thanks.

Back to part 08...

So we're in Atlantic City. We've got a room. We've got disposable
income. We've got enough booze to host a Kennedy wedding. All we need
now is some entertainment, if you know what we mean. Options?

* Cruise the casino itself. We've seen some definite working girls here

* Cruise the local sleaze scene - bookstores, go-gos, etc.

* Shop online - Spaulding has a printout -- complete with pictures -- of
local in-call escorts. He was clearly thinking ahead.

Snow White: "Where did you get that?"

Spaulding: "Internet."

Manbeast: "What if it is some kind of sting operation?"

Spaulding: "No, it's kosher. I've done this before. I'll make the

Snow White: "No way, that's inviting disaster."

Variable: "Hey, stop foreshadowing."

Spaulding: "Fuck that, I know what I'm doing."

Manbeast: "You know your track record with hookers. Remember that time
you got your wallet and suitcase stolen? Roy Sullivan used to call that a
bad luck magnet."

Variable: "Now there's an obscure reference."

Spaulding: "Don't worry. I can handle it."

It does seem like advertising would be entrapment. He makes the call.
You have to give the service your name and number, then they'll call you
back. Twenty minutes later they call back. On such short notice, they
only have a two escorts to pick from - one blonde, one brunette. Both are
described as really good looking and well built. No, they're not the
naked hardbodies in the picture, but they're just as good. Both in their
20s? that's what we like to hear. Both about five-seven, one fifteen?
Excellent. Which one do we want? Both, of course! Say, there are a
bunch of us, is that a problem? No problem whatsoever? Great! Are they,
uh-you-know, enthusiastic? Very? Great! How much? $500 for both for
the first hour, $350 for every additional? OK, send them over. When?
Three hours? OK.

Seems a little steep, but Spaulding is in windfall-fallacy delusion and
could care less. The photo looks mighty good. But ordering women off the
internet is like a box of chocolates: you never know which one will be a
factory reject, full of festering pus.

Three hours is too long for Spaulding to wait. Since we've got plenty of
windfall cash, we decide to try the local sleaze scene, to see if we can
scare up any talent in the meantime. We retrieve the van and roll onto
the dirty streets of AC.

There are plenty of things in life we don't know the first thing about.
Like how to please a woman, for example. But if there's one thing we do
know about, it's strippers. And we can tell you this: Very few of them
are interested in more intimate encounters outside the club, even for
pretty good money. So we're not really expecting much luck; perhaps we
can score a private dancer or two who'll be a little more hands-on in a
hotel room than is generally allowed in a public business. But nothing
more intimate than that. Not that we're looking for anything more
intimate, as far as you know. This should help kill the three hours.

I want to head for Delilah's, but Manbeast quickly vetoes that idea. He
says the girls there are a little too high-end to be lured into leaving
with a bunch of losers for a hotel show. No, what we need is a slightly
lower caliber dancer. She should be good looking, yes, but we're willing
to trade some amount of beauty for a certain morally casual attitude.
Quickly, we spot a sign that says in three-foot tall letters, "TOPLESS GO
GO." We're there. Turns out that in front of the three foot tall T in
TOPLESS that's a courier 8 point letter 's,' making the real name of the
place "sTOPLESS GO GO." No matter, because before we enter, we find a
totally nude joint just a few yards further down the street. Naturally,
that is our first choice.

We slip in. I assume there's a cover, but the doorman is nowhere to be
seen, so we just stroll inside. I remember it as though it was


What a place! No sooner do we grab a seat than a chorus line of gorgeous
showgirls comes out on stage, high-kicking in sync and signing a Broadway
style song, to the tune of "Be Our Guest."

"See . . . our . . . breasts!
See our breasts!
Perky C cups they're the best
Grab a bourbon and a beer, my friend
And join our naked fest
Pitch a tent
Get the hots
Come enjoy our beaver shots
Try the liquor
It's delicious
With an aroma of fresh fishes

We can tease
We can dance
We take off our underpants
And a lap dance here is never second best
Come join our nudie venue
Grab a beer and then you'll
See our breasts
See our breasts!
S e e o u r b r e a s t s !!!


*** Snow White ***
Uh, I'm afraid that never happened.
*** End SW ***

Oh, yeah. I must have been drinking. Let's try that again:

What a shithole! The whole place is really dark, even by seedy strip club
standards, but that's not necessarily a bad thing because the lone black
girl on stage has a face that could make a train take a dirt road. Boobs
like a couple of old gym socks. Ass like a hefty bag full of gummy bears.
Enough crust in the crevices to make a pie. Apparently unfamiliar with
the Lady Schick. She's about as animated as a three-toed sloth. Have I
made my point yet? We head back for the door, almost tripping over a
boozed up guy about 80 years old. "Spaulding, tell your dad to get out of
the way!" N'heh, that one never gets old.

So we try sTOPLESS GO GO. Five buck cover. Not bad talent at all. A
little overdressed for a go-go. For those of you who don't know (yeah,
right, save the lies for your wife pal) a go-go is a dance establishment
where they can sell liquor but (in New Jersey) the girls must remain
'clothed.' But the more aggressive establishments strain the limits of
what constitutes a top. We've seen almost invisible, clear sequins serve
as pasties. But in this place they all have on bikini tops. Oh well,
they're several orders of magnitude better looking than the girls next
door are.

After we indulge in a quick test tube of some glowing booze (for $5 a pop,
if I recall, but served by a hot babe) Spaulding starts recruiting,
putting his Attila the Hun Subtlety School training to good use. "How
much honey? Hey, baby, how much? (To an Asian girl) Number one boom-boom
sweetie? GI Joe pay top dollar." We have to calm him down to avoid
ejection. The rest of us take a more refined approach. I gauge the
potential of each dancer as they make their rounds by seeing how far they
let me bend the rules. When I find one who - as long as I'm tipping well
- gives me flashes down the top and doesn't object in the least to a hand
on her firm little butt (generally a real no-no) as we talk, I prepare to
discuss a little business. She beats me to the punch, asking where we're
staying and wouldn't we like a little more aggressive attention? She's
kind of small chested, but has a nice, lean body. Fairly pretty, although
the smile is a bit reptilian. She can be there in an hour. Done and done.

I will spare you the long version of what happened in the room. Suffice
it to say that the sTOPLESS girl was superb. Exactly what I, for one, was
looking for. That is, full contact dancing but still gentlemanly - no oil
checking or anything - at a very reasonable $150. We were so pleased we
kicked in for another hundred in tips. Even Snow White stayed the whole
time, but JFB.

*** Snow White ***
Above all, I wanted to know exactly what happened.
*** End SW ***

Then the internet girls showed up. Oh, the humanity! Since I'm much too
delicate, I'd better let Manbeast explain:

*** Manbeast says ***
What a fucking disaster. They were nothing like the picture. Both were
way at least 30 pounds overweight, maybe more. Packed into too-tight
dresses, like overstuffed kielbasas. I mean they weren't totally gross,
but certainly below my dating standards. Just beefy girls I wouldn't look
at twice, much less PAY to see naked.
*** End Manbeast ***

If you're in a huff, thinking that maybe we're not so lean and mean
either, you're right. But that's why we're not male strippers. Believe
me, if you went to a $500 Chippendale's show and Spaulding was what
strutted out, you'd be pissed, too.

So anyway, they waddle in, straining the straps on their high heels, and
ask us all for ID. I guess cops don't have their own driver's licenses or

Variable: Uh, not that it's a problem, but you ladies don't look like the
girls that were described to us.

Manbeast: Looks like they fucking ate the girls that were described.

Blond: (not pleased) I have no idea what they told you. We need you to
sign this.

She hands Spaulding a document stating that we are not paying for a
massage. Snow White starts giggling. Spaulding, pressing ahead, asks
them if they want to change into their lingerie. They say we have to do
business before discussing anything else. Spaulding coughs up the $500.
The leader calls into the service to say that everything is OK. She
verifies Spaulding's name and DL number with HQ.

Then they sit down.

We're all looking at them, waiting for something to happen. Anything.
Snow White can't stop giggling. They're just sitting there. About a
minute goes by, but it seems much longer. It's really awkward.

Blonde: "So, where are we going?"

(2 seconds of silence, followed by Snow White busting out laughing.)

Spaulding: "Wha..wha..wha..whaddya mean where are we going?"

Blonde: "We're escorts, we're here to escort you somewhere."

Spaulding: "What if we just wanted to stay here?"

Blonde: "Well, OK, we'll keep you company here if that's what you want.
It's a bit unusual, but it's your money..."

Spaulding: "Uhm, you're going to get naked, right?"

Blonde: "What? We're escorts! I am offended!"

Spaulding: (Still in denial) "OK, I know the drill, $500 gets you in the
door. Look, uh, we really want to tip, you know what I'm saying?"

Blonde: (mock-shocked) "Sir! We are not prostitutes! You have paid for
one hour of our company, and that is what you will get."

Snow White is literally in tears laughing.

Spaulding: "Can we even get a little dancing?"

Blonde: "Do we look like dancers?"

Manbeast: "Fuck no."

After a few moments of not speaking, Spaulding says "Well, you may as well
leave now." "OK, see ya." Manbeast: "We just paid $500 to look at two
fat girls for seven minutes." Snow White never laughed so hard. After
they left, Manbeast advised Spaulding, "Cheer up, at least they weren't
men in dresses. You're making progress!"

Thoroughly tilted, we head back to the card room.

--- To be continued ---

Next time: Drinkaway Camp, Unsober Campers

Losers - 09 The Final Chapter

"You done taken a wrong turn." -- Bill McKinney, Deliverance

Deliverance is the ultimate loser movie. You got man against nature. Not
only does man lose, but Nature sodomizes him for good measure.

So anyway, following the escort debacle we gamble and sleep on an
as-needed basis. We wind up staying through Sunday. By late Monday
morning we're on the road, heading to the hunting cabin for the week. As
we leave Atlantic City we notice a Mickey D's, so we swing by for lunch.
Spaulding says he hopes the kids who work there don't spit in his food.
Manbeast, more of a Harry Stack Sullivan behaviorist, expounds:

*** Manbeast says ***
They won't. Kids who work at the cholesterol clown's might hate their job
as much as the next guy, but they don't resent the average slack jawed,
beer bellied patron. Resentment - that's the key. Now consider the
middle class kids who work at a restaurant where a bottle of wine costs
more than they make in a week - or a month - how do you think they feel
about the clientele? You think they wouldn't hock a luger in Mrs.
Rancidcrotch's cream of broccolli soup?

So you're safe at the clown's, unless Jesse Jackson is back there
somewhere. It's the country club where you better tell them to hold the
mayo, if you know what I mean.
*** End Manbeast ***

Back to the van. As we roll down the AC Expressway, Spaulding says wants
to put in his driving shift now. I'm not so sure he has sobered up yet.

Variable: "Are you OK to drive?"

Spaulding: "Fuck yeah."

Variable: "Manbeast, administer the sobriety test."

Manbeast: "OK, let me find a good song."

[He puts in a CD and plays the song 'Lola']

Manbeast: "OK Spaulding, I'm only going to tell you once: do NOT sing
along to this song."

[Spaulding resists for a good solid minute.]

Spaulding: (Bursts out) "Well I'm not the world's most passionate man but
I know what I am and I am what I am, I am, Lola! L-O-L-A Lola!"

Manbeast: "No driving for you, Popeye."

Long ride. Good thing we have beverage cart service. We go a little out
of our way to swing by the Alpine Inn, where the girls aren't exactly 10s,
but a dollar tip buys you a cheap feel. As you must know by now, that's
the sort of thing we look for.

We stumble in. We gently remind Spaulding that we have been thrown out of
here on other occasions as a direct result of his behavior. "Don't worry.
Eeeeeheeheeheee!" Manbeast spends a half hour trying to talk the best
looking dancer into road tripping with us. She actually seemed to be
considering it, but Spaulding's antics made her (wisely) decide it was a
bad idea. Spaulding buys us all a team shot of Jack black. Now as
mentioned you can get away with a little discreet groping here -- like a
little brushing up as you're handing over the dollar -- but Spaulding is
pushing the envelope, again. We get warned. A girl comes over who is
maybe 10 pounds overweight, but not hideous or anything. Spaulding is
bemoaning her lack of tone, right in front of her. "It looks like you
were sitting on a bunch of BBs," the portly one observes. Then the
waitress, who is not a dancer, walks by and Spaulding reaches out and
gives her a honk. Moments later we're on the road again, by request.

We finally get to the cabin. There's a rush to use the head. Spaulding
has some deep thoughts regarding this phenomenon:

*** Spaulding says ***

Ever notice that on a long drive you never need to use the bathroom until
you're almost there, and then it's an emergency? On the way to the cabin
I didn't have to go at all. Then, as we're unlocking the gate, suddenly I
have to go real bad. It takes a couple minutes to get into the cabin, and
I have to run to the hopper. I'm dropping my pants as I walk in. First
butt torpedo is launched before my ass even touches down on the seat. I
swear, if the cabin would've been another eighth of a mile down the road I
would have shit my pants on the front porch.

*** End Spaulding ***

At the cabin - we've had a half barrel of Moosehead chilling in a stream
for about a month, since the work-weekend.

Variable: How can you tell if beer is skunked?

Manbeast: If it tastes like Heinekin, it's skunked.

We retrieve it and tap it. It is absolutely frigid. In the cool, fresh
air it is the best beer I ever had. We rapidly join the game that's
already running. The players are other cabin attendees who have come from
other directions (i.e., not with us). Of course we're playing garbage
poker, and non-poker games like 3-5-7, guts, etc.

Keep in mind the motto of garbage poker:

"Value bet! Value bet!
Look at all the calls you get!"

*** Snow White says ***

You can enjoy some fantastic EV with these garbage games. For example,
Acey Deucy can be played perfectly with no effort. Yet I constantly see
otherwise smart people making suboptimal bets. It's just this easy:

On every bet you can know your exact outs, ignoring card counting. Every
bet has either +EV or -EV depending on the spread of the cards and your
'goal post' rule. Just figure out your outs. For example, with no
double-for-hitting-the-goalpost rule if you get deal a 2 and a Jack, you
know that 32 cards help you (4 each of 3s, 4s, ... 10s) and the remaining
18 unseen cards hurt you. You're a 32:18 favorite, so bet the pot or as
much action as you can take. Don't go bust though (unless you can play on
credit), remember opportunity cost: a better bet might present itself
next time around.

When you have +EV, bet the pot or at least as much action as your Kelly
Criterion allow for. When you have -EV, however slight, bet the minimum.

Shithouse: "What's Kelly Criterion?"

Snow White: "It means you can't spend expectation."

If you play pay double for hitting the goalpost, figure it out the same
way but then add 6 to the number of cards that hurt you. E.g., a 2 - Jack
would now be 32:24, still a +EV bet but not as good.

*** End Snow White ***

Some of the most interesting conversations happen when you put Spaulding
and Manbeast and beer together at a poker table. Like this one:

[It started regarding the crop circle movie with Mel Gibson, now it
regards whether a Plesiosaur lives in Loch Ness, Scotland. Spaulding is
on the Pro side, Manbeast on the Con.]

Spaulding: I guess the hundreds of people who have seen it are fucking
liars then. Hundreds!

Manbeast: Some of them. But most are just bad observers. And we're
talking Scotland, so you know everyone who thinks they saw something was

Spaulding: I guess everyone who sees the pictures is drunk too?

Manbeast: Well, we can't disprove that by exception without leaving the

Spaulding: If people are seeing things, why only that lake? It just
doesn't make sense.

Manbeast: Let me ask you this: Do you think the Loch Ness monster is one
supernatural animal that never dies?

Spaulding: No, that's stupid.

Manbeast: So you think it is a real dinosaur. How big of a breeding
population do you think is needed for the species to survive the 200
million years since the Mesozoic? I'd think at the bare minimum, 150

Spaulding: Fine. So what?

Manbeast: So what you are saying is that modern science, which can split
the atom; which can put men on other celestial bodies and return them;
which can transplant hearts; which can take the smallest boobs and
transform them into double D sweater monsters - that modern science -

Spaulding: Fuckin' sauruses are too smart.

Next topic to pop up is tipping poker dealers. This must be a natural
conversation topic for people who have just been to a casino. Manbeast
tokes, but is against it in principle.

*** Manbeast says ***

The tipping concept preys on the windfall fallacy. When the dealer pushes
you a $135 and you throw back a buck it seems harmless - just pretend the
pot had been $134 instead of $135. So it's painless to toke when you're
dragging a pot - that's why it is done at that time. The GDP really has
no clue as to how much they're toking away. I suggest you try this, even
though we both know you fucking won't, you lazy sack of shit: For the
next six months play on Party Poker or another online site. Keep a
little notepad handy and place a hash mark on it every time you drag a
pot. After 6 months, look at your bankroll. Now count the hashmarks.
Fucking lot of them, aren't there? Where would your bankroll be if you'd
toked off $1 for every pot your dragged?

If we were really toking for service, wouldn't everyone toke, not just the
winners? And wouldn't the end of a down be the time? Yes and yes, but
that won't happen because the windfall mechanism is so ruthlessly

*** End Manbeast ***

So that night we decide to visit the nearby Deliverance Bar and Grill (not
its real name). The DBG caters to bikers, ATVers, snowmobilers, inbred
locals and other dirtbags. When we want to go there, we take the Sped
Bus. What is the Sped Bus, you ask?

The Sped Bus a huge van which has long since ceased to be street legal.
Shithouse knows his way around motor vehicles and has kept this thing
alive Frankenstein-style, by incorporating parts from other cars, trucks,
tractors, and various and sundry other machines. The net result is this
massive, smoke bellowing behemoth that looks like it was built from
Guatemalan factory seconds by a bunch of besotted incompetents whose only
tool was a sledgehammer ? which is pretty much the case. It has "SPED
BUS" painted in huge sloppy letters on both sides, because we figured
chicks would dig that. We primarily use it for hauling stuff around our
square mile of private property. The van is missing, among other
amenities, any and all fixed seating. The driver sits on a swiveling bar
stool which is not fixed to the floor. Passengers sit on the bare metal
floor, and try not to fall through the rust spots. If, at this point, you
feel an urge to point out how unsafe this is, let me just say, "no shit."

When we go to the DGB, we take the Sped Bus because we can get there via
99% dirt roads. There are no laws governing driving an unregistered,
uninspected deathtrap on dirt roads, as far as we know. It's not like
we've never driven it on blacktop anyway - the only local police presence
is the sheriff, who nominally covers 1000 square miles, and is generally
face down on a bar somewhere by 6:00 p.m. The only real problem with the
Sped Bus is that you have to keep reassuring people that it's not on fire.

"Now let's you just drop them pants." -- Bill McKinney

So we hit the DGB with the mission of getting ourselves so tranquilized
that Marlin fucking Perkins will come out of the bushes and clamp tags on
our ears. We succeed famously. To show you what a shithole the DGB is,
Spaulding got naked and streaked through the place and we did NOT get
thrown out. The owner thought it was hilarious. The locals played
Dueling Banjos on the jukebox and told Spaulding he had a real pretty
mouth. Around 0100 we head back to the cabin.

[Cue music: I Want You to Want Me, Cheap Trick]

So there we are, returning from the bar a little worse for wear, bouncing
down the back roads, Shithouse at the helm, 8 or 9 guys in the back. At
it's very quietest -- like, during the 3-5 minutes after the screwdriver
has been removed that it takes for the motor to stop running -- the Sped
Bus sounds like a dumpster full of frying pans and ball bearings tumbling
down the steps of the Pyramid of the Sun at Teotihuican. Well, it's worse
now, with Cheap Trick blaring on the piece-of-shit cassette player and 6
guys watching by flashlight and cheering as Spaulding tries to convince
Snow White that professional wrestling is real through the subtle tactic
of slapping the Camel Clutch on him to demonstrate that "it really hurts."

So with all the noise, no one remembers hearing anything unusual prior to
Manbeast's calm, considering the circumstances, inquiry into who was
driving the fucking van. "Shithouse?" Snow White queried, as though
Shithouse might have been somewhere else about the vehicle, temporarily
shunning his responsibilities as driver -- a possibility which those who
know Shithouse would not too quickly dismiss. A brief moment of total
silence followed, followed by a period of cartoon style panic.
Maintaining his composure, Manbeast made a lovely dive to apply the
brakes with his hand, but was a little over zealous in doing so. Eight
guys simultaneously slid forward and lodged under the dashboard. God, in
keeping with His policy of watching over drunks and fools, allowed us to
escape unharmed - perhaps because we're double dippers in the drunk/fool
department, though more likely because the van had probably been coasting
forward at about 6 mph.

We found Shithouse a short way back down the road. He was sitting on the
stool, in the middle of the road, drinking his beer. He said that while
rounding a turn the stool tipped, he hit the door which unexpectedly
opened, leading to his impromptu departure. Notice despite tumbling out
of a moving vehicle onto a hard road, he saved his beer. He vows to
replace the stool with something that's a little harder to impart
rotational inertia on to, such as a Barcalounger.

The rest of the night was typical, which is to say we had the usual
drunken quad rally at 3 a.m., played poker, smoked cigars, and so on.

The next night we hit the FAG club. That's FAG as in Fish And Game, so
don't get any ideas, Liberace. Membership is $22 / year, so even though
we're only there for two or so weekends a year, it's well worth joining.
The place is entirely self supporting. For a bunch of rubes in the
sticks, you'd be absolutely amazed at the clubhouse. Huge, full bar (this
is, of course, where all the income comes from). Two pool tables, a few
pinball machines, three dart boards side-by-side-by-side for tournaments
action, juke box, lots of seating, full length table-shuffleboard (or
whatever you call it), a pair of 60 inch TVs, and an indoor pistol range.
Amazon.com should hire whoever is managing this place, 'cause the guy runs
a tight ship.

Any night in or near hunting season will feature a poker game, often two.
Just because we're out in the middle of bumfuck county doesn't mean these
guys are all hicks though. Quite a few are like us - only in the area for
hunting season - and are really white collar workers. I'm sure a number
of them play casino poker more than us. What I mean is, you can't just
assume all these guys are total fish.

So we get there. A few new faces, a few familiar faces. Everyone knows
you belong, because you need a keycard to get in the main gate and again
to get in the clubhouse. There's already a game running, but people are
willing to join us right away to form a second table. We start to
negotiate game and stakes. We settle on 3-6. We'll play a rotation of a
draw and hi/lo stud. Don?t know why those games, but that's the deal.
Our plea for some hold em is shot down. You can't beat the rake: $5 to
sit down and that's it for the night.

I'm not up on draw, so this might be -EV for me, but it sure will be fun.

I blow off some chips on the first draw round with a fifty cent ante.
Second hand I have 9s and 6s and I raise an early position opener. Two
callers behind me as well. Opener and another guy draw 3, me and one
other draw one. I don't improve and quickly realize I can't even bet
after the draw. When there's a bet behind me I wind up paying off trips.
I realize what a bad play I made. Shortly thereafter I open with Aces. A
guy calls behind and draws one. I catch another pair. So I have aces up.
I bet out -- probably a mistake. He only calls, but shows me trips.
Hmmm. There's a little more to this game than I thought.

Some woman passerby suggests that we have gambling problems. "It's not a
problem if you're winning," Snow White observes.

Spaulding is building up a great image, as always. He's taking 2 card
draws to flushes, then calling down the opener with his pair of 4s. He
cooks off a $100 buy-in BEFORE he can polish off a pitcher. Speed indeed.

Now it's time for hi/lo. At least I'm a little familiar with this game.
Manbeast and I split up a nice one. We'd been jamming two guys in with
Manbeast showing XX364 and me showing XXKJJ. In five cards I had jacks
full, Manbeast had the 6 low, and two guys went all the way with us
jamming up the river.

No Limit Fiasco

Later on I got duped into playing a small no limit hold em game, driven
largely by Spaulding. $100 buy in, blinds of 1 and 3, which seemed odd to
me, but what do I know. The titular adjective gives it away, so I won't
try for any suspense: I got busted twice, in short order. I don't think
my play was that bad. Of course, 99% of the time people say they don't
think their play was bad, and that can't be right. But anyway, check it

Hand 1: I had bought in for $100, paid one set of blinds, and had $96 or
so in front of me. I was dealt JJ in middle-late position. Two limpers
in front of me, who had seemed rather tentative. So with $10 in the pot I
made it $20 to go. Small blind calls, everyone else folds. He has me
outstacked. Flop comes K93 rainbow. He checks, I decide to take one shot
at it and bet $30. Guy calls. I check the raggedy turn behind him. At
this point I figure he can't have AK, or AA or KK. Maybe he has QQ, that
might figure. But I doubt it. AQ or maybe an A9 or something seems more
likely. So when the river rags off and he bets me all-in, I decide he's
trying to move me off my hand. I call. KT. Unreal.


Moments later I get dealt AdKd in late position. I make it $10 to go and
get two takers, one behind me and one of the blinds. Flop comes off
Jd6d6h. Blind bets the pot and I call. Guy behind me raises and I feel
pot committed so I call. No diamond comes and I lose to JTo.

Busted twice in 10 minutes. I limp away to the bar and wait to get back
in the limit game.

That is basically the highlights of last years hunting camp. Real soon it
will be time to do it all over again. We made the long ride home, and the
core members stopped over at Spaulding's for a bit. A few interesting
stories from there:

Manbeast is paging through Spaulding?s vintage Playboy collection.
Spaulding has every issue from the past 25 or so years. Snow White even
checks out a back issue.

Snow White: "This cracks me up. Look at this ad.
'What kind of man reads Playboy?' Then there's this picture of Steve
Garvey in this big cozy sweater, sitting in a
leather recliner in front of a roaring fire, a snifter of brandy in one
hand, thoughtfully perusing the college pigskin preview. Yeah, right.
What kind of man reads Playboy? It should be a picture of Spaulding,
fully grown but still has worse acne than a nervous 15 year old on a
pepperoni diet, scurrying into the bathroom with a little tent in his
skid-mark riddled Hanes, his disgusting gut hanging over the waistband
which has long since been stretched past the failure point of elasticity,
Playboy in his left hand and a palmful of Lady Prell conditioner in his
right hand, and that stupid grin on his face. That's 98% of your readers
right there. The other 2% are left handed."

A little later we're in Spaulding's garage to see his new compound miter
saw. There's an accident waiting to happen. Anyway, Manbeast is
rummaging through Spauldings other junk, as is his wont. He pulls out
some old model rocketry kits. We all remember how 'into' rocketry we were
in junior high school (we're losers, OF COURSE we were in to model
rocketry). Snow White pulls out a model with crooked fins and a hideous,
sloppy orange and black paint job. We're all cracking up at the pathetic
job Spaulding did on this rocket.

We're heaping abuse on Spaulding over this deformed rocket when Snow White
finds this diploma-like paper in the kit. It's the Estes safety pledge.
It says things like "I will always practice rocketry in a safe place, I
will never attach a warhead to my rockets", etc. etc. And get this:
signed it. What a loser, signing the Estes saftey pledge! We goof on him
for 15 minutes straight over this, including mock recitations of the
pledge. It really is hard to believe we're middle aged adults.

Next thing you know, we're out in his yard, trying to fire off model
rockets and engines. Generally speaking, you should have a large empty
space for this sort of thing. We're doing it in a suburban neighborhood.
Also, you really ought to launch them vertically. Manbeast fires the
franken-rocket right down the street. I had forgotten how fast these
things travel. (Answer: Fast enough to dent a car door). Spaulding
duct tapes a big engine to a beer bottle, inserts an igniter, stands it up
on a beer case tries to launch it. Of course, it is totally unstable and
it skips off the grass and loudly collides with something out of view.
Oops. We hightail it back inside. A minute later the phone rings. Snow
White answers it. "It's
Vern Estes. And he's fucking pissed." We later find out that a neighbor
reported "beer bottle throwing vandals" to the police. Another unsolved


Well, that's about all we felt belonged in the 2001 report. We'd like to
thank you readers who hung in there and waded through all 10 parts. You
stuck with us through reams of vulgar language, countless acts of behavior
unbecoming grown men, gay sex, drunken buffoonery, wiretapping, and cheap
Fast Times dream sequence rip-offs. You sick bastards. Thank you.

Parting shots anyone?

*** Spaulding says ***
Yeah alright, you made me look like a total dick in this queer internet
thing you're doing. Well let me tell you one thing -- when we played that
no limit indian? I turned my head and saw my card in the Budweiser mirror
behind the bar. WHO'S THE DUMBASS NOW? HUH?
*** End Spaulding

*** Manbeast says ***
Laugh now mister, you'll pay for that in the sequel.
*** End MB ***

The end.

All Content Copyright Iggy 2003-2007
Information on this site is intended for news and entertainment purposes only.

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