I played my first real game of poker recently. I’ve made plenty of bets in my life, but none have involved money. Or cards, for that matter. One of the players was known only to the guy who brought him, but within moments of his arrival, we all felt like we at least knew his type. That type would be asshole. That type would be the kind of guy who thinks women are for making sammiches and flashing some panties but otherwise need to shut the hell up or go shopping or something. The type that has such a small penis, he feels the need to swing his masculinity around the room. The type that keeps talking about how he is the guy with the most poker experience at the table, not knowing there is a guy on the other side of the table who literally makes his living playing poker. I’m not kidding. The guy has no job. Just plays poker. Really a sweet, unassuming guy, and he was playing nice that night as his role was that of teacher and rule-sharer rather than card shark.
So the jackass kept explaining the rules to everyone, and even though I’d never played before, I knew he was wrong. I mean, I’m not stupid. He was. He was that horrid combination of the stupid person who really thinks he’s smart. Not in a “this is the only way I can keep from killing myself” kind of way, but in a “why can’t everyone be as smart as I am?” kind of way. Kind of the same lie that Toby Keith must tell himself regarding his level of talent and attractiveness. And, of course, he (the asshole, not Toby Keith) (it’s one thing to have an asshole at your house – Toby Keith is an entirely different matter) (I haven’t mentioned Toby Keith in a while, so let me have my fun) was the first to run out of chips. Then we were treated to his monologues about the game, how people were playing, what he would have done, etc. A real charmer.
We were playing in the garage, which has turned into a sort of darts/card table area. Romper room for adults. I could tell this guy had the potential to start a fight. I gotta tell you – if you ever have someone at your house you think you might have to knock in the head later (and who doesn’t have that problem every once in a while), make sure you hang out in your garage. There was all kinds of shit easily within reach. Just from my chair alone, I could have hit that guy with: a machete, a bicycle pump, parts from an ancient sewing machine, a window screen, an empty bottle of wine, darts, or a clay flower pot. I like having options.