All in...

I have a poker tournament coming up.

Now, before I go any further, I’d like to clarify something (just in case any keepers of the peace or representatives of the department of taxation happen to be casting their eyes in this general direction). By “poker tournament,” what I really mean is “tea party” ...and if I speak of things such as “the flop,” “the turn,” and “the river,” I’m actually referring to specific blends of chamomile, earl grey, and english breakfast... really, honestly... that’s all I mean. Oh, and if I talk about “blinds,” um... well, that’s just a not very sensitive way of referring to a grouping of two or more visually challenged individuals... I promise.

Well now that that’s out of the way, let me just come out and say that I hope to win a lot of money at my upcoming um... tea party. Yes, it’d be really nice if I continually got a selection of chamomile, earl grey, and english breakfast that went perfectly with my hole cards...

But in all honesty, I don’t really expect to win. And that’s ok. I just don’t have the stomach for it... I know this. On the night in question, if I’m sitting with a full boat (note: slang for a “milk creamer filled to the brim”), I may look at the cards and think I have a chance... I may even tell myself that lady luck has cast her gaze upon me... that her countenance is blessed with a smile so grand the heavens themselves must be bathed in glory... I may tell myself that on this night... this one glorious night... I might just possess the faculties necessary to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat and restore honor to the legacy of my entire family.

Unfortunately, I’ll probably tell everyone else this too...

You see, I can’t bluff to save my life. If I have a good hand, I either get all antsy waiting for my chance to bet (resembling an uncomfortable man on a bumpy bus who just ate mexican), or I try to act nonchalant, the end result being that I wind up looking more than a might bit constipated. I guess with me, it’s just really all about the digestive system. In any event, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that there are people out there with a much cooler composition than I, and that given the opportunity, they will rightly whomp my patoot (note: slang for “drive the boot heel of indignance into my spineless mound of inadequacy”). But that doesn’t mean I won’t have fun. I’ll play poor cards. I’ll limp into pots when I should be aggressive. I’ll do other things that would have Phil Gordon rolling in his grave... were he actually dead. The way I see it, as long as I play well enough that I wouldn’t have been embarrassed to have been in the losers lounge at Celebrity Poker Showdown, I’ll have done ok... and if I do end up winning a few bucks in the process, all the better.

Mostly, I just want a moment... MY moment... that ONE special moment of cool every poker player lives for... you know the one I mean... that moment when you calmly put your cards down... take your sunglasses off... push your chair back... stand up... and utter the only two words that can cause opponents to literally shake in their boots...

More tea?