Phallus Poker

Once more into the casino breach, my friends. And as always, if you aren't into the poker stories, skip as needed.

My regular fellow degenerate and I made the run to Harrah's Chester last Saturday night for some 1/2 no-limit hold'em action. Having forgotten my stomach acid reducing anti-nausea pills -- getting old is such fun -- I ask for a stop at a pharmacy on the way down. My ride is happy to oblige, since he's forgotten his nicotine patch that helps him stay at the table longer without dashing off to the outside. As we're dosing up in the parking lot, I can't help but think that this means that poker has to be a sport, since we're pretty much going for the PEDs here...

We get in without too much of a wait, and notice that oh, my, the tenor of the place changes quite dramatically on a Saturday night. Previously, we'd been there on a Sunday afternoon (pre-NFL) and a Friday night. It turns out that Saturday nights in Chester attract more of the rough crowd, and crazed action/aggression is the absolute rule of the day. Which is completely fine, of course, especially when you combine it with relentless calling. And as the table is more strongly represented by minorities, it's really hard not to give in to base profiling, honestly. Or being thankful that the casino is changing the peeled hundred dollar bills dropped at the table into relatively sterile chips. I'm pretty sure those hundreds didn't have the best possible history.

Unfortunately despite these prime conditions for big profitable action, I go more card and flop dead then, well, ever. In five hours at the table, I catch a pocket pair three times, and only once is it above 7s. (Kings, in the big blind with just the small blind calling. He busted against those, but not for so much as to make my night.) Flop-wise, I never see as much as two pair, a flush or straight, but it's oddly comforting that my unplayed crap hands would have never hit, either. I picked up 7-2 offsuit six times, and 3-9 offsuit about the same. These things even out in the long run, of course, but in the long run, we're all dead. So screw the long run.

The benefit of having crap cards all night is that if you stay patient and fold over 9 out of 10 hands pre-flop, the rest of the table goes on high alert when you make a pre-flop raise, and puts you on Top 10 hands. At least, the rest of the table that's comprised of poker players, rather than Crazed Aggression Calling Machines. So when I stay with 7-8 suited in the big blind against a raise, which becomes bottom pair on the flop and trips on the turn, it takes me up 50% for the night against top pair for the table's big stack, who clearly thought I had Ace-Queen and was making a move against an undercard board. So he pays my sneaky moderate bet ladder approach all the way to the river, and puts me up about 50% on my starting chip stack. Life is good; I'm going to finally catch a hand and get factorial on these maniacs.

Meanwhile, my ride's stack is flowing like the tides on my left, because he's catching just enough to swim with the silly, and when you trap a maniac with a called all-in bet of pocket kings against unsuited connectors... well, of course the worst hand will flop a straight. But the luck comes around for my ride, and he winds up winning it all back and more, and managing despite the bad juju that tends to come from wild chip stack swings and loose play. How loose? Well, let me go through the hand that broke my casino winning streak. It's an education.

In early position with what is clearly one of my five best hands of the night -- Ace-10 suited, a hand that routinely bankrupts me -- I limp, then call the inevitable re-raise from the blinds. (Yes, it's that kind of table.) Five others call, because everyone here is convinced that if they fold a hand, it puts their manhood at risk. The flop comes out King-Jack-Four, giving me the gutshot queen for the straight. Checks all around to the small blind, who pops it for $30. It folds to me. Sensing weakness and having watched this guy play any two cards, I semi-bluff it to $60. Everyone else runs from the hand -- the benefits of tight play -- and the small blind thinks longer about this than any other decision he's made tonight. Which is to say, about ten seconds. He calls.

The turn is a nine, and I know he's calling anything. So I check, and he does as well. The river is another brick. So there are no draws out there that have hit, and I min-fire at the pot, thinking that any reasonable player who thinks he's behind in the hand will avoid paying off the tight guy. He is, of course, not a reasonable player. He calls and shows pocket eights, a hand that would be fourth pair on the board. And a winner for him against my blown draw and bluff, of course. The player to my right, who is one of those guys that knows more about poker than you and can't wait to share his knowledge, chastises me for not betting enough on the river to bluff him out. As if a pair of eights in the hands of this guy isn't calling everything.

The Poker Gods, offended by my misread of the situation and attempt to play anything but A-B-C strategy against a calling station, reward me with two more hours of dead and deader cards, and I cash out down 30% from the original chip stack, having won something like five hands in six hours. I suppose I should think well of the patience, and that I didn't toss it all aside in frustration on another unrequited bluff. Or just wait for another Saturday night, and another chance to trap people who play phallus poker. It's a lucrative room, fellow degenerates...