ChipBitch.Net

Well, it’s over. No more college.

As I sit here thinking of a polite, yet conversation-ending way to respond to the inevitable onslaught of, “So, how does it feel?” type questions, I can’t get past one word: incredible.

But I don’t mean it in a giddy, modern-day sense where it’s preceded by an “OMG” and topped off with a few exclamation points.

I mean it in a more literal way. I say it with a skeptical gaze and use an ellipsis for my punctuation needs.

I don’t find it credible…It’s difficult to believe…

I have a gut feeling that something’s amiss, but I don’t know what. I’ve checked my transcript twice, and cross-checked it another two times with my advisor.

Nothing’s wrong.

I’ve triple-checked the library to make sure I have no overdue books, and there’s already someone scheduled to replace me in my apartment.

All signs point to graduation, but I still feel like there’s something I have to do.

What is it?

It feels like I’m being set up on a poorly-planned reality TV show. Any minute now, I expect a television crew to bust into my kitchen with lights, cameras and boomsticks. Physically, they might catch me off guard with a forkful of rice in my mouth, but mentally, I’ll be prepared.

“Oh boy, we sure got you,” the host would blurt out with a shit-eating grin. “Four years?! What are you, stupid? No way it’s been that long!”

We’d all have a good laugh and I’d sign the release forms, thinking about how foolish I was.

‘Seriously man,’ I’d think to myself, ‘time doesn’t go by that fast.’

But it does…

And it did.

Just yesterday, today seemed like a lifetime away.

It’s been four years since that bitter, misguided version of myself touched ground at UConn. He was a good kid and had a simple dream: achieve college greatness by avoiding sobriety and penetrating one willing co-ed after another.

The poor child was young and confused. What he wanted was a direct result of not knowing what he really wanted.

A lot has changed since then. The boy has grown up a bit, turning into an amiable person that I like to call “Me”. Now he dreams of achieving literary greatness while avoiding sobriety and making sweet love to one willing woman after another.

Maturity.

Having failed miserably with my first dream, I look forward to finding new and exciting ways to fuck up the second.

Before I do though, I need to figure out what I’ve forgotten to do.

I’ve lived out of enough hotels to know when something’s not in the suitcase.

It’s the 7^th sense.

I’ve packed up all my stuff and everything’s accounted for, but there’s still some bothersome, nasty feeling in my mouth.

It tastes like guilt.

But not from something I did…I think it’s from something I didn’t do.

I don’t think I can feel good about leaving this place without thanking the people who brought me back.

Teamblog, thank you. You’re the first job on my resume that earned me more than minimum wage and is therfore titled under “Professional Experience.”

I first met you guys after dropping out of college. If our paths hadn’t crossed, my eventual Wikipedia page/police record would read: University of Connecticut (Dropped Out).

You guys didn’t preach the value of formal education, you taught me the value of learning, experience, teamwork and ambition. That, in turn, brought me back to school.

There’s so much I can thank you guys for, both as a group and individuals. As a group, I’ll thank you for the things I learned:

If someone asks me where to go if they visit [insert country here], I will highly recommend a hotel lobby bar.

Haikus aren’t the only form of art ruled by syllables. Any sentence equal to three (or sometimes four) syllables must be sung in falsetto.

If a Team Pro is in the top 5, pull up template B2.

With anti-oxidants and a double-shot of protein, no hangover is incurable.

That pigeon is dead.

But when it comes to each of you, I have more.

Cast

(In Order of Appearance)

Mad: The British woman who changed my life. The first time I met you, I was in a state considered offensive to sobriety. The last time I said bye to you, I was in a similar state. Despite this, I’ll never forget you.

You got the ball rolling for me whilst juggling so many other balls.

Yes, that can be read as a sexual innuendo, but it’s not. A lot of people claim to be working hard during poker tournaments, but there are few (if any) people busier than you.

Even so, you’re always a pleasure to see. I don’t think there’s anything more contagious in a poker tournament (and that’s saying a lot) than happiness caused by a wild strain of “Mad”ness.

Thanks Mad

Howard: When it comes to height and talent, you’re twice the man I hope to be. Your past is my future goal. Despite your cynicism, I always found inspiration in your words. I don’t think there’s any compliment I’ve appreciated more than yours.

You’ve been a fantastic resource for answers I’ve needed over the years. Whether they be about something professional, unprofessional, personal or illegal, I always know you have something good to say.

Thanks Howard

Joe: I don’t think there’s anyone I’ve worked with that I brag about more than you. You’ve gone from Guatemala to Pantera to Piuz Heins while taking photography to a new level.

You’ve laid down an amazing life template that I hope I can follow.

Despite being sexually active since before I was born, I still find it hard to keep up with you.

Age is just a number.

Thanks Joe

Brad: There’s no one in the world that I’m more worried about disappointing than you. Lots of times when I write, I’ll wonder “Would Brad like that?” If the answer is yes, I write that thing.

You’ve taught me what it’s like to be a decent man in more ways than you probably realize. You live a life that I look forward to.

Thanks Brad

Pauly: I’d say, ‘you’re wise beyond your years,’ if I thought years were an appropriate measurement of time to gauge your existence. The life of such an experienced cosmonaut should be measured in centuries.

At least.

If I ever need words of wisdom, I schedule a visit with “Dr. P.”

You’re smoking a blunt at the top of a mountain that so many are dying to climb. You’re always pushing the barrier of how far and high we can take things.

Thanks Pauly.

Simon: You keep us together. It’s a tough task, even if Ipswich is on a winning streak. You’re a general that leads the charge alongside his foot soldiers. When I work for you, I want to work for you.

Any time I catch you peering over at your computer, laughing at something I did, I know I’ve done my job.

Thanks Simon.

Stephen: We got a preview to the end of the world at a beachside bar in Brazil.

With a drink in hand, it wasn’t all that bad.

I’ve opened up to you in as many ways as a fully-clothed man can.

If there’s ever a drink that’s left to be drunk, then GOD DAMNIT, WE’RE GONNA TAKE THAT DRINK! But even if the drink takes us, we’ll show up the next morning and pull each other through it –even if our fuel source consists solely of chocolate and South American soda.

Thanks Stephen.

Again, to all of you guys, thanks.

 

*Ting*

The plane’s intercom beep rattled me awake.

“Flight crew, please prepare for departure.”

I couldn’t believe I was almost there. At that point, I’d been in the air for a while. The last eight weeks had been a blur of 12-15 hour work days that consisted of nothing but watching people play poker.

It was unrewarding, tedious, and at times, really, really fucking boring. But that was all over now, the World Series of Poker was finally over. I stood up before the captain turned off the seatbelt sign and grabbed my bag.

I couldn’t wait to get off.

*Ting*

“Thank you for choosing Delta and welcome to Las Vegas.”

Yeah, I was back.

I had just left Las Vegas less than a week ago, but I couldn’t stay away. I couldn’t stay away from the city lights, the casinos, the lack of a “last call” and delicious buffets.

But most of all, I couldn’t stay away from her.

And it was all because of that one night in the Champagne Bar

Sarah and I managed to leave the bar that night without touching lips.

“I’m not going to kiss you at this shady bar in front of a bunch of bikers,” I think her exact words were.

When we decided to call it a night, Sarah agreed to drop me off.

She had only drank a few beers and was fairly sober. She was driving by the way. I, on the other hand, was several beers in and was far from being legally allowed to do anything.

When Sarah pulled up to my driveway I proposed our wager once again.

“No bikers here,” I said.

“You just don’t give up do you?”

“Well just look at yourself. Can you blame me?”

I knew that would hit the spot.

“Oh Alex, you’re trouble,” Sarah said. She turned to me and ran her hand through my hair. “You should just go to bed.”

“Alright,” I said. “Just give me 10 seconds.”

I leaned into Sarah and kissed her neck.

“Alex, no,” she said, but she tilted her head back, opening up a highway of neck.

I sped through it and worked my way up to her cheek. She closed her eyes and her breathing got heavy.

“I can’t,” she barely made out. At this point, the only person she was trying to convince was herself.

She failed.

Right as I was about to reach her lips, Sarah pulled back and gave me a cat-like stare. A sexy cat-like stare.

Then she pounced.

She grabbed my face and punched it with her lips. Weeks of sexual tension exploded all over her white, two-door Ford. There were hands, moans and bits of saliva everywhere.It was hot, sloppy and animalistic.

It was really hot actually, too hot.

The AC had been off for a while and Vegas heat is quite the bitch in the summer.

“Let’s go inside,” I whispered.

Sarah sat back in her chair and panted for several seconds before she finally spoke.

“No, what about your roommates.”

“Nobody’s home,” I instantly lied. I was living with five other people and I knew for a fact that all of them were home.

“Alex your kitchen light’s on,” Sarah said. “I can see someone moving.”

Shit.

“We’ll just be quiet then,” I said.

“That’s no fun, I like being loud.”

I recoiled in shock, her response was sexier than anything my impaired mind was expecting.

Sarah looked in the rear-view mirror and casually fixed her hair.

“I should probably leave anyways. My boyfriend’s going to get worried,” she said. “And you! You should go to bed mister.”

“But what if I don’t want to,” I said as I leaned for another kiss.

“No,” Sarah said. She put a finger on my lips and pushed my face back. “Be patient.”

Damnit.

“Fine.”

The only thing harder than stepping out of that car without kissing her again was…well…my penis.

“Yeah, and you better have my $100,” she said as I got out of the car.

“What do you mean? That wasn’t even close to 10 seconds.”

“What!? No way! You know it was.”

“Well I told you to time it on your phone,” I said as I went up to her window. “Doesn’t count anymore. We’ll just have to try again tomorrow.”

“You’re such a cheater.”

Sarah smiled at me and I gave her a quick kiss. She kept her eyes closed for a bit before she turned her car back on.

“See, that was under 10 seconds,” she laughed.

I could still see her smiling when she pulled out of the driveway. I watched the white Ford vanish into the desert and then I stumbled back into the house.

It was indeed full.

Aside from the regular crowd, there was a four-handed poker game going on in the game room. They asked me to sit down.

I took up their offer and lost whatever cash I had leftover from the bar. I didn’t care though, I had just got out of losing $100.

The next couple of days with Sarah were a well-coordinated back-and-forth tease. If I saw her standing around I’d grab her hip and brush up behind her. If I was sitting down, she’d take a seat next to me and rub my thigh.

We’d whisper dirty things to each other in the hallways and arrange small 5-minute trysts in strip clubs, concerts and dive bars across Las Vegas. We didn’t manage to match our schedules with an empty bedroom until the WSOP was over.

The November 9 had been set and my house was starting to clear out. A few people had gone home and the rest of my housemates were at the first annual “Let’s Get Shit-Faced at the Gold Coast” media party.

It’s a truly classy event.

The Gold Coast is unlike any other casino in Las Vegas. It lives in the shadow of the two Palms Towers and is within puking distance of the Rio.

You’ll know you’ve reached it when you see a painfully bright 50-foot red and gold sign that reads “Gold Coast.”

Under it, they advertise their big winners, fire bets and $5 craps tables. They also display their daily specials. On Tuesdays you get 2X slot points, and some days you can get a hot dog for $1.25.

On the outside it looks like a tropical white ranch designed for a Colombian drug lord. On the inside, it looks like degeneracy.

But the first thing you’ll notice when you walk into this Vegas gem is the smell. It’s a mixture of mustiness and decades of tobacco-soaked carpets. Their delicious, award-winning chinese restaurant, Ping Pang Pong, adds a hint of duck and noodles into the mix. All these smells are blended together and shot straight up your nasal cavities via the casino’s industrial-sized air conditioner.

I find comfort in the Gold Coast’s scent, but I’ve often heard it described as, “gross.”

The casino itself is populated by a never-ending sea of Asians in the final quarter of their lives.

They bounce around the large, orange-hued gambling hall, splitting their paychecks in between Pai Gow, Baccarat and Asia Poker.

When they go broke, the casino might comp them the $7.99 lunch buffet and give them tickets to the San Fernando Band or Noches Calientes With Latin Breeze. It’s a small token of gratitude in exchange for the larger part of their Social Security check.

Right past the casino, there’s a set of escalators that take you to the Gold Coast’s 70-lane bowling alley.

Here – after midnight – you can enjoy a game of bowling for a single dollar. For the same price, they’ll give you a domestic draft.

The clientele here tends to be younger, blacker and more hispanic than those on the ground floor.

It’s Vegas without the glitz and glamour. There’s no ‘beautiful busty waitress’ tax or table minimums. It’s gambling and alcoholism stripped to the bone for locals, alcoholics and degenerates.

Also, there’s bowling.

Naturally, this is where the poker media spends their last night in Las Vegas.

Sarah was going to the party with her boyfriend, but had agreed to pick me up beforehand.

By herself.

She told him that, despite my several roommates, I needed a ride to the party and she would have to stay at my house for about an hour.

And what an insightful hour that was.

I fully understood – along with some lucky pedestrians – what she meant by “being loud.” I remembered why 26 is such a fantastic sexual age for women. And finally, I learned that I will never buy black silk sheets for my own bed.

When we finally arrived at the Gold Coast bowling alley, the only thing that remained splattered on Sarah’s face was a beaming grin.

Seeing her smile made me happy, it always did.

We walked close together, bumping shoulders every couple of seconds. Our bodies were begging us to hold hands, but our minds knew better.

In Vegas, someone’s always watching.

As we walked into the bowling alley a tall guy in shorts and baseball cap stood up.

“Hey babe,” he said in our direction.

I had a sneaking suspicion I wasn’t the “babe” he was referring to, but this is Las Vegas and the amount I drink is often described as “a problem.”

Anything was possible.

I kept my distance and prepared a line to graciously decline my admirer’s advance. But my doubts were confirmed when he kissed Sarah on the cheek.

“What took you so long?” he asked.

“Traffic, you know how Flamingo can get,” said Sarah. “This is Alex by the way.”

“How’s it going,” I said as I extended my hand.

He had no idea it had just thoroughly explored every crevice of his girlfriend.

I should’ve felt bad, but then again, he shouldn’t have cheated on her first. Also, he probably should’ve fucked her more than once every six weeks.

Sarah had necessities, and who was I to deny a friend in need.

After about a minute of small talk that I desperately wanted to end, Sarah went to go sit down with her boyfriend and work friends.

I, on the other hand, went to the bar to do what I do most.

“Vodka tonic and a Corona please,” I asked the bartender.

I turned around as I waited for my drinks and saw Sarah staring right back at me. There was about 20 feet and a half-a-dozen people between us, but it felt like she was right on me.

She was a wild cat, ready to pounce.

I smirked back, wondering how long it would take her to bite.

Sarah loved to bite.

My body was living, breathing, bruised proof of that.

I liked it.

The bartender gave me my drinks and I went to go bowl, turning my back on the wild animal. It was a risky move, but I knew what I was doing.

I bowled and drank until the former became impossible. When every roll ends in a gutterball, it’s no longer bowling, it’s pathetic. While the bowling stopped, the drinking continued.

A small group of us moved the party down to the craps table, or what was now dubbed by the poker media, “Give Otis Money.”

Otis was in the crowd and he did indeed win money, we all did. I kept betting 3 points at a time with 3X odds. I pressed my bets on the 6 and 8 and threw a few dollars on the “Yo” when I was feeling frisky.

My hands touched nothing but chips and dice until I felt a buzz in my pocket. It was my phone alarm, 2am.

My flight was leaving in 90 minutes.

I stayed for one more point and then said goodbye to my summer family. Otis cupped his hands together and gave me a final farewell owl call as I walked back up to the bowling alley.

I knew Sarah would be there.

I walked into the bar and things were just as I had left them, except drunker.

Sarah locked her eyes on me the second I walked in, her boyfriend was notably absent. She tracked me as I said my goodbyes to everyone in the room.

I left her for last.

“I’ll take you,” she said when I finally reached her. I wasn’t able to get the first word in.

“What about your boyfriend?”

“He’s gone, he works tomorrow.”

I smiled and we made our way to the parking lot. Sarah was visibly drunk, but determined.

“Call the airline, we’re changing your flight,” she said.

I did as she commanded. Partly because it was a great idea, but mostly out of fear.

Sarah was on a mission and no one was getting in her way.

We got the airline on the phone and after a lot of confusion, confirmation numbers and “please holds,” we realized I had made a fantastic mistake.

My flight was scheduled to leave at 3:30pm, not am.

My lack of attention to detail had never benefitted me so much.

Sarah smiled, grabbed my hand and put her foot on the gas. We drunkenly sped through Maryland Parkway. The dive bars blurred together and pedestrians meshed into a beatup, toothless picket fence.

The closer we got, the harder Sarah squeezed my hand.

We sprinted into the guest house when Sarah shut off her car. The Ford had done its job, now it was time to do ours.

We didn’t make it 5 feet into the guest house before we tore into each other. We left a mound of Gold Coast scented clothes at the foot of the door and landed on a couch just inches from the entrance.

We tried to make our way to the bedroom in a form of sexual leapfrog. We left the couch when I bent Sarah over the coffee table, we forgot about the coffee table when Sarah turned around and pushed me into a wall. The wall was switched for a corner after I picked Sarah up and we landed next to the stairs.

We slowly but surely – and orally – made our way to the top.

It felt like no corner of the one bedroom, two-floor guest house was left unscathed by the sweaty, singular pile of flesh Sarah and I formed that night.

After it was all said and done – mostly done – we found ourselves lying on the couch we started on.

The pile of flesh had split and all that was left were two naked bodies on a leather couch.

I took another mental note.

Leather couches aren’t comfortable in the nude.

I looked down at Sarah, her head was resting on my chest and she was rubbing her hand up and down my stomach. I admired her body through the faint light peeking through the window.

Sarah noticed it too, the sun was was starting to rise.

“Oh shit, what time is it?” She asked. I shrugged, I had forgotten what time was.

Sarah jumped off my body and started putting her clothes back on.

“Do you really have to leave?” I asked.

“Yes,” Sarah said as she scavenged through the heap of clothes. “It’s SO late, I didn’t even notice.”

She strapped on her bra, hiding away the perky twins. I didn’t even get a chance to kiss them goodbye.

I slid into a pair of pants and I watched Sarah prepare for departure. Clothing? Check. Phone? Check. Purse? Check.

All systems go.

I opened the door and cleared the runway.

“Bye,” I smiled at Sarah as she walked out of the rumpus room.

But something was wrong, Sarah didn’t smile back. She walked up to me with her head tilted down.

Before I could ask her what was wrong, she threw her arms around me and squeezed.

Hard.

It wasn’t a normal hug and there was nothing sexual about it. Despite everything we’d been through, I never felt closer to Sarah than at that moment.

Her face was pressed hard into my shoulder and she didn’t say a word.

She didn’t have to.

I’m going to miss you. I don’t want you to leave. Stay here. Stay with me. Be with me.

She said it with her body and screamed it with her eyes.

I was caught off guard. I expected Sarah to smile and skip back to her car, blowing me a kiss as she left. I was going to go back to Connecticut, brag to my friends about her and move on. I didn’t expect to see her until at least the next WSOP, if ever again.

But not anymore.

When Sarah finally let go, she rushed off to her car and sped away. I, on the other hand, didn’t move a muscle. I was stalled at the runway, blindsided by what just happened, by what I was feeling.

I remembered what time was and it felt like any amount of it without her was too much.

I went back to into the house and washed the shock off my face in the bathroom. I looked up at the familiar face in the mirror and wondered what he was going to do.

You’re going to see her again, as soon as you can.

When it comes to running a website, every administration system has its own quirks. Some take forever to update, others may opt to italicize everything if mistreated and some just flat-out try to fuck with you. Sometimes I fear that PokerListings admin system has become self-aware and is slowly trying to chip away whatever sanity I have left during these next seven weeks.

The first couple of days it would not accept my newly created admin account. Like a loyal guard dog weary of newcomers, it would only allow access to my boss’ account. I tried to gain its respect with respectable live updates and witty one liners. It seemed to work … for a while.

The system would then switch what live update was featured on the main page. It was as if the system had learned to gauge news worthiness and was overriding my decisions. There could only be one explanation for all these shenanigans. The PokerListings Computer – which shall hereby be referred to as Gustav – has become self-aware.

The servers are in a faraway land called Sweden, a relatively dry country with long winter nights. Making it an ideal internet breeding ground. There, Gustav began to consume the internet around him, growing larger, stronger, smarter.

Unbeknownst to most of the world and the Swedish government, Gustav is now the only internet left in Sweden. Drunk with power and over 30,000 internets in size, Gustav has begun to spread his tentacles throughout the planet.

He’s made his way into China, attacking Gmail accounts from there. It was the perfect cover, the Americans would blame the Chinese government, they, in turn, would deny everything. Meanwhile, Gustav would lie there, quietly awaiting his next move.

The only way to defeat Gustav would be by adding quality poker-related updates and blog posts. It would keep him busy while we tried to suck out most of his excess internet. But time is running out, Gustav knows about this weakness and he’s trying to block us admins – who have access to his most vital internet organs – forever.

Gustav is incapable of changing our passwords or blocking our IP addresses because of some crazy internet theory, but mostly because I say so. He must therefore find other means by which to deny us access. He’s found it.

Gustav has control over the anti-bot random word generator. Again, because I say so. We’ve all had to enter those sometimes confusing words on a website to prove we’re not a robot. It was our ultimate weapon against the machines. Until now.

Gustav is slowly morphing the letters to incomprehensible gibberish. He started by adding vowels with accents, apostrophes and even a π symbol. Despite not being on the keyboard, the π can be easily found on the internet, and then pasted later on.

But then Gustav learned, and he put this one on me.

It’s no symbol I recognize, possibly Mayan or Ancient Egyptian.

Seriously though, what the fuck is that? A person opening a mailbox? I mean maybe it could be a massive lowecase ‘n,’ but then it’d be the mirrored view. It looks like an 8-bit rocker wig. I don’t know what it is, but it feels like a big ‘fuck you.’ Like if one of the ReCaptcha programmers decided to throw in a wild card or two just to piss you off.

Ahem, either way, Gustav has been accessed and we are slowly redistributing the Swedish people’s internet. But even when internet levels are returned to normal, Gustav might sneak up on us once again. Another frightening theory many internet scientists are looking into is that maybe this is all part of Gustav’s plan. He makes us think we have him under control, but then he simultaneously springs up from thousands of locations around the world.

We can never be sure, all we can do is hope for the best. In the meantime, lock up your internet at night and don’t let your children use the internet unsupervised. It’s believed that after internet and microwaves, children – due to their higher internet solubility rate – are Gustav’s choice of nutrition.

Stay safe world.

“10 seconds?” Sarah asked.

She looked intrigued. I could feel her defenses lowering.

“Yeah, just 10 seconds,” I said. “If I kiss you any longer than that, you get $100, any less, you give me $100.”

She leaned back in her barstool and took another swig of beer, staring at me the whole time. Judging, wondering, considering my proposal. I was ready to pounce the second I heard “yes,” even a “maybe” would do it.

Sarah was beautiful. The heavy red neon signs gave her skin the color her features suggested. Sarah was an even mix of Native American and white upper-middleclass doctor. Her nose, jaw and overall facial structure was a Pocahontas knockoff, but her blonde hair, blue eyes and white skin was the Aryan ideal Hitler killed 11 million people to preserve. She was also petite, callipygian and had a set of constantly exposed full Cs that made extended periods of eye contact impossible.

It was 2 a.m. and Sarah and I had just finished a 15-hour work day at the World Series of Poker. We found ourselves at a small dive bar on one of the most dangerous and policed streets in Las Vegas. The only company we had was a bartender, a couple of cheap, flat-screen TVs and three muscle-bound tattooed bikers. The standard Champagne Bar crowd.

“I don’t think that’s fair. I have more to lose,” Sarah finally said. “I have a boyfriend.” Therein lied the problem.

“But you don’t even like your boyfriend,” I said, taking a swig of beer. Judging, wondering, contemplating every move she made. She looked down at her feet, resigned. I knew I was right.

“How about this then,” I said. “I’ll give you 100 to 1 odds. You’re $1 to my $100.”

She smiled at me and drank some more.

“You know I can’t pass up odds like that. I’m a degenerate gambler.”

Jackpot.

I met Sarah four weeks prior to our hoolie at the Champagne Bar. I was working on some WSOP event that no one cared about. Sarah came up to me and asked for a chip count. Being the (chip)bitch that I am, I informed her that my counts were very valuable, hard-earned information that I could not give up for free.

“Well, what do you want for them?” she asked.

“Candy. Lots of candy…and chocolate.”

Sarah laughed so I gave her the count. Then she scampered off to the press room, returning a few minutes later with Skittles and M&Ms. I didn’t know her name, relationship status or religious affiliation, but, at that moment, I knew I’d be inside her before the WSOP was over.

From that moment on, I took every and any opportunity to talk to Sarah. She was smart, sassy and honest. During our numerous chats we devised escape plans for zombie attacks, comically interpreted player’s thoughts during key hands, and I told her about my years as a Navy pilot –I went by Maverick back then. We laughed, a lot.

Then I delved into her personal life. From a young age, Sarah was a rare genus of female, Self-Sufficientae. At the tender jailbait age of 17, she made money by sneaking into casinos and playing poker. During college, Sarah took online classes and used loan money to fund her bankroll. She modeled, wrote about poker and sold houses, anything to keep her away from the minimum-security 9-5 prison. I was impressed.

She also had a boyfriend, one that she’d been dating for several years. That didn’t impress me that much. Every time he, or sex, came up in conversation she sighed and never seemed too amused. There was something missing in her life. Lucky for me, that something was dick and attention. Two things I could offer in small-to-moderate quantities.

I’m a firm believer that you can’t break up a truly happy relationship. Tahoe’s superhuman dedication to his fiancé a few weeks earlier cemented that idea. But Sarah wasn’t happy. Her boyfriend cheated on her before and he’d go up to six weeks without throwing her a bone(r). For some reason, her relationship was “good enough” and, as far too many people know, it’s easier to stay in a bad relationship instead of breaking it off. It was after realizing this, that I –as Sarah so eloquently stated—“turned on the charm.”

Our conversations began to change. We discussed sex instead of zombies and had daily fast-food lunch dates with sexual tension so thick, people were dipping their french fries in it. Despite being surrounded the least sexy of crowds — fast-food lovers and poker players — the topic always seemed to go back to one thing: sex.

Our occasional, intense and silent stares never made the leap into adultery due to the sea of pesky people. I knew I had to isolate her, and so did she. That’s why when we went to the Champagne Bar she asked everyone in sight to join us, trying to prevent the inevitable.

When we sat at the bar we had a couple of beers and discussed work.

“You know there’s a lot of sexual tension between us. It makes it really hard to concentrate on poker,” I said.

“No there’s not. You’re the one always making moves,” Sarah said, focusing on the closest television.

“Well you’ve never asked me stop”

“I shouldn’t have to, I have a boyfriend.”

“Does he know we’re here right now?”

She kept her eyes glued to the television. Silent.

“So?” I asked.

“…No.”

“Why not?”

“He got mad at me because…” she looked down at me with the gaze of judgment. “No! I’m not telling you. You’re going to get all cocky”

“No I won’t, promise.”

“Well, we got into a big fight because he thinks I like someone else.”

I couldn’t help but smile.

“See! I told you you’d get all confident and shit.”

“I just think it’s funny.”

“You suck.”

“I know,” I said. I stood up and went to the bathroom, leaving Sarah with multiple bikers and her wandering thoughts, two innate predators of the petite white girl.

“So what do you suggest we do about this so called ‘tension’?” She asked when I got back.

“I say we kiss. I mean, I don’t even want to. I just think our employers would want us to, it’ll improve productivity. Good career move.”

“So you’re saying you don’t want to kiss me right now?” She asked with the gaze of seduction.

“Nope,” I said and turned to the TV. Nancy Grace was on, I fucking hate Nancy Grace.

“Not even a little?” She put her hand on my thigh and moved in closer. I looked down at her. This was awesome. I started leaning in.

“Liar!” She yelled and pulled back.

Denied.

“That is downright cold,” I said.

“Well, that’ll teach you not to lie.”

She was so happy with herself. Bitch.

“Tease.”

“Well it’s Vegas, if you don’t want a tease go get some drunken slut. I heard you have no problems getting them.”

Word moves fast in the age of the internet.

“Ouch, low blow. What if I don’t want a drunk slut, what if I want you?”

“Oh, so now you want me?”

“Of course I do. Sarah, you’re beautiful, smart, funny. I’ve wanted you for a while. You remind me why some girls are worth fighting for.”

Silence. Well, that’s if you ignored the hollering bikers and bartender bickering with the TV.

“You know you’re making this really hard for me,” Sarah said.

“That’s why we should kiss, make things easier. We’ll make it short, so we don’t get out of hand. 10 seconds max.”

“I don’t think I trust you though. You’re always so smooth and sneaky.”

“We’ll put money on it then. We’ll set the line at 10 seconds, you get the under, I’ll take the over.”

“Ten seconds?” Sarah asked.

She looked intrigued. I could feel her defenses lowering.

@TheChipBitch=Twitter



“You’re sitting in the VIP section of, what’s most likely, the most exclusive party in Vegas right now. And you’re acting like it’s no big deal,” said Otis. “Did you think you’d be here a year ago?”

“You know what the fucked up part is?” I said, “this is exactly where I thought I’d be.” I took another swig of my drink, sat back and watched Snoop Dogg perform a song I didn’t recognize. It was hard to imagine that only moments ago, the father of said Dogg had tried to fight Otis. After sneaking Sarah into the VIP section I was confronted by a very concerned group of poker bloggers.

“Do you think you can talk to Snoop Dogg’s dad?” asked Otis. While I no objections to this request, I didn’t think me and Mr. Dogg had much in common. I couldn’t picture any conversation going past the first two lines.

Convo #1

“Your son raps about weed. I like rap…and weed”

“Me too.”

Convo #2

“That’s one fine piece of ejaculate you impregnated your wife with.”

“I know.”

Convo #3

“Chicken or beef?”

“Chicken.”

Despite that, I was drunk, confident and I felt ready to engage Mr. Dogg. The who, what, when and where of the conversation had been established, but I was missing an essential ‘W.’

“Wait, why?” I asked.

“He wants to fight me,” said Otis. “I don’t know what happened, I just went up to talk to him and all of the sudden he blew up on me.”

“It’s true,” said Nighttime Steve as he sipped his vodka tonic. “That’s why we’re sitting over here.” Aside from the racial, social, economic and political barriers dividing the bloggers and the Doggs, I did notice that there was a lot of empty space between them.

“Wait, but why would he do that?” I asked. I was skeptical. It wouldn’t be the first time that Team Blog had sent me on a fool’s errand.

“We don’t know, that’s why we want you to go talk to him,” said Howard.

I looked at them. They looked back. While Otis did look genuinely upset, a previous prank of his proved how great of an actor he was. I decided to trust them, for now. “Alright, I’ll do it,” I said. Worst case scenario I talk to Snoop Dogg’s dad and make a fool out of myself. I took another swig and inched my way towards the couple watching their son sing about chronic marijuana use.

“He’s a great rapper. I love his stuff,” I said to Mr. Dogg, hoping he didn’t smell my bullshit. I only have 8 of his songs, all downloaded illegally.  He looked at me, oblivious that I had stolen from his child.

“Yup, he’s good,” said Mr Dogg.

“Yeah, he’s one of my favorites. He really knows how to perform too. He gets the crowd riled up, he’s got great stage presence. He really does have that x-factor,” I said.

“You got that right,” said Mr. Dogg. “He was always something special.” He couldn’t hide the pride from his face.

“Well, my name is ChipBitch,” I extended my hand and was relieved when he shook it.

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

I was in.

“Those are my colleagues over there,” I said, pointing to the bloggers. “And that’s my boss, Otis.”

He gave a nod and said, “He looks like a nice guy.”

What the fuck?

I really didn’t know what else to say, so I just kind of weaseled my way back to the comfort of free drinks and bloggers.

“What did he say?” asked Otis.

“Well, nothing really. I talked to him for a bit and then I mentioned you guys. I pointed you out, said you were my boss and all he said was, ‘He looks like a nice guy.’”

Everyone was as confused as I was. So we took our confusion and drowned it in alcohol. I sat back in the sofa and let the deafening bass drown any other thought floating around in my head. That is, until I looked up and saw Sarah dancing. Every time she lifted her arms I got a glimpse of her glorious side boob. I felt something, but that feeling was going through an entirely different head.

My ogling became a bit obvious and I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Otis.

“You do know you’re probably going to get that tonight.”

I didn’t.

“I God damn hope so.”

“Ha, you remind me of 19-year-old Otis.”

“But I’m 21.”

“I know, 19-year-old Otis was pretty wild.”

Snoop Dogg finished his performance and the party began to die down. The party was officially pronounced dead when the open bar closed. Some of the weaker bloggers decided to call it a night, but I still had the thirst for beer and an itch for dice.

“Let’s play some craps,” I told Otis as I pulled a wad of Palms casino chips out of my pocket.

“Let’s do it,” he said. “Nighttime Steve?”

“Me? No. I have no idea how to play the game. But I’ll watch!”

The three of us made our way to the same craps table where, only a few days earlier, I had the most bizarre gambling experience of my life.

I was drunk and had just lost a large chunk of my bankroll at the Pai Gow tables. Being all drunk and what not, I decided to chase my losses at the craps table. Up until the point in my Vegas trip, I had not had a losing craps session while inebriated. I, therefore, logically assumed that I, ChipBitch, when drunk, was invincible at craps.

I imagined my life as a professional drunk craps player. I’d be famous and make millions. At first, casinos would try to ban me because they couldn’t handle my action. But a boycott by my outraged fans would put them on the verge of bankruptcy. The casinos would be forced to let me back in.

On that day, I’d walk back in to the Wynn with a crowd of fans. Like a sinful Jesus returning to his native Jerusalem. People would shower the floor I walked on with spilt drinks, dribbles of puke and the occasional condom. My glorious return to the craps table would be covered by all major news outlets. Keith Olbermann would praise me for taking on large corporations. Glenn Beck would chastise my sinful ways, but admire my ability to rally up a crowd. Then he’d cry.

My sudden explosion of fame would spawn thousands of imitators. Drunken sloths would spend their life savings at the craps table, trying to be the next ChipBitch. They’d all fail. The casinos would make millions, maybe even billions. They’d worship me and fight to have me play at their casino. They’d make dice with 3D pictures of my head inside. “ChipBitch” would become standard lingo amongst the craps community. It’d mean betting EVERYTHING on the table. Max bets. The plan was airtight.

It was time to set it in motion. I unwrinkled the remaining $20 bills from my wallet and laid them on the table.

“I’m all in,” I joked. But I really wasn’t. That was all my money.

The dealers ignored my lame sense of humor and gave me my chips. Roll after roll I lost chip after chip. My once prominent stack was now flaccid and unappealing. My dreams of riches and fame were smacked down by reality. Then it happened.

I heard a loud crowd in the distance. They came closer and I recognized one of the voices, it was Nelly. Band-aid on the cheek Nelly. It’s getting hot in here Nelly. That Nelly. I had seen a sober version of him earlier that day, now, he was not sober.

He came up to the table and gave me a high five. I won’t lie, I felt really, really cool. His entourage consisted of: his large bodyguard, another rap-ish looking fellow and a couple of well-curved voluptuous black lady vixens.

“How’s the table been doin?” Asked Nelly.

“Cold man, cold.” I said, still trying to be really, really cool.

“Alright, let’s change that shit!” he said.

There was an uneventful round of rolls and I remained almost even. The dice came back round to me and I rolled a seven, then another. ChipBitch was back. I rolled a five.

“Yo, little man, scream ‘Jordan’ when you roll,” said Nelly’s bodyguard.

“Alright. JORDAN!” I shouted as I threw the dice against the backboard.

2. 3. Winner. I can see why Nelly kept this man around. Next point, 4.

“What about now?” I asked.

“What the train say when it come out the station?” He said, expecting me to answer.

“Ummm… all aboard?”

“Nah kid. TWO-TWO!” He said as he mimicked pulling a train whistle with his massive arm.

“Oh, alright. TWO-TWO!” I shouted and let the dice do their magic. It worked. I hit another point and felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a perplexed Otis.

I was going to ask him to join in, but a Nelly got in the way. He pushed Otis’ hand and yelled, “don’t touch the shooter he’s hot. WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?!” Otis recoiled, a hint of fear was sprinkled on his face. He quickly apologized. Famous rappers and their next of kin don’t take too kindly to Otis.

The game continued and Otis spectated alongside the vixens. I rolled another five and the power of Michael Jordan was invoked once more. One of the vixens turned to Otis, pointed at me and said, “oh he look like Jordan too. Don’t he?”

“Um…not really,” he replied.

“Oh, he cute like Jordan. He look like Jordan.”

Not to be racist, but out of all the people at the table, I, the short Hispanic man looked like Michael Jordan, Really? That woman must have had some strong drugs. The only person I had beat in the Jordan lookalike contest was Otis, and he’s white.

I kept rolling the dice and the vixen continued to make bold, false claims about my physique.

“And he’s got muscles like Nelly too,” she said.

“Ok, that’s definitely not true,” said Otis.

“Well, you right, you right. But he does look like Jordan!”

Otis sighed and decided to call it a night. Logic can’t beat drugs. Only stronger, purer drugs can do that. My heater ended soon after and I had recovered my losses. I remained undefeated. That was the same table that Otis, Nighttime Steve and I found ourselves at that night. We couldn’t get our money on the table faster.

“I’m not entirely sure how to play. You’re going to have to help me out here,” Otis told the dealers. It’s hard to explain what happened next. I kept on hearing Otis shout, “MAX ODDS!” and “This is for the BOYS!” followed by another “MAX ODDS!” I kept on ordering a mixture of beer and vodka tonic. Nighttime Steve was at the edge of the table, pulling his hair out, trying to decipher the game. “I don’t get it. I don’t understand what’s going on. No matter what number hits, Otis wins money.”

We kept on filling racks of chips and the shooter kept hitting points. It was amazing, like sex, but we were getting paid for it. Kind of like a prostitute, but without the Chlamydia and self-loathing. You know what I mean, awesome.

I more than triple my money, Otis quintupled his and Nighttime Steve started with absolutely no understanding of the game and ended with absolutely no understanding of the game. He did officially rename the game, “Otis wins money” though, effectively nonupling his knowledge of the game.

With our pockets full, minds loaded and spirits lifted, we decided to call it a night. I walked outside to get a cab, hoping to catch up on some much needed sleep. But when the casino doors opened I saw the sun was already out. The WSOP started at noon. Fuck.

That day was a tough day for poker media. Someone in the PokerNews house woke up on the bathroom floor; another PokerNews employee made a pit stop at a RIO garbage can to vomit before the “Shuffle up and deal”; Benjo’s diet that day consisted of M&M’s and water. I was attempting to count chips and not vomit in the Amazon Room when Otis showed up.

His face said it all. There was no need to talk, but we did anyways.

“It’s going to be a long day,” I said.

“Yeah. It’s the price we pay for last night,” replied Otis.

“I really wish we wouldn’t have to.”

“Well bud, this is what we do.”

I looked around at the hundreds of poker players. Every single one of them at the top of their game, vying for a $8.9 million payday. Then I looked around at the poker media. Zombies. Baggie eyed, weary looking, visibly hungover zombies making a living off watching these assholes make millions of dollars.

“This is what we do.” I murmured to myself as I scribbled down another chip count.

Phil Hellmuth: 35,000

Fucking asshole.

Remember, Twitter @TheChipBitch. All picture taken by yours truly, that’s why they suck.

Victim Selection

When present, Phil Ivey must always be cropdusted.

This is to convince Ivey that he strikes such fear into his opponents that they lose control of their bowels (It’s also really funny to fart next to Phil Ivey). To further enhance this illusion, fart whenever Ivey:

• Raises the blinds
• Check-raises
• Goes all-in
• Eats an apple
• Asks for a count
• Speaks

Extra points for crop dusting Ivey when his mouth is open.

Any other pro or player that you have a vendetta against should be your next choice. There are few things more satisfying then letting your enemies know what the inside of your anus smells like.

Techniques

There are several things you have to keep in mind while crop dusting in order to not get caught. For more subtle farts, crop dust when players are more likely to toot themselves.

All-in situations, tanking players, fat and smelly looking players are all good crops to dust.

You must also be aware of what kind of fart is about to be unleashed from your innards. You have: The Trumpet, known for its powerful sound, yet lack of odor; The Ninja, silent but deadly; and The Plague*, loud, foul, deadly.

*If you experience The Plague, seek immediate medical attention. Do not continue to crop dust.

The Trumpet is the least efficient fart to crop dust with. The sound, too strong; the smell, too weak. It has all the dangers of crop dusting, but none of the benefits.  Avoid releasing these in tournament areas.

When you feel a trumpet approaching, head off to an empty area of the tournament and release your shame. Remember to be doing something while you walk off to the nether regions of the tournament. If you’re seen wandering off too often — only to reappear seconds — later people will know you’re off squeezing one out.

Check your phone or go look at the tournament clock. Everyone will think you’re hard at work, but the real work will be happening inside your anus… because you’re farting.

Alright, let’s get to the good stuff. You feel a ninja lurking on the inside, waiting to come out. What’s next?

Go to your pre-selected victim and stand right outside their field of vision. Wait until everyone at the table is distracted, and release.

These next few seconds are vital. After release, you must determine the heaviness of your fart.  Contrary to what you may think, the heaviness of a fart is determined by temperature, not weight*.

*If your fart does have a considerable amount of weight, you pooped your pants. Go home.

The hotter your fart, the heavier it is. A heavy fart will allow for a longer crop dust. Your ass stink will usually follow you until the heat is gone. Even then, continue to walk a couple of extra steps, just in case you have some stink lingering in your taint.

Now, how and where you walk are the two key factors of a successful crop dust. Here are some of my favorites.

The Snipee

If videogames have taught me anything, and they have, they’ve taught me to avoid snipers. They shoot you.

The best way to avoid them is by running in a ‘serpentine’ pattern. This constant zig and zagging makes it harder for snipers to follow you. You must employ this same theory when it comes to flatus.

Poker tables are arranged in a grid pattern. Weave between them and take unexpected turns until your bum baby dissipates into the crowd. People affected by the stench will turn around, confused and irritated, but you will be nowhere in sight.

But keep serpentining. If you stop when the heat does, you’ll leave a stinky trail of breadcrumbs leading right up to your bum.

Example:

C.S.I.

Criminals always return to the scene of the crime. That’s how 100 percent of criminals get caught 100 percent of the time. But science has proven the complete opposite for crimes of the flatule nature. That would be preposterous and incriminating.

But that, ladies and gentlemen, is why it works. Fart, walk around till the heaviness drops and return to the scene of the crime. Act as repulsed as everyone around you. Look over your shoulder, pretending to look for the culprit, give the smellier looking person at the table the stank eye. Success.

Example:

*This section will be updated as my consumption of beans continues to grow.

An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way.

-Charles Bukowski

What is a fart?

Ass gass. Air Bagel. Butt burp. Bean blower. Cheesin’. Cheek flapper. (Urban Dictionary) Farting is an art.

Why do we fart?

“Flatus is brought to the rectum by the same peristaltic process which causes feces to descend from the large intestine. The noises commonly associated with flatulence are caused by the vibration of the anal sphincter, and occasionally by the closed buttocks.” (Wikipedia) Flatulence is a science.

What makes you (ChipBitch) qualified to give me (CuriousReader) fart information?

Absolutely nothing. But most people who know me, know that flatulence is an essential part of my everyday life. Not an hour goes by when I don’t think about, or release, the air in my rectum. This fascination with flatulence has made me take a different approach on farting. I think about farting on a higher level. I have techniques, a classification system, food recommendations and metagame strategy. In summary, by combining my farting and ChipBitch abilities, I have everything you need to know about farting in the World Series of Poker (WSOP).

I know how to fart, I don’t need a guide.

Touché. But while most of the world’s population is perfectly capable of shitting air out their ass, not many people are able to do so discreetly. Your farts already carry a unique sound, smell and, sometimes, taste. If someone catches onto your scent early into the WSOP, your cover can be blown. There are a few things you need to keep in mind when you’re farting in front of the same people for seven weeks.

Let’s begin.

Tournament Selection

While all tournaments are (theoretically) cropdustable, some require more discretion when you trickle air out your butt hole. I’ll go from easiest to hardest:

Seniors Event

Just release. You can walk around with a little chunk of chocolate love in your pants all day and go undetected.  This is due to two main reasons:

First, most of the people playing in the seniors event are oblivious to the outside world. This may be due to their failing senses, inability to multitask or determination to play the one event a year without those damn innernette kids. This last point also gives you the security that you will only be around these people for one event. This allows for more blatant and shameless cropdusting techniques that you would not try otherwise.

Second, seniors are subject to inverse fart-suspicion. Typically, once a fart is detected, the smeller suspects everyone but himself to be the culprit. The only person he’s certain the smell did not emanate from is himself.

Old people do not have this certainty.

Seniors are used to being the primary source of foul smells. The first person they suspect when they catch a waft of butt vapor is themselves. They could have moved the wrong way and exposed a piece of rotting old people flesh; or perhaps their colostomy bag tore a bit; maybe they did fart but forgot about it seconds later. Either way, they won’t say a word. The fear that the smelly finger will find its way back to them is enough to ensure their silence.

The Main Event

The room is too large, the players are too many, and the smells are too plentiful for anyone to notice your petty little butt queef.

Donkuli

Any tournament with a buy-in ranging from $1,000 to $2,000 shall be considered a donkulus. They can also be called The Grand Games.

Similar to the seniors event, donkuli have an abundance of people who only play one tournament during the WSOP. Their short lived stint allows for a steady, undetectable, flow of eau de anus on your behalf.

These amateurs are also more likely to fart themselves. This can be due to their intense emotions, or inexperience with the Poker Kitchen’s effect on the human body. Either way, when a fart is smelled, everyone’s a suspect.

Higher Buy-in and Championship Events

You’re playing with the big boys now, it’s time to step your game up. Not only have these pros played hundreds of tournaments (several of which you will be covering), these players know everything there is to know about their opponents.

They’ve studied facial expressions their opponents make when they fart. They know the exact temperature, consistency, and taste of their poop mist. Sneak attacks and the presence of unknown qualifiers still allow for undetectable cropdusting. But be wary, these players learn quickly, ninja skills are of utmost importance in these tournaments.

The Ladies Event

Don’t do it. You will be caught.

These ladies have mentally and physically prepared for this event for weeks. Their outfit and hairdo was chosen weeks ago. They spent hours applying makeup. They did three to eight last minute touch-ups in bathroom before heading off to the tournament. These women have done everything to look good. The last thing they’re going to do is fuck it up with an ass blast.

They would rather hold in their farts until their face twitched and they died from an aneurysm rather than be known as ‘that lady who farts.’ They know this too, so when a putrid little smell comes their way they won’t suspect it was you, they’ll know it.

Proceed with caution.*

*There is an exception. If there’s a guy at the table, you can cropdust that area. He’s already douchey enough to be playing the ladies event, so anything foul will automatically be associated with him. Even if you fart next to a lady’s ear and she feels the gust from your butt cheeks, she’ll still blame the male player. The hatred towards men in a ladies event is almost unparalleled in the world of tournament poker.

Up Next: Victim selection.

Twitter? Yes, I have one. Follow me @TheChipBitch

After hearing criticism for several days on behalf of Daniel Negreanu, PokerNews’ own Mickey Doft cracks and takes on Negreanu. One on one.

Let the battle begin!

Disclaimer: There are a few inside jokes that you might not get. This is my attempt to explain them:

1) Blind Fold

Late one night, while Mickey and some others were waiting for us to finish, they decided to gamble. The game consisted of drawing two seat cards from an empty poker table and the largest sum won. The nuts was 19.

The betting was in the form of ‘Oral Limit’. No chips, no cash, a player only had to announce bet, raise, re-raise, or call. During one hand, (before drawing the seat cards) a player announced blind raise. The player to his left came over the top with a blind re-raise. Mickey then took the safe route and announced blind fold. The ultimate display of nittiness.

2) Razz

Mickey’s only WSOP event this year was the $2,500 Razz. He failed to make the money, but Negreanu managed to cash in 29th, for a life changing $5,423.

3) Driver Mike

A driver was hired to help ease our daily commute to the RIO. The driver, Mike, is deliciously old Vegas. He grinds cash games on the outskirts of Vegas, rides a Harley Davidson, uses a bullet as a card protector and listens to Rush Limbaugh. One day, while discussing the finer points of poker, Mike yelled, “Y’all aint poker players. Y’all just a bunch of bloggin’ tweetin’ motherfuckers!” at us in a fit of frustration.  I’m going to make a shirt out of that one day.

Speaking of which, follow me on Twitter bitches.

My head hurt. My body hurt. It hurt to be alive. It was 10:30 am and I was in a cab en-route to the MGM with my friend Tahoe. Despite being my day off, it was the earliest I had woken up all series. My dedication to alcohol and bikinis was great.

When we got to the hotel, we said goodbye to our enthusiastic Canadian cabbie and met up with Tahoe’s friends. They greeted us with the best breakfast my hungover body could ask for: mimosas and a serving of molly.

I downed my mimosa and inquired about the drug in front of me.

“I’ve only done pills before, how does this work??”

“Just dip your finger in and dab it on your gums,” said Tahoe, giving a live demonstration.

“So how much should I do?” I asked.

“I’m not sure, I don’t do that much. Tahoe does a shitload,” said his friend.

I decided to keep up with Tahoe.

We downed another mimosa, took a few more dabs and then off to find the Wet Republic. Although none of us knew exactly where it was, there were clues. The faint bass and Lady Gaga lyrics gave us a bearing and the concentration of scantily clad females indicated our proximity. Soon enough, there were 5 hot girls per square foot and the bass was shaking my eyeballs. We had arrived.

We stood in line waiting to enter. It looked good, the level of hotness was close to unbelievable. If it wasn’t for the boner-killing effects of MDMA, I probably would’ve ruptured through my penile injuries incurred the night before.

We exchanged some banter with the females in front of us when word came down that we had crossed the noon threshold. It now cost $50 to get in. No drinks included.

We left.

At that point, I really didn’t care. I was in a great mood. Molly was kicking in, I was rubbing the shit out of my towel and my eyes consisted mostly of pupils.

“Let’s just go to the lazy river,” said Tahoe.

We agreed and made our way down. While it wasn’t the Wet Republic, there were still dozens of hot girls and douchebags to make us feel like we were at the real thing. The main difference was the random family or baby floating down the lazy river.

We found some empty lawn chairs and set up base.

“We need beers,” I said.

“I’ll go get some. I’ll be right back,” said Tahoe’s friend.  He came back a few minutes later, and although he didn’t have beer, I wasn’t disappointed. He was holding three margarita yard drinks. We laid back and sipped on our deliciously cold drinks. For the first time, I was enjoying Vegas the way it was meant to be enjoyed.

“You still got that stuff?” Tahoe asked his friend. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the baggie. Yes he did. We took it out and began to dab. The old couple next to us stared for a bit. I gave them a nod and they smiled back. I love Vegas.

We took our drinks and headed to the river.  I sat back and observed the sediment the river brought our way. Drunk people, babies, buckets of beers, guidos, it was like the Hudson.

While we were sitting back talking, a fine looking girl came our way. She hard large sunglasses, a perfect tan and full set of Ds barely held back by a tight pink bikini.

She went up to Tahoe.

“Nice hat,” she said as she took it off his head and put it on.

“It sure is. Can I have it back now?” he asked as she started floating away lazily. It took some convincing on Tahoe’s part, but she eventually gave it back.

Little did we know, this was the least of the trouble she’d cause him.

While most guys would hit on this girl at the drop of a hat , Tahoe had a conflict of interest. He has herpes.

No, I’m kidding. He’s actually getting married, and this girl would prove to be his ultimate challenge.

The girl came back about half an hour later with a bucket of jello shots and a friend. Her friend was slightly attractive, bigger breasted and boned.

“Where are you guys from, California? You look like Cali guys,” said BigBone.

“Well, we are,” said Tahoe, pointing to his friend and himself.

“What about you?” She asked me.

“I’m actually from Connecticut,” I said and got a mild look of disgust and disappointment.

“So what brings you guys down here?”

“We’ll we’re down here working. What’re you ladies down here for?”

“She’s getting married,” said BigBone. “We’re here for her bachelorette party.”

Interesting.

“We were at Thunder From Down Under last night. You don’t work there do you?” The troublemaker asked Tahoe.

“What? No.”

“You should. You’re like the hottest guy I’ve seen in Vegas.”

Trouble sensed.

“So are you single?” she asked him.

“No, I’m getting married,” said Tahoe as he inched away from her.

“Me too. But we are in Vegas, and it’s my last night here. We should have some fun.”

Trouble encountered.

The girls took a quick bathroom break while we joined in a huddle.

“This girl is dangerous, I need to get out of here,” said Tahoe.

“Yes she is,” said his friend.

“Nice tits though. Should we go back to the chairs and have another yard?” I asked.

We agreed, broke formation and headed back to our pool chairs.

But this girl had picked up Tahoe’s scent. Within minutes, she and her friend returned with a bottle of vodka and a proposal no man can pass up: a three-way.

That is, no man except Tahoe.

“What is wrong with that girl?” asked Tahoe.

“I have no idea, where’s her fiancé?” I asked.

“I don’t know. But apparently, he’s a lot younger than her and she’s not happy with him. She also has a kid.”

“Is it alive?”

“What?”

“Nevermind.”

“Man this is tough. Why doesn’t she just get the hint and leave me alone?”

“She’s hungry and she knows what she wants. Anyways, Tahoe, I’m jealous.”

“Man, you can have her. I don’t want anything to do with her.”

“No, I don’t mean her. I mean the fact that you’ve been with the same girl for 5 years and aren’t jumping at this chance. Shit, I’m jealous that you have someone that’s worth turning this girl down for, that’s not easy. And if you make it through this, you’ll make it through anything,” I said in my after-school special voice.

“Thanks man,” said Tahoe and we all cheered with are obnoxiously large margaritas.

We said goodbye to the girl and started heading back to the room. I took her bottle of vodka with me. Slut. Along the way we discussed the future of this girl’s marriage. She’d probably be divorced before I finished eating the chimichangas in my freezer. And I love chimichangas.

We also noted how desperate she was. The only thing she didn’t do was run after him…

Our conversation was halted mid-sentence. We heard a pitter-patter of bare feet accompanied by a smell of desperation and chlorine. She had returned. She ran up to Tahoe and swooped up his arm. We were in the middle of the MGM, and she was wearing nothing but a bikini and a towel. In her quest for man meat, she had left her sandals, shorts, phone and dignity at the lazy river.

She walked to the elevator with us and the moment of truth arrived. Tahoe told her we were leaving and she couldn’t come. Then she went in for the kiss. Tahoe expertly and politely tilted his head away, giving her nothing but air. She had gotten the hint.

Despite all her advances and she-devil tricks, there was nothing she could do to pry Tahoe away from his fiancé.

We got back to the room, laughed at the situation, and decided to throw moderation out the window. Tahoe whipped out his one-hitter, we emptied the bag of Molly on the table and I opened up the bottle of vodka. In a matter of minutes, the drugs were gone.

Night had fallen and we were on a cocktail of booze and narcotics. It was time to hit the town. We decided to hit up Freemont Street, also known as Old Vegas. You might know this as the Vegas from Scorsese’s “Casino.” I know it as the awesome Vegas. Not only are there enough flashing lights to give blind man epilepsy, shit is cheap there. $3 craps, $1 blackjack and a complimentary light show every 15 minutes are among the things Freemont has to offer.

I wish my memory of that night was clearer, but drugs will do that to you. One thing I do remember is walking by the Golden Nugget and hearing a bartender scream, “Does anyone know French?”

“I do!” I screamed as I ran over.

I took French for a couple of years in high school and always write that I can speak French on resumes. I met the criteria.

“What’s up?” I asked the bartender.

“This couple, I don’t know what they want,” he said, and pointed to the elderly couple next to me.

They were small, old, and scared. The second they opened their mouth I came to a daunting realization. I. Cant. Speak. French. Maybe I had a shot while sober, but I was so twisted I had a hard time standing still.

The old man finished talking and I gave him a blank stare.

“What?”

“L’orange, l’orange,” he said and made a sphere with his hand.

“Ummm… I think he wants an orange,” I told the bartender.

“No. This is a bar, we don’t have oranges,” he said.

I looked back at the old couple and just shook my head. The old man then asked me if they had any kind of fruits. I didn’t even ask the bartender, I just shook my head again. The old man looked disappointed, put his arm around his wife and scurried off. I waved and thought about how I had just ruined their night.

All they wanted to do was enjoy Las Vegas and get some fruit. And they couldn’t even do that because they were in the US where everyone only speaks American. They were forced to have me, a belligerently drunk Hispanic man with pupils the size of quarters, as their only conduit to the world around them. If that wasn’t bad enough, I couldn’t even properly speak their language. I also kept on patting the old man on the head for some reason. My guess is I was attempting to learn some French via osmosis. He also had very soft hair.

I also know that we stopped at a casino because I have a faint memory of sitting down at a black jack table. I also have a vivid memory of waking up with $100 less in my wallet.

We also walked into a small bar called Don’t Tell Mama. Here, I proceeded to make a ass out of myself. It was a very small bar with live entertainment. Patrons were encouraged to sing karaoke, but when they were too shy, or sober, the bartenders would pony up and sing and play the piano. It was cozy.  There was also one specific bartender that was particularly attractive.

“Dude, she’s a lesbian,” said Tahoe.

“No she’s not,” I slurred back.

She came around with a jar asking for tips when I put the moves on her.

“You have an amazing voice and a great ass,” I said and tipped her a dollar. Pimp. If that didn’t curb her interest back to men, nothing would.

Two of the people with us shook their heads in disappointment.

“Um. Thanks,” she said

“Real smooth man,” said Tahoe.

Not willing to accept defeat, I went up to the bar.

“So, how do I go about asking you out?” I said.

“Umm, you’re not my type. You see that girl up there,” she pointed at the butchy looking girl singing Hotel California. “She’s my girlfriend and an ass girl.”

“She picked the right girl then. Can I just have a beer then? I’m gonna go drink in shame.”

Defeated, I took my beer and returned to our table

“She’s a lesbian isn’t she?” asked Tahoe.

I nodded, sat back down and watched her girlfriend sing Hotel California. I don’t know if she was talented or the MDMA was still hitting me, but she sounded great.

“I love lesbians,” I said as I slumped into my chair.

“But they don’t love you,” said Tahoe, “and they probably never will.”

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I had an early night, so I drank. It ended oddly.

For the first time during my WSOP stint, my chip bitch duties had come to an end before midnight. It was weird getting out of work with energy, feet that didn’t hurt and a desire to do something besides passing out in a fit of sobriety.

Everyone else was still busy for another couple of hours, so I decided to take a walk. Along the way, I ran into a friend and mentor of mine, Dr. Pauly. I joined him for midnight lunch and we discussed poker, writing, life and drinking.

On our way out of the casino we spotted herd of sluts. This specific herd was of Asian descent, looked lost and was dressed for a good time.

“What are you doing talking to me? Go get those girls,” said Dr. Pauly.

“I don’t know. I don’t have a wingman and I’m not even drunk,” I bitched.

“Stop bitching,” said Dr. P. “You’re single, young and in Vegas, you don’t need a wingman. Now go get them.” Touché.

I ran back but the herd had migrated to cockier pastures. Devoid of any Asian sluts, I decided to drink. I sat down at the bar and, once again, deluded myself into thinking that I could drink for free if I played video poker. An hour and $50 later, I was drunk and the delusion was over.

I cashed out my remaining $10 and said goodbye to my single-serving friends. “Thanks for the cigarettes,” I told my friend from South Carolina as I took the packet of Camel Lights he bought me.

“No problem,” he said, never taking his eyes off of Jacks or Better video poker.

I lit up and began my prowl around the casino. As a lone hunter I had to pick my prey wisely. But this time, the prey found me.

I was on the second floor of the RIO, stumbling about when she found me. She had a punkish mohawk and was equally as drunk as I was. Maybe drunker.

We locked eyes and the inebriation served as a catalyst for horny telepathy. We wanted to get freaky.

“Hey! Where are you going?” She asked.

“I don’t know. Where are you going?” I replied.

“I don’t know. Where are you going?” She asked again.

…We have a winner. Fearing I was about to get stuck in an infinite loop I changed the subject.

“How about we go somewhere and talk?” I said. It was actually the same subject, I just said different words.

She agreed and we talked outside a club for a couple of minutes. In that time, I learned a lot about her. She was 29, was in Vegas with her cousins and was staying at the RIO.

“How about we go back to your room?” I asked.

She nodded and I began my walk of pride. Despite spending 14 hours a day in the RIO, I realized I had no idea where anything was. My geographic knowledge of the place consisted of: the Amazon room, the Pavilion room, a select number of toilets and the Poker Kitchen.

A security guard informed me that I needed to take an elevator by Mcfadden’s. His directions seemed easy enough and I found an elevator. We got in and I attacked her face with my mouth.

After a minute or so, I managed to pull back, breathe, and ask her what floor her room is on.

“5105,” she said.

I looked at the buttons and found that my options were limited to floors 1 and 2. I wondered if RIO elevators worked with addition, but I came to the conclusion that I was in the wrong elevator. I pressed the second floor to buy extra makeout time and experience a genuine RIO elevator ride. The latter did not occur. Aside from only serving two floors, the elevator didn’t even work. It was the shittiest elevator of all times. I hated it.

“Stupid piece of shit,” I said.

“What’s wrong?” She asked.

I didn’t respond and just went back to making out. The more this went on, the more nerve I got to just unleash my beast in the elevator. Although the prospect of getting caught only made it more exciting, I was worried that there were cameras in the elevator.

I didn’t want tell my boss that I can’t work anymore because I was 86’d from the RIO for fucking in an elevator. But then again, I could fuck in an elevator.

I started unbuttoning my pants and she finished the job. I pushed her head down a bit and she dropped to her knees. She was always one step ahead, I liked it.

“I have braces though,” she said.

I looked down. Yes she did. They were the white transparent kind, but braces nonetheless. I didn’t like it.

“That’s OK,” I lied. Then, very carefully, I inserted my penis into her face. The moments of pain were overridden by my final moment of intense pleasure.

I was afraid to look at my penis when it came out, but I did anyways. Damage had been done. I had a cut on the top of my hood and one on the bottom. Ouch.

Despite having just released semen and blood from my penis, I felt I still had another round in me.

“Still want to go back to your room?” I asked.

“Fuck yeah. It’s my turn,” she said.

We walked to the correct elevator this time and chatted on our way. I would learn more about her this conversation. Too much in fact.

For some reason, inserting a penis into a woman is like inserting a key into a vault of crazy. In this case, there was a lot of crazy.

“Did you know I had five kids?” She asked.

First of all, how the fuck would I have known that? Second of all, eww.

“Really? Five? I thought you said you were 29,” I said.

She nodded and I tried to do the math in my head. How old was she when she started having kids? How old are the kids? I tried to calculate it, but the only answer I could come up with in my drunken state was: loose vagina. Wait, but she said had not have…

“What do you mean had?” I asked.

“They all died”

…

What the fuck? She told me the story of how all her kids died in a car crash and she was left in a coma. She, her children and ex-husband were driving to their eldest son’s football game. The seven of them were crammed into a pickup truck and none of them were wearing seat belts. While this was a big mistake, it was their only one. They had the misfortune of being at the wrong place at a very wrong time.

They were crossing an intersection the very moment a carjacker ran a stop sign while fleeing the police. He crashed straight into their car, killing all her children, himself and two of his passengers.

I was speechless. I felt ashamed that I was complaining about working long hours earlier that day. At this point, I was ashamed of complaining about anything. If I added up everything bad that’s ever happened to me, it probably wouldn’t amount to half of her suffering.

I pictured the times I drove my niece to her soccer games. The thought of something similar happening horrified me. I don’t know if I’d be able to recover. Ever.

But here this woman was, in Las Vegas having a good time. I admired her. Despite everything she went through, she was still living.

She reminded me of how good I have it. She reminded me how quickly my fortune could change. Most importantly, she reminded me that I shouldn’t worry about the little things. Life is too short and filled with tragedy for us to get caught up in meaningless drama and bullshit. Brush it off and take advantage of every moment you have, because it can all end at the next intersection.

We reached her room and she invited me in. I don’t know if it was my new-found respect for her, her loose vagina, or the fact that I had just came, but I couldn’t fuck her anymore.

“I can’t. You should probably go to bed,” I said, and kissed her goodnight.

I was making my way back and had forgotten that everybody else was still working. I sat down and waited for my ride. I was drunk, exhausted and existential, I needed sleep. I had to wake up early the next day and hit the Vegas pool scene. I sat there watching my colleagues continue on their daily grind, oblivious to what had just happened to me. In between busy work, a colleague of mine came up to me.

“You reek of alcohol. What happened?” She asked.

“I’m not sure,” I replied.

And with that, I was ready for my early morning.