Okay part two of the first part of the Bat’s trip to Chicago. You were clicking refresh on the Bat’s blog eagerly awaiting the conclusion to the poker hand. Your finger is hurting from all that clicking, but it’s a good pain, love hurts, and loving the Bat hurts a lot, especially if they aren’t any load bearing walls for the Bat to brace against. The other GCPers were crushing the poker tournaments (congrats to the Monkey for his deep cash, uh how about a link poker star) while the Bat was dusting off a cash game.
Where was the Bat in this yarn? The William the refrigerator Perry guy was going Arnold Drummond on us, and the Bat was thinking “Why don’t you Superbowl Shuffle your way out of this hand a little quicker.”
Then, Marge Schott up from Cincinnati, if she’s dead this woman could make an extra 50 cents a year being her lookalike, calls. The Bat ponders forever (or three seconds) ain’t no way anybody has a set of queens. The Bat shoves the stack in. Min-raiser, Ditka clone1, looks at the Bat like the Bat just pee’d on the table, and in a way, the Bat did.
The min-raiser calls with a losing look on his face, “I’ll pay you off.” Are there sweeter words in the English language? Ditka clone2 says “I call” and looks for chips to push in. Um… yeah, you were already all-in, if you are joking that’s not funny, if you aren’t, it’s still not funny. Marge Schott says “Well, I got the nuts so I call.” The Bat can’t believe she’s about to roll over pocket queens. Everybody freezes, waiting for her to show ’em. She doesn’t, she looks at the Bat and says “Well?” Then turns to the dealer, ” I called him.” The dealer nods toward the Bat.
The Bat turns over second set. The min-raising Ditka rolls his eyes and the bat sees a queen go toward the muck. Ditka2 shrugs and mucks and starts patting himself on his moobs trying to decide whether to stay or not. This goes on long enough for the Bat to wonder if a wet spot is going to peak through the T-Shirt. Margie, minus her ugly lookalike dog, says “I told you I got the nuts” and flips over Q7 and eyes the dealer like old people tend to do when they said utter nonsense to the pharmacist and expect him to give them a pile of pills, a receipt and a smile.
The dealer moves the pot to the Bat. She goes, “I got two pair!” “Yes ma’am he has a set.” “I got two pair!” “He has a set.” “What’s he got?” “He has pocket sevens.” “In my game two pair beats a pair.” “Yes, ma’am here too, but he’s got three sevens.” “I got a queen… AND a seven!” She’s looking at the dealer like she just got fleeced for a quarter at KMart when her expired coupon didn’t take. The dealer nods and positions the cards on the table. After some staring she looks up from them, probably finally getting it, and angrily looks the Bat up and down and says “At least, I’m not a fat asshole… you FAT asshole!” What?
The Bat, though surely a surly, ill-tempered, grossly obese asshole, on most nights took offense at that remark. On that evening, a winning session with donators like Marge Schott making him rich, he probably was an enjoyable tablemate except for winning all of the chips, and hating on people simply because they are winning is so juvenile, so he said simply, “Pete Rose is a cheat and probably a child molester since he’d deny that too,*” making a reference that maybe only the Bat would catch but knowing two words were all that it would take to escalate the situation.
To be continued… And please get to the next post to see the asterisk where the Bat states Pete Rose is not a child molester in anyway.