Ocho - WPBT, Part 3

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Several hours after the marathon, I found myself in a late-night jam session at the Monte Carlo poker room. The session musicians included Dr. Chako, Iggy, G-Rob, Otis, Marty, Poker Peaker, Bad Blood, and Drizz.

Here's the setlist...

12/4/11 - Monte Carlo Poker Room, Las Vegas, NV

Set 1: Possum, Nougat Farm > Extra Large Aspirin > Pillow Talk, Danny England Ain't from England, Madras > Marty Ain't Russian > Madras "It's a drink, it's a rug, it's a shirt" Jam > Marty Borrows*, Ziggy Stardust > Iggy's Toothache > Pusherman, Otis Tries to Stand Up^ > Otis Sticks to Beer**, Aces High, Antelope

Encore: Suzy Greenberg > Madras Reprise

* Last time played 12/5/2008
^ Otis solo acoustic
** First time played

I dropped two buy-ins... one each to Otis and G-Rob. Fucking G-Rob would open by sliding a stack of redbirds over the betting line. $100 bet in a 1/3 game? Yep. It was one of those nights when the dealers loved us or hated us. Whenever a new dealer sat down in the box, everyone pre-toked the dealer at least $1, sometimes more. Whenever Otis dragged a pot, he showered the dealer with every white $1 in his newly acquired stack -- which usually amounted to a tip anywhere from $8 to $10. G-Rob convinced another dealer that he not only owned a nougat farm, but that Iggy was actually former NHL stars Zigmund Palffy. To which I said, "Ziggy? He's no Guy LaFleur."

Oh, and we played some poker too. Biggest pot of the night? Three-way all-in on the flop. Set over set against a flush draw. Iggy's set of Aces held up. Drizz doubled him up and Bad Blood was felted. Drizz said that if he had won that monsterpotten, then he would have had enough money for his own private lap dance for a month. I was confused on the math, then again, strippers in Minnesota must be dirt cheap. As my brother aptly said, "Strippers without teeth cost a lot less."

* * *
Las Vegas is a city built on cliches. The biggest cliche of the weekend? Four New Yorkers eating faux-NYC-style pizza in the bowels of City Center.

I knew it was too good to be true, but a leggy model was fixated on me as she walked through Cosmo. As a rule of thumb, any woman that makes eye contact with me after Midnight in Vegas is almost always a working girl or a Mossad agent. She kept starring at me in an extremely uncomfortable manner as she got closer and closer. She passed us, stopped on a dime, and whirled around.

"Where did you get the pizza?" she asked.

My brother pointed at the unidentified hallway across from the pool table. She mumbled "thanks" and sprinted (in high heels) to the secret pizza joint that sold over-priced slices, yet was the closest attempt at NY-style pizza that I devoured in all of Las Vegas. I had heard about the secret pizza place for a few months, but had never visited it mainly because I usually do everything possible to avoid the Strip. April and Mo discovered it earlier in the trip and gave us perfect directions on how to find it. The pizza place with no name. Open til 5am. What more could you ask for?

My brother noted that four New Yorkers were chowing down on slices -- the both of us, FTrain and Timtern. We had become a cliche of cliches. The pizza wasn't even that good, but I was schwilly after a long day and night of gambling and consumption that I was thrilled to find any sort of food substance at City Center that cost under $10.

The worst part of the secret pizza excursion was the art vending machine debacle. I heard about the different vending machines in Cosmo that offered up pieces of artwork for as little as $5. I was a little schwasted when I saw F Train walk up to an old-school cigarette machine that had been refurbished to house the special art. I thought the machine was selling decks of cards with different themes. I saw "abstract oil painting" and thought a fancy deck of cards would make a nice stocking stuffer for the holidays. I pulled a $5 bill out of my pocket and jammed it into the slot. I tugged on the handle, but to my dismay, that style was sold out. I grabbed an adjacent handle -- also of the "abstract" genre -- and I heard a large thud. I reached into the bowels of the machine and pulled out a block of painted wood.

"What the fuck? I just got hustled by a fucking vending machine."

The group did nothing to hide their laughter. I was the consummate Vegas veteran yet I got my ass handed to me. The machines won. Vegas won. Me? I was humiliated beyond belief. I survived seven WSOPs which amounted to seven summers of sheer torture. I wrote a book about the surviving the murky world of the poker industry, yet I could not evade the classic "Las Vegas hustle." So, I stood in the Cosmo with a painted piece of wood as I could hear the entire choir of angels in heaven jeering me. The gambling gods have a unique sense of humor, so much so, that I owe someone a swift kick in the junk.

Hustled again by Vegas. When will I ever learn? Next year, we should move the WPBT to Reno. At least that way if I get hustled again, I could just jump in Lake Tahoe and drown myself.

* * *
Iggy told me about the drunk in the Mickey Mouse costume panhandling on the Strip while drinking liquor from a bottle. The only street people I came across was a busker on the pedestrian bridge connecting Crystals to the Cosmo. I heard a raspy, young female voice singing along to an acoustic guitar. She looked more like a neo-punk rocker than a earthy-crunchy hippie chick, and she wasn't what you'd call... good. But, she sang out of tune and played anyway. After I ate pizza and got hustled by the old "piece-of-painted-wood-in-a-vending-machine" trick, I wanted to return to Aria and drown my sorrows at the sports book bar. I still had a few drink tickets left over. On our way back to the Aria, the same punk girl was sitting on the bridge and butchering a Tom Waits song.

"You should tip her a nug," whispered my girlfriend.

I had some Lemon Kush in my pocket and decided to do the right thing. Pay it forward. I slowly walked in front of her. She had her eyes closed but opened them as soon as she smelled the Lemon Kush.

"Here," I said.

She stopped playing. "Really?"

I nodded, handed her the nug, and continued along my way.

"Ohhhh. Myyyy. Gawd! So fucking awesome! Awesome!"

I heard her saw "awesome" at least four more times as we walked away. She was so stunned by the heady tip that she stopped playing, and thereby, stopped butchering the horrendous cover. Tom Waits would be proud.

* * *
Not everything in life can be summed up in a nifty narrative or setlist. So many inside jokes happened during my time in Vegas that I could write 15,000 words and yet, the situation would be funny for only a few of you. Sometimes some things are just left unsaid. We came. We saw. We conquered. But most of those things aren't fodder for social media and arcane trip reports. My friends would lose their spouses, their houses, their jobs. Dignity? We all checked that at the door as soon as we arrived in Sin City.

With that said, here's a random list of orphaned lines/sentences that missed the cut from the other parts of Ocho - WPBT....

- I spent a good hour talking about refs fixing basketball games with Pokah Dave and Grange95. Grange used to ref high school hoops and shared some perspective on the mentality of the game from the zebra's eyes. It also made me sick to my stomach to think about how many more NBA games were "manipulated" over the years. If you believe that crooked ref Tim Donaghy was an "isolated incident" then there's a bridge in Brooklyn I'd like to sell you. Oh, and Dick Bavetta? I'm looking at you pal!

- So if Texas April now lives in California, and California April now lives in Maine, then who lives in Texas?


- Derek hustled G-Rob, Change100, and I at a video version of Greyhound racing. The Monte Carlo had a silly video game in which you could place bets on different virtual dogs. We realized that you didn't have to play the game for a race to go off -- so we decided to bet on each individual race that was comprised of six different dogs. You basically picked a number and shouted it for about thirty seconds before a winning greyhound was determined. That kept us entertained for about thirty minutes before we realized that Derek was winning all of our money. That inspired one of my favorite quotes from the entire weekend: "It's hard to handicap fake dogs."

- My second favorite quote? I don't know who said originally said it (so please let me know, so I can give you proper attribution), but FTrain referenced the gem one late night: "If it's after Midnight in Vegas and you're smoking a cigarette while carrying a baby... then you're definitely white trash."

- This is not a WPBT note, rather a general Vegas observation, but I fucking hate it when I'm trying to grab a cab in front of a casino and a doorman asks me where I'm going. I know he's doing it to trying to hustle a few bucks just in case I'm going to a strip club, but to hell with their intrusive antics. I once pissed off a doorman at the Rio over the summer when he asked me where I was headed. "I'm going to a new club," I said. "It's called None of Your Fucking Business." In the last year or so, I have been lying to the doormen, then correcting the destination to the driver as soon as the door closes. Most Vegas cabbies actually like me more when I tell them what I did. Mr. Funk (@LVCabbieChronicles) would be pleased at how I've been treating nosey doormen. Hey, my destination is an intimate exchange between me and my cabbie. Everyone else can bugger off. And if growing up in NYC taught me anything, you NEVER give the driver your exact destination especially when it's going to a residence. It's always wise to ask to get dropped off a block away or give them an address somewhere nearby. Vegas is so large that it's hard to get them to drop you off a block from a casino or the airport. But even then, I try to give a fake airline. "I'm flying on Blue Star airline. It's near the JetBlue counter."

* * *
My brother published his quarterly post, which happens to be a recap of his WPBT adventures. Derek rarely writes, but his trip report are among my favorites to read. Check out... Holiday Classic Recap: Words With Friends.

And you can also read Part 1 and Part 2 of my series titled Ocho - WPBT. Until next year, I bid you farewell...

Ocho - WPBT, Part 2

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Saturday morning. I sidestepped a German couple at the Aria and felt like the Joe Walsh song Life Is Good. On top of the world. Rested. Catching the first buzz of the day. Itching to gamble. In the previous years, I stayed up way too late raging hard on Friday night and staggered into the tournament on little to no sleep on Saturday at noon. This year I booked a room in the same casino where we played, so all I had to do was walk downstairs. Perfect scenario, especially if/when I busted early I could drop stuff off in my room, check the scores on a few games, then head back downstairs and sweat friends at the final table.

* * *
"I live in hotels, tear out the walls."

I woke up with college basketball on my mind. I placed a few bets on the UK-UNC game, schedule to tip off at Noon EST or at the horrendous 9am hour in Vegas, so I set my alarm in order to get a bet in. The first business of the day featured a quick meeting in front of the sports book. I felt confident with a hot tip from G-Rob.

"I watched every minute of every Kentucky game," explained G-Rob. "I watched every North Carolina game too. Seen every game both teams played. I'm telling you... Kentucky wins, covers, and the score will be low. Bet the under."

G-Rob spoke with the sincerity of a Sunday preacher, yet his assessment on the game seemed like a well-crafted pitch from slick boiler room stockbroker. It's hard to resist G-Rob because of his secret weapon -- perfectly coiffed hair. My brother Derek always suspected he was a member of a CIA black-op mind control project to keep the sheeple under constant hypnosis. With disdainful ignorance, I heeded G-Rob's advice and without hesitation I marched up to the window at the Aria's sports book.

I also tailed a college football pick from the legendary Johnny Detroit and bet Southern Mississippi +13.5 against the Houston Cougars. All of the so-called experts on the boob tube were all over the #6 ranked Cougars. The public was also betting Houston heavily, but the "Wiseguys" syndicate were all over Southern Miss. I trusted their intel and tailed their pick, rather than bet on the same side as the schwill-drinking, booger-eating, "Jersey Shore"-loving dickwads bumping chests in the sports book. Sometimes,you gotta fade the public.

* * *
"They say I'm crazy, but I'm having a good time."

The 8th Annual Winter Classic was hosted at the Aria's poker room for a second year in a row. The staff liked the gang at the WPBT so much (and tolerated all of our peculiar quirks) that they invited us back. Phil Ivey's high-roller's room was idle while we played and he was nowhere to be seen. Otis spotted him in Maccau earlier in the week, but if Ivey is the Ivey I know, he's been holed up in a nosebleed cash game with Chinese oligarchs. For the meantime, the only celebrity in the room was former L.A. Dodger pitcher Orel Hershiser. Ironically, he wouldn't be the only former big leaguer that bloggers would play cash games with someone in our crew.

Jordan pulled a few strings at Pokerist.com and secured a fistful of cash to sweeten the team last longer side bet. Teams were comprised of three players and the best team finish wins the motherload of cash. Change100 and Derek were my teammates on Tao of Fear. I had special hats made for the occasion which incorporated Tao of Fear's grey alien logo. The ETs live among us and have been assimilated for decades. They infiltrated the casino business as robotic-like Pai Gow dealers, surly doormen, and chefs manning omelet stations in the breakfast buffets.

WPBT OCHO - My Starting Table:
Seat 1. (EMPTY)
Seat 2. BrainMC
Seat 3. Lightning36
Seat 4. AGSweep
Seat 5. Mrs. Chako
Seat 6. Falstaff
Seat 7. Kat
Seat 8. Yestbay
Seat 9. YOUR HERO
Seat 10. Jess Welman

The first thing I noticed... the majority of the field was relatively sober. AlCantHang didn't show up at the crack of dawn to force-feed Southern Comfort down the throats of a forty bloggers. In previous years, at least half the field was juiced up from pre-game cocktails or still drunk from a hell-raising bender from the night before trying to keep up with the AlCantHang Experience. Only one or two people had the zombie-like stare that you get when you stayed up all night gambling and lost all of your soul. One of them was Grubby. I was getting ready to crash around 4:30am when Grubby sent me a text wanting to degen it up. I politely declined in order to finish reading A Treatise on Money by John Maynard Keynes. In order to write a report for Tao of Fear, I plotted to crash a hedgefund mangers convention at the Venetian later that week, so I had to brush up on Keynesian economic theory in order to bullshit my way into the door.

Sorry for the tangent. Moving on...

Action progressed slowly for a blogger tournament. Aside from the lack of serious binge drinking, I suspected the field (save the few Cannucks who had access to online poker) was rusty in the wake of Black Friday. It had been almost 8 months since many of us played online poker on a regular basis. Fucking federales.

I had a copy of Gigli with me. I handed out the DVD as a joke during the first WPBT tournament at Sam's Town in 2004. The "Bennifer" movie is so appalling that it's a fitting departing gift for the first one out of the WPBT Winter Classic. Bill Rini took down the first Gigli, and it's become a tradition ever since. Unlike the posh "Hammer" trophy that Iggy spends big bucks to present to the winner, I paid next to nothing for the Gigli DVD. It cost $0.01 on Amazon. Serious. A fucking penny. It cost $3 to ship, though. Therein lies the hustle.

No one busted out in the first two levels. Yestbay came close in the first orbit when his Aces were snapped off by Mrs. Chako's set. He somehow managed not to go broke, but he found himself on life support. Mrs. Chako embarked on a heater and jumped out to an early lead in the opening level. She was a set monster and vacuumed up chips from everyone at my table. I evaded one of her traps when she flopped a set of 7s against my pocket 10s.

Once the third level began, I wondered when someone would bust. We had eight tables with only a couple of "shorties" including Shane Nickerson. That's when PokerVixen wandered over to collect her boobie prize. Even though she was wearing a Micros' "run good" t-shirt, she was jinxed because she had just given up her citizenship to that weird land to the north of us... "Canadia"... where its citizens interject the letter "u" into random words and also attempts to pass off "ham" as bacon.

I took out Yestbay and collected one of my favorite bounties to date -- a YES greatest hits CD. I was always above average, but I misplayed a couple of hands. I blame Jess Welman's radiance for my live "misclicks." I exposed my hand twice when action was still going. One time it cost me a chance to double up against Jess. And the other? It didn't matter because I ran into a cooler.

OhCaptain moved to my table after Yestbay busted. I only sat with him for a few hands before I got involved in a hand that marked my demise. Kat open-shoved. OhCaptain raised all-in. I had both him and Kat covered and I called with Kings. I think Kat held A-Q, but OhCaptain tabled Aces. Fuck me. Kings into Aces. Crippled. Two hands later I moved all in with 8d-7d. Jess Welman busted me and won my bounty -- an autographed copy of Jack Tripper Stole My Dog.

The funniest moment of the tournament occurred after a Grubby moved to our table. He had pounded Kettle and cranberry drinks for a few levels and was a little tipsy when he got to our table. On his elimination hand, he got it all-in against Jess. She busted him and Grubby stumbled over to shake her hand.

"Where's my bounty?" he blurted out.

A perplexed Jess smirked. "Wait, a second," she hollered, "where the heck is MY bounty?"

It took a few seconds before Grubby noticed his error. He apologized and said he had forgotten his bounty in his hotel room that he hadn't seen in days because he had been up for a couple of days chasing the progressive jackpot on Rockin' Olives slots at the Bellagio.

I was the first member of Tao of Fear to bust, but Derek and Change100 were knocked out in the next level. Our team was dunzo. At that point, I went to the bar and grabbed some grub before returning to the final table to sweat the action. I had just missed AlCantHang and Otis' elimination hands. With three to go, it was down to Timtern, Melissa Hayden, and quiet random guy that we later found out was Chilly's friend from St. Louis who had never played a live poker tournament before. Figures. Murphy's Law, right?

Timtern busted in third place and Melissa was heads-up against the random guy. She took him down to win the WPBT Winter Classic, and more importantly the trophy. She didn't really care about the money; rather, she really really wanted the trophy. Congrats!

* * *
"I'm just looking for clues at the scene of the crime."

After eight hours in the poker room followed up by an hour or so at the bar drinking overpriced beers, the time hath come to go slumming at the Imperial Palace. The IP used to be home base, but we opted to spend a few extra bucks and stay at the Aria this year and not worry about contracting Legionnaires Disease.

"It smells like socks and hairspray in there," said Joe Speaker as he took a long drag off a cigarette. He stood outside getting some fresh air because the IP was its usual zoo for a Saturday night. Dealertainers that were bad dopplegangers for Lady Gaga and Taylor Swift belted out popular songs. Bloggers milled around the pits and rubbed elbows with Budweiser slurping cowboys, hipsters dressed like cowboys, and meth-addled hookers dressed like David Bowie. AlCantHang held court at the Geisha Bar and kept the tab running. I stood around for about an hour saying nothing but just watching people, mostly of the Whiskey Tang variety. You learn a lot about humanity on a Saturday night in Vegas. You don't wander inside the IP unless you're looking for a cheap thrill. Hunter said it... buy a ticket, take the ride.

The IP was as low-brow as you can go for the Strip. The simplicity of the cheap thrill irked me. Maybe it was the putrid odor? JoeSpeaker was right. The IP reeked of sweaty socks and hairspray.

I bailed as soon as came to my senses. Playing heads-up middle-stakes Pai Gow at the swanky Aria seemed a thousand times more appealing. I didn't care if they the pit boss sent out a dealer who was a bot or alien. I just wanted to flee the IP before the rash on my forearm spread to other parts of my body.

"It's hard to leave when you can't find the door."

I gazed out the window of our 34th floor hotel room. The Palms was visible in the near distance.

"That's where Otis and Jose Canseco are," muttered Derek. He referenced the insane cash game that a few of the G-Vegas boys found themselves playing against Jose Canseco. The word "worst player" was a popular phrase used to describe the former baseball player. I only wished I jumped in a cab to the Palms instead of trying to go slumming with cowboys and hookers at the IP. I missed my opportunity at free money and lost a shot at padding my bankroll with steroid-induced Canseco bucks.

Sunday morning. A new day. I had finally gotten back on track at the sports book after a profitable Saturday. Kentucky only won by one and failed to cover 6, but I won the rest of my bets, including So. Miss upsetting Houston to win outright and cover. After a dismal start to the trip, I finish Saturday with a decent profit. I was pumped to make some more bets and hit up the sports book first thing on Sunday morning. The lines were already wrapped around the wall. I got word that the Wiseguys were betting Carolina big all over town. Carolina, led by Cam Newtown, was originally a 2.5-point underdog but once word got out that Tampa Bay's QB Josh Freeman was sitting out, the line jumped to Carolina -1.5. I bet Carolina along with New Orleans, the Jets, the Pats, and Atlanta. I had a few other teasers, but those were not as important as my monstrous bet on the Pats laying 20.5 against the winless Indianapolis Colts. When I showed F Train the ticket, he shook his head then pointed at his crotch and uttered, "Huevos."

"Si. Mucho grande huevos."

The rest of my friends thought I was crazy. Crazy? Maybe. Stupid? Definitely. Last year, I told Dawn Summers to bet her final table winnings on the Pats. She didn't listen to me and missed a chance to turn $1,500 into $3,000. This year, I was riding the Pats again. My blind faith in Tom Brady and Bill Bellichek became my downfall. I'll spare you the bad beat story, but New England had the game covered going into the 4th quarter before all hell broke loose and they blew a three touchdown lead. I lost my big bet and was scrambling the rest of the day to try to get unstuck. I whiffed on Atlanta and lost an impulse bet on the Cowboys. The Jets won and when I cashed that ticket, I let it ride on the Saints. I doubled down on the Sunday Night Football game hoping it would help cover the day's losses.

We watched the game inside the Skybox sports bar adjacent to the sports book. The staff had no clue what to expect from our group which bum rushed them as soon as the doors opened. I greased the staff and the found us a nice spot in the corner. Jordan secured $1,000 from Pokerist to fund the Sunday debauchery. $1,000 lasted just under an hour before we had to start paying for stuff by ourselves.


The highlight of the day was the intricate cake that Pokerist surprised us with. The cake cost $500 and took up the entire table. Classy. The cake tasted good and it was the only thing I actually enjoyed on Sunday while sweating the games. Losing the big Pats bet put me in a bad mood and nearly killed my spirit. The cake helped me rally and I was ready for the next item on our agenda... the half-marathon.

* * *
"Lucky I'm sane after all I've been through."

The plan was simple... sweat the first half of the SNF game at Mandalay Bay, then cheer on our friends at the finish line of the half-marathon. It didn't occur to me the logistical nightmare of hosting a 44,000 person race. Mandalay Bay was packed but sort of looked like a refugee center. Friends and family of the runners were scattered throughout the casino as they tried to stay warm.

Heather and April found a spot in the middle of Las Vegas Blvd near the front of Mandalay Bay. About 15-20 of us stood and watched random runners jog by us. Derek hung over the rail and smoked a cigarette, while StB pounded a beer. It would have been a perfect spot to burn down a doobie, but there was an undercover police car nearby.

In order to keep warm, I blurted out random things to runners as they passed us. I can't recall most of what I said, but all I know was that by that point of the night, I was roasted, faded, and drunk. Grange95 had a few pops in him and he kept the chatter lighthearted. The guy in the Borat costume passed us and all he wore was a green thong. Many other runners took the opportunity to don superhero costumes, wear pink tutus, and dress up like Elvis (or is it Elvi?).

Mrs. Otis posted Otis' split times on facebook. We got word he was a couple of miles away. I told everyone it was a perfect time to practice our chant, so we belted out "O-tis! O-tis! O-tis!" We were loud and in tune. All we had to do was wait.

I spotted Poker Peaker whizzing by. At first I didn't think it was him until I recognized the Colorado flag symbol on his running shirt. He posted the fastest time out of the group. Bad Blood flew by us not much longer and barely looked like he had broken a sweat. We wondered about Chako, Mattazuma, G-Rob, Curtis, and of course Otis.

We almost missed Otis. I knew he was wearing a green fluorescent shirt and we had an approximate time he'd be near us, but that was it. Luckily, he came to us when he spotted Grange or Drizz's head on the rail. He snuck up on us with a flyby and we hesitated a few seconds before everyone belted out the chant.

"O-tis! O-tis! O-tis! Oooo-tis!"

He ran for a few seconds than thrust his arms in the air forming a fluorescent green V. It's something I'll never forget. The V. Otis had been through hell the previous week, yet that did not deter him from completing a task he set out to do. After 13 exhausting miles, he neared the finish line -- something both tangible and personal. His resplendent V piercing through the dark, freezing night is one of the most inspiring symbols I had ever seen in Las Vegas.

"Life's been good to me so far."


To be continued...

Ocho - WPBT, Part 1

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

Eight?

It's hard to believe we've been emissaries for eight years. The WPBT's annual Winter Gathering thrives even in the wake of online poker prohibition. Black Friday did not deter an eclectic group of a hundred or so people from descending upon Las Vegas for a weekend of lurid debauchery.

The WPBT began as a bad inside joke like a half-baked Saturday Night Live sketch that morphed into a global phenomena and yearly pilgrimage. In his next book, Malcolm Gladwell should write about the compelling story of how an innocuous weekend in Las Vegas became a sanctuary for an unusual group of people, which originated from a couple of potheads from the Bronx and two cynical brothers from Michigan. For as long as I can remember, I flew from NYC to Las Vegas twice a year with my brother to occupy the sportsbook for a couple of days (March Madness in the Spring and another sojourn at the end of the year to bet on football). Our trip in 2004 was enticing to our friends, BG and Bobby Bracelet (back before he was even given the "Bracelet" moniker by my brother), and they instantly joined in the fun. Once the peanut gallery found out, the trip ballooned to over 30 poker enthusiasts.

When I (loosely) organized the first Winter Classic with the Poker Prof, we thought it was going to be just a once in a lifetime opportunity to meet virtual friends, many of whom we had never met before. The first trip was a whim for many of the participants involved, yet the first gathering spawned a yearly pilgrimage. The group grew. Fast. Infectious. Huge. Then things got out of control as it became a flash mob of several hundred, inebriated degenerates clashing with cowboys on the Strip.

Eight years later, the weekend still exists which is a testament to the people involved. The original weekend in 2004 was never about online poker, gambling or a pissing match -- rather it was a whimsical leap of faith in an attempt to nurture a sincere, yet genuine connection that we all made through the virtual world with online poker as our portal. Many of us originally booked their flights because we were seeking out a shared visceral experience in Sin City. The rest is history.

The inaugural WPBT gathering occurred right smack in the middle of the glorious poker boom during the halcyon days of "blogs" before Facebook and Twitter hijacked the social media cloud. From the outset, we were a rag-tag bunch of geeky writers and online poker addicts, which is why the Big Business vultures were circling around our gatherings. They dispatched savvy marketing agents and seized the weekend as an opportunity to bribe the poker blogging community. Any publicity is publicity. Simply put, the slithery tentacles of the poker industry octopus would hand out free shit with hopes that we'd write about it (and link it up) on our blogs. Fair enough.

Everyone loves two things: kittens and free shit. Alas, handing out furry adorable felines inside a poker room seems a little weird, even by Vegas standards, but the rest of the free stuff was welcomed. Over the last eight years, major online poker rooms competed with each other to get the attention of the WPBT. Some marketing ploys succeeded. Some definitely missed. Some of the online rooms outright exploited us. Maybe it wasn't a fair deal for everyone involved, but in the end we all had a good time and acquired some free shit. Let's not forget the last-longer pots were sweetened and the liquored flowed, while the industry unloaded tons of free trinkets (made in China, of course) like decks of playing cards, card cappers, t-shirts, and hats.

The annual weekend had become an orgy of consumption, yet this year took a slightly healthier bent when a small group of friends decided they wanted to run the Las Vegas half-marathon. If you haven't heard, the race was plagued with logistical issues and it's remarkable that everyone finished despite the clusterfuck. Regardless, the race was the perfect example of the quirkiness of our group -- from the runners in the half-marathon to the bunch of us screaming like banshees near the finish line.

Ocho.

We've done this eight times. Nothing can top the first one, but the eighth one will always stand out.

* * *
I arrived Friday and was already stuck. I asked StB to put a bet down on a college basketball game on Thursday. It lost. Even though the game was not on TV (nor could I find it online), I was sweating the score via my CrackBerry while seeing the film J. Edgar with Change100 at a theatre around the corner from our apartment in San Francisco. The movie was so boring that I refreshed the score every few minutes. I didn't even get to the airport and I was already down. That was an ominous sign that the gambling gods were going to fuck with me all weekend.

I departed San Francisco on Friday morning and ran into Katitude at the airport, which was odd because she's Canadian and supposed to be flying from Toronto to Vegas, yet she had a random layover in SFO. Even more weird? She was on my same flight. SFO > LAS.

I checked into Aria and had a Jerry Seinfeld moment at the front desk because of the reservation snafu. I found paid StB slamming Widmer at the bar in front of the sportsbook and I paid my debt. We went inside and studied the lines for upcoming games. I scanned the different screens back and forth when my brother piped up, "What the fuck is Lingerie Football?"

StB checked his iPhone and discovered the Lingerie League was a legit league with 12 teams of women playing football in pads and... lingerie. It's the kind of sports entertainment that strikes an angry nerve with feminists and even makes sport purists squirm. Even with a competitive angle, Lingerie Football is classic Americana Whiskey Tango Entertainment. Heck, it's nearly soft core porn which is why it only appeared on PPV. Even if we bet on the game, we couldn't watch it. What's the point to betting on something you can't watch? You have no sweat equity.

Fantasy versus the Crush. The Fantasy were the favorite and laying 8.5 points. I had no clue if that was good, or not. I couldn't even tell you the cities the teams were from. In case you were wondering -- Cleveland and Orlando. But which one was the Fantasy?

We bet on it anyway. Our first impulsive degen moment of the weekend. Five minutes before kickoff, we stood in front of the sportsbook and pooled our money -- Derek, Chilly, Iggy, StB, Maudie and myself. StB walked up to the window. My only regret was that we didn't bet more.


StB sprinted to the window and tried to joke around with a humorless woman in a Jim Kelly Buffalo Bill's jersey. She took our bet on the Limgerie Football game, but didn't care for our shtick. Too bad she wasn't working when we cashed our winning ticket, because StB would've rubbed it in. Bad.

Our career as a Lingerie Football betting syndicate was short-lived. No other games were scheduled while we were in town, so we'd have to disband the group indefinitely. At least we turned a profit. In fact, Lingerie Football was the only bet I'd win on Thursday or Friday. I was mired in a slump after whiffing on a college hoops game (I tried to fade the Ivy League and took Loyola Marymount -9 against Columbia) and a college football game. In a Six Degrees of Separation moment, Chilly randomly mentioned that he knew the head coach of the team I had bet on.

"What the fuck, Chilly? Why didn't you tell me? Send him a text and tell him he better score lots of points."

Around Midnight, Chilly hustled me in a prop bet -- how many of his toes were painted with nail polish? He gave me 7-1 odds and I instantly bombarded him with questions. After I extracted some answers, I barked out: three. I was wrong as he took off his shoes and socks to settle the bet, much to the delight of the eye in the sky. Chilly revealed his toes, which normally would horrify most sane people, yet the Friday night crowd was distracted with the edifice of Elvis -- a bust near the entrance to Viva Elvis, his new Cirque du Soleil show. A steady flow of tourists stopped in front of the bust all night and snapped photos with the bronzed statue of Elvis' head. A pack of soused cougars took turns molesting and making out with the head, but that all that sexual frisson overshadowed a semi-circle of shit-faced degens standing around Chilly as he wiggled his toes.

Whenever someone new showed up at the bar, Chilly attempted to run the same hustle. We didn't get busted so I suspect whoever was watching the eye in the sky was a foot fetishist and/or had a thing for portly bald guys.

To be continued...

New "Insider" Column: NFL Week 13 Picks

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

I wrote another column for Wicked Chops Insider. The topic? NFL and sports betting. I'm divulging my Week 13 NFL picks including a tip I got from a chicken in Chinatown. Yes, a chicken.


I'm also putting my money where my mouth is and betting my picks in Las Vegas this weekend. Yep, I'm heading to Vegas this weekend for the 8th annual Holiday Classic otherwise known as the #WPBT -- a gathering of poker bloggers that spawned out of an annual trip to Vegas with my brother. I'm surprised that the group is still going strong, but then again, I'm not because that's a testament to the cool people involved that I've met over the last eight years. Sure, blogs have become dinosaurs in the nebulous social media universe and we can't play online poker together anymore, but that is not going to deter 50 or so people from converging on Sin City for a weekend of debauchery. Man, eight years? Has it been that long? It's been a wild ride for sure.

Betting Guide to the 2011 November Nine

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA


In case you were wondering, and I know many of you degenerates are always looking for excuses to gamble, here's the latest odds for the 2011 WSOP Main Event final table, otherwise known as the November Nine...

2011 November Nine Odds
Martin Staszko 4/1
Eoghan Odea 9/2
Ben Lamb 5/1
Phil Collins 5/1
Matt Giannetti 13/2
Pius Heinz 10/1
Badih Bounahra 12/1
Anton Makievskyi 12/1
Samuel Holden 15/1

** Odds courtesy of The Camel and Oddschecker.com

2011 November Nine Seating Assignments:
Seat 1: Matt Giannetti
Seat 2: Badih Bounahra
Seat 3: Eoghan O'Dea
Seat 4: Phil Collins
Seat 5: Anton Makievskyi
Seat 6: Samuel Holden
Seat 7: Pius Heinz
Seat 8: Ben Lamb
Seat 9: Martin Staszko

November Nine Chip Counts:
1. Martin Staszko - 40,175,000
2. Eoghan O'Dea - 33,925,000
3. Matt Giannetti - 24,750,000
4. Phil Collins - 23,875,000
5. Ben Lamb - 20,875,000
6. Badih Bounahra - 19,700,000
7. Pius Heinz - 16,425,000
8. Anton Makievskyi - 13,825,000
9. Sam Holden - 12,375,000

November Nine - Final Table Payouts
1st - $8,711,956
2nd - $5,430,928
3rd - $4,019,635
4th - $3,011,661
5th - $2,268,909
6th - $1,720,396
7th - $1,313,851
8th - $1,009,910
9th - $782,115

This is the first year that Las Vegas casinos allow proposition wagering on the World Series of Poker. Sports betting on poker is not a precise science yet because oddmakers and gamblers have a very small set of numbers to worth with. This is not like professional football in which oddmakers have models and algorithms to consult in addition to the old fashioned "eye test" to see if a team can legitimately cover a point spread on both paper and in real life. Poker is not like MMA or boxing, and you can't just look at Puis Heinz and say he won't be able to handle Anton Makievskyi.

So what do you look for? Stack sizes? Betting the chip leader isn't always the best strategy. It's only panned out once in the last three final tables.

The luck factor adds difficulty into making a sound decision. You're essentially betting on the guy who puts himself in the best situation to get lucky -- and often times luck is not coming from behind to win a hand or hitting all your draws, but rather, avoiding misfortune by winning all of your coinflips and evading suckouts at advantageous moments.

You're also looking for value and a player who will pay off something close to what he's really worth if goes deep and wins it all.

Will the major betting syndicates get in on this racket? I doubt they'll make a major play because of the uncontrollable variables which makes it tough to minimize their risk. Rather, the majority of action will be wagered by hardcore poker fans and the curious tourist that happens to be in Vegas this weekend. He/she probably watched a few episodes of the WSOP on ESPN and decided to drop $25 on a player.

The WSOP Main Event is not like the Superbowl when amateur bettors flock to the windows to place bets on random things like the coinflip or the length of the national anthem. If the November Nine odds lures in a few drunks on The Strip, they'd probably place bets on a whim will go with familiar names like Phil Collins or Ben Lamb. It's a pick driven by psychology. The European names are just too weird for anyone to pronounce, especially with a few Irish car bombs pumping through their system. Based on that assumption (drunks don't like complicated names), if anyone wants to bet a longshot, it'll be Sam Holden due to the simplicity of his name.

Ben Lamb is overvalued because everyone and his mother who is easily swayed by "awards" will take into account his most-recent Player of the Year victory. Lamb and Phil Hellmuth were neck-and-neck going into the Main Event, but Lamb finally locked up the title with a deep run in the Main Event. Numbers/awards aside, Lamb certainly played well enough across the entire summer to deserve the POY honor, but he could have won a Nobel Prize and the Westminster Dog Show and it still wouldn't alter the randomness of the hands he'll see at the final table and how he'll choose to play them.

The chip leader and most popular guy have been historically overvalued. But, the long shots should be much higher in excess of +1500 and closer to +2000. That's why you have to analyze the guys in the middle. They have the potential for most value if they win the Main Event. With that said, I like Matt Giannetti at +575 and love him of the line moves northward of 600.

* * *

2010 November Nine Odds:
Jonathan Duhamel +180
Michael "The Grinder" Mizrachi +250
John Dolan +250
Joseph "subiime" Cheong +350
Matthew Jarvis +700
John Racener +700
Soi Nguyen +1200
Filippo Candio +1200
Jason Senti +2000

In 2010, the overall favorite and chip leader Jonathan Duhamel won the Main Event -- the only favorite to ever do so. His odds were listed at +180 and he beat John Racener (+700) heads-up. The bookies gave the popular "Grinder" the second favorite at +250.

The Grinder embarked on a remarkable run at the 2010 WSOP and edged out Frank Kasella as Player of the Year, which was anchored by his victory in the 50K Players' Championship. The Grinder eventually finished the Main Event in 5th place. His real odds were much higher, but don't forget the bookies adjust lines to accommodate their positions after the original lines are released. The +250 they set for the Grinder didn't equate to what place they thought he'd finish. The +250 line was in place protect themselves just in case the most popular guy won and they'd be on the hook for almost twice as much cash. Similar thing happened with Phil Ivey in 2009.

Last year, I bet on Joe "subiime" Cheong at +350. I felt that he offered the best value for his price. Cheong finished in a disappointing third place. If he didn't imploded on the infamous hand that sunk his Main Event dreams, who knows what could have happened.

John Racener at +700 ended up being a sound wager because the bubblegum chewing Racener lost to Duhamel heads-up. He was listed as the 6th favorite (or 4th longshot if you want to look at it in those terms). The year before, Joe Cada was in a similar spot and took down the Main Event.

* * *

2009 November Nine Odds:
Darvin Moon +225
Eric Buchman +350
Phil Ivey +350
Happy Shulman +500
Steven Begleiter +500
Joe Cada +1000
Kevin Schaffel +1200
James Akenhead +1200
Antoine Saout +1500

Phil Ivey's numbers were tweaked because he's Phil Fucking Ivey and everyone with a pulse put down a bet on him. I bet on him at crappy odds because he's Phil Fucking Ivey. He should have been listed much higher, but so much money was put down on Ivey that the bookies wanted to minimize their losses just in case he pulled off a victory. Alas, the living legend never got any momentum going and despite the pro-Ivey crowd, he busted in 5th place. Seconds after his elimination, the majority of the Penn and Teller Theatre emptied and energy level fizzled out to a faint whimper.

The Luddite logger Darvin Moon was listed as 2/1 because he held an overwhelming chip lead and the poker gods seemed to have blessed him during his journey to the final table. Moon found himself pitted heads-up against the baby-faced kid from Michigan Joe Cada. Cada getting 10/1 odds would've paid off handsomely if you had the balls to pull the trigger on the unknown player. Alas, it wasn't one of the chip leaders like Moon or Buchman who prevailed. Nor was it the consummate professional in Phil Ivey. Nope, it was one of the random guys at the back of the pack.

* * *

2008 November Nine Odds:
Dennis Phillips +425
Ivan Demidov +425
Scott Montgomery +475
Peter Eastgate +525
Ylon Schwartz +800
David Rheem +850
Darus Suharto +900
Craig Marquis +950
Kelly Kim +2500

In the inaugural November Nine the books erred on the side of caution because the November Nine has never happened before, so no one knew what to expect. The big question marks surrounded the layoff -- would it benefit some players more so than others? And more importantly, how would that affect the betting odds?

Dennis Phillips was the people's choice. He had the "aww shucks" attitude from the moment the spotlight got turned onto him, which is a rare form of charm mostly found in prairie statement politicians and door-to-door insurance salesmen. The fact that he was also the chip leader tweaked his numbers. Don't forget when someone who is not a savvy bettor wants action, they usually go with what is familiar to them. Hence, why the public loved betting on Phillips.

Chino Rheem was the "pro's favorite" that year and most of the people associated with the poker industry put their money on Chino because based on time logged at the live tables, he had the best chance to win. Besides, he also owed the most money to everyone else in poker, which is why everyone was rooting for him. The higher he finished, the better the chances all of his debt collectors would get paid.

The 4th highest favorite, Peter Eastgate, won the championship and became the youngest player to do so in the process -- smashing Phil Hellmuth's record. It's fitting that five years after the Moneymaker Effect, a Scandi who barely shaves, took down the WSOP Main Event.

* * *
So what does all of this mean? Absolutely nothing.

But if you like small sample sizes.... since the inception of the November Nine, only one favorite (Jonathan Duhamel) won the Main Event. Your best bet is someone in the middle of the pack like Joe Cada (2009) or Peter Eastgate (2008). That's why I like Matt Gianetti at +575 or 13/2 at online sportsbooks according to The Camel. Besides, Giannetti won a WPT event on my birthday, so I take that as a positive sign.

I've already placed wagers on O'Dea (safe bet) and Gianetti (value play).

I know I haven't specifically spoken about Eoghan O'Dea, but I like the Irishman's style of play and more importantly, he's a second generation gambler. Poker is in his blood. His father is one of the godfathers of Irish poker Don O'Dea. It's hard to bet against royalty and someone who's been breathing poker since he popped out of his momma's womb.

That's it for now. Consult your local bookie, online sportsbook, or check the betting windows in Vegas for the latest odds. Get your bets in before Sunday! Good luck.

The November Nine kicks off semi-live with hole cards on ESPN2 at 3:30pm ET. You can also view it online at ESPN3.

The Degen Market

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

A slanted photo of a bloody Al Pacino in his role of Tony Montana from Scarface hung high up on the wall above the check-out counter. The weathered photo sat inside a plastic cover, like one you'd use to protect a comic book. Pacino, adorned in a pinstripe suit, held a machine gun in his right hand.


The photo is hung so high up on the wall, it's almost at the ceiling. Pacino hovers over the top shelf, where the "expensive" booze was stored -- mostly a couple of dusty bottles of Patron and one bottle of Johnnie Walker Red. I couldn't figure out if the photo was an homage to the owner's favorite fictional character, or if he left it there as a message to would-be robbers. Maybe he was bragging about being a fourth-rate drug dealer? After all,no one believed he was actually paying rent on a corner store in Pacific Heights by inflating the price of cigarettes and selling cheap wine that might cause unexplained bouts of blindness. The owner had to be doing something shady -- either laundering money for a criminal enterprise like an off-shore online casino or using the store as a front to move a significant amount of weight of an illegal white powdery substance that's none of my fucking business.

Above one of the four clear-doored refrigerators that lined the wall, another photo inside a plastic cover where the overpriced generic milk and orange juice were on display. Shaquille O'Neil, grinning ear to ear, stood next to the store owner. Both of them wore snazzy suits. By the looks of it, the photo was at least a decade old, when Shaq first arrived in Los Angeles to play for the Lakers. Plus the owner looked much younger and had significantly more hair then. He was actually smiling. In the two or so months I lived around the corner I never saw him even smirk. He was the type of guy who woke up with a scowl on his face and he only grew angrier throughout the day.

It was obvious that the bodega owner's two idols were Shaq and Tony Montana. It could've been a lot worse, like Kobe Bryant and Charlie Sheen.

* * *
Growing up in NYC, I was spoiled with the convenience of a local neighborhood bodega. When I lived in Las Vegas, I missed bodegas the most because Vegas neighborhoods, a few miles away from the casinos on The Strip, are so spread out that it's impossible to walk anywhere, besides, it's always 110 fucking degrees outside. I didn't have an authentic bodega experience in Los Angeles because big business muscled out all of the immigrant-owned stores and replaced with a low-frill, generic version known as 7-11. Sure we had a 24-hour one three blocks away, but a homeless guy was camped out in front and if you wanted to buy anything, you had to pass by the puke-inducing grey meat-like tubes roasting on some sort of grill contraption next to the cash register.

I moved to San Francisco a couple of months ago and realized the corner bodegas are essentially liquor stores that also cigarettes, condoms, soft drinks, and junk food. Yeah, you can buy hard liquor and wine in bodegas here. In NYC, you could buy a six pack at a bodega, but you could only buy hooch at a liquor store. And in case you were wondering, the 7-11 around the corner from me in the Slums of Beverly Hills didn't even sell beer or wine.

A couple of bodegas are located within walking distance of my house. The closest one is something that we call the Degen Market. True story. My roommate Halli gave it its nickname because the owner is a degenerate gambler.

Halli refuses to buy anything in the store after she got into a verbal joust with the owner. He was fretting over the score in a baseball game while shouting into the phone (presumably to his bookie). All she wanted to do was buy a pack of smokes and get the hell out of what she described as "the creepiest store north of the Mission." But the owner, originally born in Jordan, was more focused on bitching about his bad beat in mixture of Arabic and baseball lingo than ringing up a pack of of cigarettes.

During her self-imposed ban of the Degen Market, she'd walk a couple of extra blocks to a different bodega. There's one with a beautiful new awning and colorful murals on the walls outside the store. It's better lit, smells much nicer and has plastic baskets to put your fruit and other "real" food items in. The nice corner store even had a deli counter and that owner was more jovial and shot the shit with you while he made sandwiches. He had an extensive selection of cheap and expensive wines and almost thirty different kinds of beer.

It was a totally different scene a few blocks away in the Degen Market where the only bottles of wine were in jugs or cardboard boxes. The selection of booze was sparse compared to the average bodega. The primary liquor shelf was stocked with cheap spirits -- lots of Smirnoff products and a brand of Caribbean rum that I never heard of before.

The Degen Market is an anomaly for the yuppie neighborhood that had a smattering of hipsters and neo-faux-hippies (a.k.a. Trustafarians). You know the types -- the elite one-percenters who felt like they were doing their civic duty by voting for Obama. On any given moment, you'll find someone pushing an uber-expensive German-made baby stroller that cost more than the blue book value on your car. Every sixty seconds, three women in black yoga pants stroll down the street with a tightly, rolled-up mat tucked under their arm.

The Degen Market is also on the same block as a couple of antique stores and a pet spa designed especially for the spoiled pets of Pacific Heights that prescription-pill riddled wives of hedge fund managers bring in once a week for a full-on treatment, which transform their canines into spiffy and pristine ornaments. You don't want the neighbors to think you have a mangy dog, which is a dead giveaway for subversive anti-capitalist activity. Otherwise, the plutocrats will rat you out to Homeland Security for being a pinko-commie hash-head who spends their weekends downtown in front of the San Francisco branch of the Federal Reserve building with wooked-out anarchists angrily chanting for the end of the corporate welfare state.

* * *
I've been hoarding water. It's a little quirk that I've picked up ever since I moved to California. It's the fatalist in me. I figured I can survive a short-term emergency situation like an earthquake or tsunami with a shotgun and water. If it's only a temporary breakdown in the system, then I can successfully ride our riots and looting with a Mossberg at my side. The water is to live on, the shotgun is to keep a million or so unprepared zombies away from my water stash and my girlfriend. If by somehow the Bay Area is hit with an 8.0 magnitude quake or higher and I somehow survive the damage, then I'll have to walk out of the city several miles to a safe house. Blackjack insurance might be a stupid bet in any casino, but I'm gonna need a shotgun and/or a samurai sword to get the fuck out of dodge if/when the shit hits the fan.

I learned it's never foolish to prepare for a worst-case scenario -- especially when you live in city prone to natural disasters. I was convinced that I was not crazy after watching footage of post-apocalyptic New Orleans after Katrina blew the roof off the Superdome and thousands of refuges turned the football stadium into a real-life rendition of Lord of the Flies with walls covered in splattered blood and fecal matter.

I think the owner of the Degen Market is suspicious that I have been buying out large quantities of his bottled water. He hasn't said anything... yet.

* * *
The massive freezer in front of the checkout counter looked like it had not been opened in a few months, maybe even a few years. The ice cream inside was years past its expiration date. All you had to do was take one glimpse at the sketchy-looking freezer, and you'd know instantly that you didn't want anything inside.

That, of course, made me suspicious and curious. What was really in the freezer? If I were to hide something in plain sight, I'd do it in an obvious spot where no one would want to look. For example a large sum of cash, a severed head, or some sort of contraband hidden snugly underneath a couple of bruised cartons of Häagen-Dazs ice cream. Didn't they go out of business a few years ago?

The Degen Market looks like it was hit with a first wave of hysterical people during an natural disaster. Most of the shelves were barren, save a few random canned items and microwaved popcorn that no one deemed a necessity during a potential apocalyptic situation.

Two TVs sat on top of the fridges and a closed-circuit screen was anchored to the ceiling. I had seen enough episodes of The Wire to wonder if the FBI, CIA, NSA, DIA, or DEA had tapped into his surveillance cameras to monitor the activity at his store. The more I thought about it, the more paranoid I got.

You could view the security cameras and both TVs while sitting behind the check-out desk. During the days, an old woman watched the news and talked on the phone. When the owner was minding the store, he always had on a different sporting event on one, if not both of the TVs. His viewing was not limited to American sports. I caught different European soccer matches and even one match that included two teams from the Middle East. The writing at the bottom of the screen was in Arabic. I tried to make small talk.

"Who's playing?"

"Shabab Al Ordon and Al Wehdat."

"So who do you have?"

"Al Wehdat."

I looked up at the screen completely puzzled at which team was which. I pretended to know who was who and nodded. "Ah, well good luck in the future."

* * *
The owner was not a drug dealer. He was not a money launderer. He was a run of the mill broke dick. Halli said that she's seen the owner play poker at one of the local card rooms just outside San Francisco. Ah, he's living the American Dream... leave an oppressive Middle East country, work your ass off to buy your own small business, drive around in a Detroit-made convertible, and then at the end of the day, empty out the cash register and drive to the closest casino to test your acumen at a card game against crazy Asian gamblers. Only in America.

As if being a degen sports bettor wasn't enough, he also had the fever for poker. If he had any skill, he'd be able to siphon off enough chips at the cash game tables to cover his sports betting loses, but the poker gods don't shine any love on him at all. Much like the sports betting gods, his prayers often go unheard and always unanswered. No wonder the owner sits behind the counter with a sullen grimace, like a man plotting revenge on the neighborhood bully who lit his puppy on fire.

I hatched a plan. By week 2 of the NFL season, I'd be booking bets for the owner. By the end of week 8, he'd lose so much money that I could go down to the store at any time and take anything off the shelf -- including the Patron. Is that what anyone wants in life? The freedom and power to walk into a store and take something without paying. Anyone can buy something with fiat currency. It takes a special circumstance to wield the sort of power like a druglord like Tony Montana or the hooligans from Goodfellas, and walk onto another man's property and take anything they want.

Of course, the main goal was to own the pink slip on his car by the end of the year and eventually own the store outright before the Superbowl.

What would I do with a bodega? I have no fucking clue, but the idea was so fucking crazy that I had to give it a shot.

And no. I didn't think about losing. If Las Vegas taught me anything it's that the house always wins. Always. Degenerate sports bettors will always be who they are. It's in their DNA. They've been conditioned by society to think that chumps are the working stiffs, and that they are the ones really living on the edge. No matter how much they win, they'll eventually donk it back off. The house always wins. Casino owners pad their pockets with every day addictions. It might take a couple of weeks, it might take a couple of years, but over the long haul, it's nearly impossible to out run the juice laying 11/10. Shit, it's a tough battle even if you're getting reduced rake at certain online sportsbooks. Bottom line it's a daunting task to remain a winning sports bettor over time.

Investing isn't that easy. If it were, the guys down on Wall Street wouldn't have to bend the elasticity of rules or put politicians in power to create new rules to make their crimes "legal." The financial services industry is so corrupt that very few people think twice about breaking so many rules to make a buck, and if by chance their outrageous bets shit the bed, then can simply extort ask the government for handouts (at taxpayers' expense) when they eventually go busto.

But grinding out an income as a bookie? As the saying goes, "It's a hard way to make an easy living."

Superstitions, Jinxes, and River Rats

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA

I'm always afraid to write about baseball because I don't want to be a jinx. No one wants to be a jinx and become a social outcast and pariah, like the weird kid in grammar school who everyone avoided at lunch time because he smelled like cat piss.

Baseball is a game wrapped in superstitions, jinxes, rituals. Babe Ruth was an unlanced boil on the collective arses of New Englanders for almost a century. Even Red Sox third baseman Wade Boggs ate fried chicken before every game and if he didn't he was doomed to go 0-5 at the plate, so he made sure he ate fried chicken -- no matter what. During winning streaks, players won't wash their uniforms or socks. Players won't step on the foul lines when running off the field. And everyone in the dugout doesn't even talk about or recognize a no-hitter when it's happening.

Superstitions are utterly stupid, because once you give in to a superstition, your life becomes ruined because you become enslaved by your biggest fears of breaking whatever ritual you created to make yourself feel less anxious. Yet, I only adhere to one -- I never carry around $50 bills. Grubby told me about it in 2004 when I first got into playing poker in casinos. Since then I refuse to touch $50s and if one crosses my path, I get rid of it as soon as possible.

I used to have another ritual which occurred whenever I traveled. A quick back story -- I have a recurring nightmare that I die in a plane crash -- so, to assuage my fears, I rap my closed right hand on the outside of the plane just above the doorway before I enter and I'm greeted by the flight attendants. I dunno when that ritual started, but I stopped doing it a couple of years ago. So if/when I die in a plane crash, I don't want that added extra pressure following me into the afterlife because I didn't quell any superstitions before I stepped onto the plane.

I'm supposed to smart enough to know that whatever I do will alter the future, as much as I'd like to think I can affect the outcome of a game or prevent a plane crash. Even though I know my actions, like writing about the Yankees on my blog, won't affect the game, I have been silent for a few weeks because I don't want to be bogged down with guilt that I jinxed the Yanks. No one wants to be a jinx.

As my buddy Joe Speaker proclaimed, "Jinxes are true. You and I and the American People know it's not true, but it really is."

Yeah, I don't want the jinx label, but I also won't adhere to any sports-related superstitions, which is why I still wear my Yankees visor backwards when they're in desperate need of a hit. Some cautious habits never die, even if it's a silly superstition. You know, hokey religions with light sabres and shit. Then again rally hats are waaaaaaay more inventive than that fucking insane cracked-up Rally Monkey that the L.A. Angels of Anaheim uses to fire up the crowd.

I hate to be known as a jinx among my sporting peers, because some of the most random people are slaves to superstitions, especially die-hard sports fans. Oh, and how can I forget about hard-core superstitious annoying-as-shit sports bettors?

I know, because I'm one who grows more and more superstitious and intense whenever there's sums of money on the line. Take this summer for example -- I was covering the WSOP in Las Vegas during the NBA playoffs leading up to the Finals against Miami. I had bet big on the Dallas Mavericks to win the entire Championship along with individual bets on each game they played en route to the title. I watched one game with AlCantHang at McFadden's Pub (formerly the Tilted Kilt) inside the Rio Casino. I never go to that joint anymore after the Tilted Kilt left, yet we had to watch the game there due to lack of space in the sportsbook and adjoining bar, which were packed with fans and bettors. Alas, I went to the pub with Al because we had no other alternative... yadda, yadda, yadda.... the Dallas Mavs came from behind wins (and covering the spread) in one of the most exhilarating games I had sweated in a very long time.

I made some good coin that day and thus, a new superstition was born. For the rest of the series, I wanted to watch every game with Al at McFadden's.


Sweating the NBA playoffs at McFadden's
with AlCantHang and Michele the Cougar
The one time we broke the streak and skipped McFadden's, the Mavs didn't cover (incidentally, when I watched Game 7 of the NHL playoffs with my colleague Lance, my bet on Vancouver shit the bed because Al wasn't with me!). As much as I know that neither myself, Al, or McFadden's will affect how many three pointers Dirk Nowitzki will drill or how many fouls the refs will call -- I still wanted to cover my ass and placate any potentially superstitions that induce a spike in sport betting anxiety. That means sometimes giving in to superstitions -- whether it's wearing a "rally cap" or watching a game in the same place with the same people.

I guess that's why I saved any baseball commentary for the infamous "NYC sports thread" -- an email thread with a small group of NYC sports fans that includes my brother, college buddy Jerry, and da Rooster, that has been running for few years now specializing in topics on all things sports in New York City -- lots of Yankees, Knicks and Jets chatter with a smattering of Miami Hurricanes football, hockey, boxing, trying to pick up Latina women on the subway, UFC, and English soccer.

Yesterday, if you polled the universe, I don't think not too many people had an inkling of faith in AJ Burnett. The locker room prankster is beloved among his teammates, but he's struggled down the stretch. AJ was scheduled to take the mound in Game 4 against the Detroit Tigers with the Yankees down 2-1 in a five-game series , and on the verge of being eliminated from the playoffs. All hopes rested upon the shoulders (more so the right arm of their weakest link in the chain) of AJ, who once achieved perfection ten years ago when he tossed a no-hitter, but his best days were way behind him. As a degen gambler, I frequently bet the OVER (combined run totals) in AJ's games and never dared betting on the Yanks whenever it was his turn in the rotation. I had no faith in him during the season and had even less confidence in the playoffs.

Even my mother, who is nothing close to being a religious person, knew the writing was on the wall with AJ on the slate to pitch. She all but declared the Yankees dead on arrival at the start of Game 4 and sent me a text message stating the only hope the Yanks had was to "pray for them."

Wow. When a native of the Bronx is looking for spiritual help, you know it's a bleak.

That text stunned me. My mother had not-so-secret disdain for AJ Burnett. I'd estimate that 75% of the text messages she sent me over the last two years occurred on days when AJ pitched and usually resembled something like... "AJ sucks."

No one had confidence in AJ. The bookies in Vegas set the line with Yankees as the dog. Yanks fans, even the most diehards, had little to no faith in AJ. We all prepared for the worst,. The bookies. My mother. Everyone calling into the Mike and the Mad Dog radio show. The guys in my email thread. Even me.

The wiseguys in Vegas bet the Yankees, because they love betting dogs in the playoffs, especially on a veteran team that was on the brink of elimination. Even with AJ on the mound, they bet the Yankees anyway. That takes huge balls from my perspective as a fan -- but they viewed the situation differently -- AJ would be on a short leash and Girardi would yank him before the game got really ugly, and at some point it would come down to the Tigers bullpen holding off an offensive surge from the Yanks in the late innings. I had a similar outlook, which I told my brother yesterday morning, that I had a feeling that AJ would get rocked early on and eventually get yanked in the second inning after giving up two runs, before Phil Hughes put out the fire and pitched five solid innings in relief as Yanks rallied and came from behind to win 7-4.


Sometimes it's better to be lucky than good.

Curtis Granderson bailed out AJ Burnett big time with the bases loaded. If Granderson doesn't catch up and chase it down that fly ball for the crucial third out to thwart a Tigers rally in the first inning, then the Yanks are looking at a deficit of 2-0 or potentially 3-0. At that point, the lynch mob would start chanting AJ's name and he'd be dead by the seventh inning stretch.

Right place, right time. Or as Yogi Berra succinctly stated -- "Hit 'em where they ain't."

But the ain't in that instance was Granderson on his horse making the the first of two sensational catches during his defensive patrol of centerfield (his second catch fro the 6th inning is pictured above). Granderson's outstanding catches symbolized the Yankees season, because he bailed them out in more ways than they'll ever know. Even if the Yanks lose game 5, Granderson put them in a position to advance to the next round.

After Granderson's first inning heroics, AJ Burnett should name his next kid after Granderson, or buy him a Lexus for Christmas, or pick up the tab to steak dinners every time they're on the road, because if Grandy doesn't make that catch in the first inning, then AJ Burnett gets whacked. He'd go missing for a few weeks, before his corpse was found floating in the East River, with chunks of his bloated face eaten up by river rats.

Josh Axelrod's Gold Watch

By Pauly
San Francisco, CA


A couple of years ago I was at the Bellagio and Shaniac told me I should tell a story at a Moth Storytelling event. They storytelling sessions originated in New York City and had a couple of caveats -- no notes and the story had to be true. Los Angeles hosted a few Moth events from time to time, and back when Shaniac and I both lived in SoCal, we always said we'd hit one up. He told me the insane story he wanted to tell, while I had three or four of my own.

We never got the chance to attend a Moth event -- but I'm hoping we will someday. Live moves on. For different reasons we fled the sunny skies of Southern California and migrated north, and Shaniac crossed the border into the Great White North to continue his career as an online poker pro, while I settled in the foggy Bay Area to move onto the next stage of my writing career.

Last week, I loaded up the latest episode of the Moth podcast featuring Josh Axelrod, the author of Repeat Until Rich: A Professional Card Counter's Chronicle of the Blackjack Wars As a former card counter and poker player, Axelrod's story centers around his degen life as a distraught gambler amidst a horrid losing streak, particularly at the online poker tables.

"There are two things gamblers don't do," said Axelrod, "Get a real job and go to Gambler's Anonymous."

Click here to listen to Josh Axelrod's The Gold Watch.

Learn more about Moth Storytelling.

Hot Sauce

By Pauly
Los Angeles, CA


I was bored, so I put in the bet.

Sunday morning. I sat in the well-lit living room of what will soon be my apartment in San Francisco. My girlfriend was still sleeping and I had the entire place to myself. I sunk into the couch and tried to imagine what football season would be like in the new flat. One of the benefits of the narrow Victorian architecture was an elongated hallway, which ran the entire length of the building. Lots of space to pace when sweating bets.

The middle of August is one of the slowest time of the year for degenerates in American professional sports. The preseason football games had yet to begin and I craved a taste for action. Any action. I had not wagered on sports since I left Las Vegas. Although I fled Vegas as fast as I could, I logged a decent summer playing cash games (the Pokerati mixed game at the Palms was a blessing), but I made a killing riding the Mavericks' streak in the NBA playoffs and also fading the public's sentiment for the Heat in the Finals. I also dabbled in baseball courtesy of a system from AlCantHang, but that was all before the All Star break, before variance eventually caught up to us. By middle of the WSOP, I stopped visiting the sportsbook windows and sat on my NBA profit, which I eventually used to fund the move (from Los Angeles to San Francisco), and pay for trips to Colorado and Chicago.

A little taste.

I flipped through the cable stations and tried to familiarize myself with the channels. I'm not much of a TV junkie anymore, aside from watching a few reality shows about addictions (Hoarders and Intervention). I watch a shit ton of sports, but probably only watch about 50% of sports on actual TV with my laptop(s) picking up the rest of the slack. I have a theory that the ability to watch almost any sporting event online increases the chances of me betting on it.

I'm not addicted to the deviancy of betting to win money. Rather, I prefer the physical and visceral attributes of betting on sports which can only be achieved by watching the event as it unfolds in real time. I've sweated games via radio and constantly refreshing Gamecast -- and even those experiences don't compare to the physical stimulation I get when watching a game I bet on.

Then again, nothing can be more boring in life than watching two teams you don't care about. That's why fantasy sports added another reason to watch meaningless games. The primary reason I'm not that into soccer is that I maintain my distance to the sport because I'm afraid that if I catch the bug... then I'd get completely hooked on a sport that is always on. Soccer (er, football) is the most played sport on the planet (except pocket pool), so that means there's always a game on at any given time, and someone with a propensity to bet on sports like myself would lose his entire life savings if I showed any interest into soccer. As is, I only bet during the World Cup (I made a killing last year betting Spain as per a tip from Benjo) and whenever I'm hanging out with Brits for an extended amount of time and I tail their picks.

I love any sports you can wager on. Otherwise, if I'm forced to watch two random teams or a random sporting contest, then I find it utterly boring and completely meaningless. Ah, that's why I love proposition wagering because it's the gambler's hot sauce. Sprinkle it anywhere, and you have an extra spicy time -- from betting on where flies will land on a pile of shit, to betting on which bags come out first at airport baggage claim, to betting on the WNBA.

Hot sauce.

Anyway, so I feel your pain if you don't like sports, or only have a passion for a particular sport and you get stuck sweating games because your friends/family happens to love a different sport.

Example... the Pittsburgh Pirates. It was early in the baseball season and I was sweating a game on my girlfriend's iPad. She had no clue, but I bought an app with her credit card that allowed me to stream MLB.tv games. I got a tip on the Pirates, so I bet them and sweated the game. They were ahead until their bullpen blew it in late innings. I shot a text to Mean Gene, a Pittsburgh resident, about the demise of his lowly Pirates. He wrote back that he knew I had bet on the game because "why the hell would a Yankees fan, who was living in LA, sweat a Pirates game unless he had money on it."

Mean Gene is a smart dude. But he understands hot sauce.

Sorry for the tangent... let's return to the original flashback to a sunny Sunday morning in San Francisco. I sunk into the couch and flipped through the cable TV until I came across the San Francisco Giants pre-game show. Ah, yes...fear the beard. I had a flight to catch later that evening and was just killing time before I went to the airport. I did what any sensible human did on a Sunday morning -- I scorned religious service and bet on the Giants. When in Rome...

The Giants prevailed and I won my first bet since I left Vegas. I was more thrilled that the three hours I wasted watching a Giants game was worth the investment. But that small bet was just be the beginning of a remarkable streak. I started off 1-0 with the Giants bet and ten days later, I ran up my bankroll to new heights after a 13-3 clip.

I stuck to a few basics and rode two hot teams -- Milwaukee and NY Yankees. Holy shit, the Brew Crew has been on fire and I've managed to step off the gas on the rare nights they lost. I also faded a couple of struggling teams -- the Mets and the Twins. Sounds so simple, but at this point in the lengthy baseball season, it gets hot as balls in August and teams with no chance give up and go into zombie mode. So when a demoralized team gets behind early, they have no fight in them and practically concede a loss. Timing and psychology are just as important as who takes the mound at this point in the season.

I know that by writing about a streak will thereby end said streak, which is cool because I'm pulling the plug on the baseball betting for a while (maybe for the entire regular season). I strengthened my roll just in time for the NFL season and in the meantime, I'm shifting back into day trading mode. Yeah, without legalized online poker and scant offerings as a poker writer, my options to earn a living wage are slim to none. I dabbled in day trading and investing in commodities earlier in the year and had a nice score in silver, but stopped when I moved to Vegas for the WSOP. Now that my summer vacation is almost over, I've been slipping back into a weird routine of going to bed early to wake up at the crack of ass to monitor the markets. Trading hours on the West Coast are a fucking bitch.

I'm trying to snag one last score before I get out of the game and ride out the financial shit storm. Don't all crooks attempt "one last score" in heist movies before they get sucked into a suicide mission?

The summer slowly fades and baseball becomes an afterthought to the looming football season. Without online poker giving everyone a steady fix, I have a feeling that local bookies are going to make a killing in the upcoming months. If you're looking for hot sauce and don't live in Vegas, not too many people will be slinging it these days.

November Nine Betting Odds - 2011 WSOP

By Pauly
Las Vegas, NV

Do you want to place a bet on who will win the 2011 WSOP Main Event? The Wynn casino released betting odds for the November Nine.

Here's the opening lines...

2011 WSOP Betting Odds
3-1 Martin Staszko - 40,175,000
17-5 Eoghan O'Dea - 33,925,000
6-1 Matt Giannetti - 24,750,000
6-1 Phil Collins - 23,875,000
6-1 Ben Lamb - 20,875,000
7-1 Badih Bounahra - 19,700,000
10-1 Pius Heinz - 16,425,000
11-1 Anton Makievskyi - 13,825,000
14-1 Sam Holden - 12,375,000

Lines courtesy of the Wynn. Check your local bookie to see if lines have moved.

Martin Staszko fromt he Czech Republic is the chipelader and a 3-1 favorite. The longshot on the board is Sam Holden from the U.K. The Americans -- Phil Collins, Ben Lamb, and Matt Giannetti -- are each 6-1.

I like Eoghan O'Dea to win it all, but I'm going to wait to see if it moves to 4-1 or 9-2.

2011 WSOP - Day 26: The Sickness

By Pauly
Las Vegas, NV

"He's got what Bob Voulgaris would describe as the 'SICKNESS'," explained Jess Welman the other night as we chatted about the gambling proclivities of a colleague.

The Sickness.


It sounds like the ambiguous disease in a zombie flick, or the name of a really bad wrestling character. In the parlance of our postmodern poker world, the Sickness is used to describe degenerate gambling.

The Sickness.

Personally, I don't have the Sickness per se in gambling terms, rather I have the Sickness in life terms. I'm addicted to life and adventure. The reason I steer toward inebriation and intoxicants is to spice up mundane, everyday things. Yes, booze and pills are the hot sauce of life. With just one sprinkle -- KAPLOW!!! The ordinary becomes extraordinary.

But I'm a rare example. I usually have some semblance of self-control. My bank account is proof. Sadly, I know friends who if they had the same amount of money in their savings fund, would blow it all this summer. They have no control and will spend every cent out of their pocket and then when they go busto, will ask to borrow money from you, which completely sucks because now you're funding your friends' degeneracy -- without getting the benefits of the gambler's rush. Without naming any names, at least a dozen "pros" I know went home until the Main Event after blowing their wads after almost a month of lighting their money on fire. A couple of colleagues I share the pressbox with are already over budget with three weeks to go.

The Sickness. It's what made men like Steve Wynn billionaires, who are able to afford to buy millions of dollars worth of artwork and punch a hole in a Picasso -- and not sweat it.

The Sickness. It's what sucks every penny, nickel, dime, quarter, and silver dollar out of old ladies' purses as they foolishly chase another slots jackpot.

The Sickness. It's what calls out to you in the middle of the night, like an alluring siren inducing you to go on mega-monkey-blackjack tilt and you piss away last week's paycheck before the shoe is even over.

The Sickness. It's what draws thousands of broke dicks to the epicenter of the World Series of Poker. Even though ESPN airs a "disclaimer" from Gary Loveman during WSOP broadcasts, the entire operation gets wealthier every day and profits due to the Sickness.

The Sickness. It's the darkside of gambling that rears its ugly head from time to time and will bite off chunks of your flesh if you're not paying attention, so you'll have to spend the rest of the summer wandering around the hallways of the convention center with pus oozing out of a gaping wound.

The Sickness. It's been the downfall of the greats of the game. Every day I see a dozen or so "pros" with at least seven figures in winnings, wandering the hallways with the humiliating aura of a beaten-down gambler hovering over their heads.

The Sickness. If Phil Ivey every hits rock bottom in the gutter, it won't happen because of action on the felt, rather, it'll be because of his life leaks off the felt and in the pits and sportsbooks.

The Sickness. It's been going around the Rio the last four weeks. There's no immunizations to prevent you from becoming infected. There's no way to avoid coming in contact with it. Your only hope is having a strong mind and the determination to not pull out every dollar out of your wallet (or purse, or in some cases with random Russian dudes -- a satchel).

* * *
I succumbed to the Sickness on Saturday. It's sort of like when you catch a cold because your immune system has been run down. In my case, my degen immune system was low, which is why I was temporarily afflicted with the Sickness, similar to a 24-hour flu. Alas, it only take a few hours to lose your mud in Vegas. I'm lucky I only lost $305.

I'm an emotional person, but hide it well. My mother swears I get it from my father's side of the family. You can't be McCatholic unless you're consumed with an Irish temper and a penchant for the bottle. Of course if my old man were still around, he'd cite my mother's Asian heritage as the reason why I'm prone to the Sickness. Alas, I got the crazy Asian gambler mixed with an Irish temper pumping through my bloodstream. I'm doomed.

I could list a Jay-Z inspired list of 99 problems (but the bitch ain't one) that were tilting me on Day 26 of the WSOP, but I'm supposed to be a professional and rise about the bullshit and my own mental trappings. Most of the time, we imprison ourselves into our own minds' solitary confinement, which is why people often misread simple situations and blow it up into a drama of epic high school proportions. However, on the flip side, we often ignore the lunatic (as the Pink Floyd lyric suggests -- "there's someone in my head, and it's not me") roaming around and don't lock him up when he needs to be tasered and tossed into mental jail, where he can't do any more harm to the rest of your internal voices. The last thing anyone needs in Las Vegas is to have the lunatic seize control of your decision-making processes. Because when he does, you lose out to the Sickness and it's only a matter of time before you disappear into the darkness of the abyss and you move into a sister property of the Redneck Rivieria to work as a smurfer, someone who drives around picking up cold meds so they can cook up a fresh batch of homemade meth to sell to hundreds of thousands of local video poker addicts.

I dropped $400 in 6 hands at a $10 Pai Gow table. The waitress didn't even arrive yet with my rum drink before I dusted off all of my chips and wanted to gouge out the eyes of the Pai Gow dealer with one of the worst rugs I've ever seen sitting on the top of his head, like a skunk with curls died in the middle of skull-fucking him. I suspected my dealer was a Little Richard impersonator back in Hong Kong, but acted like a total docuhenozzle when he scooped up my chips.

"Sir, I was rooting for you to win," he said in a low voice as he snatched away four greenbirds.

"Fuck you, dickwad. I don't need a fucking support group. I need you to cut this stupid act and deal yourself a Jack-high Pai Gow. Do me a favor and shut the fuck and deal the cards faster, you twat-stain!"

The Sickness had taken root and I have no idea if I actually blurted out my internal dialogue, or if I just muttered that tirade under my breath. The Sickness makes me say strange things. The Sickness transformed me into a blathering degen idiot, like TJ Cloutier chasing boxcars at the end of a craps table.

Two incidents happened that nearly caused me to flip over the Pai Gow table in an utter rage. First, I accidentally spilled my drink (when it finally arrived). It was in late afternoon and I wasn't even drunk yet and very sober compared to 12 hours earlier when I sat in the same seat and was running back and forth successfully two-tabling Pai Gow. Change100 still is astonished I didn't get 86d for running back and forth on Friday night. But on Saturday afternoon, I was on such tilt from dusting off my stack that I spazzed out and knocked over my drink. The pit boss rushed over and pulled the large ice cubes off the felt and threw them under the table. He pulled out a rag and quickly wiped down the felt as Little Richard in the box squealed about not getting the cards wet.


Two hands later, with my last $10 in the betting circle, the dealer mucked my hand before I had a chance to look at my cards. He called over a different pit boss and explained what happened, and the pit boss glared at him like he was an imbecile who shat himself and wiped it on his face.

"Worst. Dealer. Ever." I snarked in my Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons voice. "He mucked my hand before I had a chance to see it. That's the most unprofessional move I've ever seen."

Of course, the dealer fanned out his hand -- Queen-high Pai Gow -- and I had to take a deep breath before I flipped over the table and pulled the shitty hair plugs off of the dealer's dense head. I couldn't control the metamorphosis from the happy-go-lucky guy into a Hulk-like monster afflicted with the Sickness.

Hulk. Must. Smash. Pai. Gow. Dealer.

I walked away from that table and scouted out a new table. I sat next to a local with a raspy-voice. She chain-smoked Benson and Hedges and gave me shit every time I didn't play the Fortune Bonus. I laughed. Normally I would have kicked her in the vag, but that time I was on suck mega-Pai Gow Tilt that I shrugged it off.

Cocktails!

I also reached into my pocket. I didn't pull out cash. Instead, I said hello to Mr. Percosett. If I was going to sit next to an old lady seven months away from speaking with a voice box, I needed to be faded to the tits so I didn't get tossed into lockup for assaulting an old lady (herself afflicted with the Sickness for two decades or more) for giving me guff about not playing the bonus

The Sickness.

* * *
That's it. I know I didn't write a lick about Day 26 of the WSOP, but I'm not losing any sleep over that. Luckily, you can head over to RISE Poker and check out Change100's quickie wrap of the day's events -- WSOP Day 26 Recap.

Follow @taopauly for Twitter updates throughout the day.

Also, help support indie writers and buy my books: Lost Vegas: The Redneck Riviera, Existentialist Conversations with Strippers and the World Series of Poker, and my recently released novel, Jack Tripper Stole My Dog. Both are also available for Kindles and iPads.