Patti (whipartist) wrote,


I'm in a poker room sitting next to someone who seems to be a very eager contestant in the Mr. Vile Universe pageant. He's a big guy, with shoulder-length gray hair and a big bushy beard. His stained shirt covers his belly, mercifully, but the shorts leave too much of his legs exposed for my comfort. I only hope the brown stuff caked on his shoes is mud.

I'm pretty sure he last showered on the same day that he shaved. Being downwind from him is not a pleasure.

That would all be OK if he would just keep his mouth shut. Sadly, it is not to be. Since the third hand of the tournament, he's kept up a stream of incessant bitching about how abysmal his cards are, and about the other players-- how miserably they're playing and behaving. (Frankly, he's the only one at the table who excels at both.)

A few minutes ago he beat me out of a pot by catching one of two cards in the deck that could help his hand, at which point he started telling me how badly I played. "You had to know I had the king. How could you call?"

He has just come back from the break, and now on top of everything else he reeks of smoke.

I would give anything for a big red rubber ball gag, latex gloves, and a fire hose.
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