My hands are poised above home row, but the keys aren't being pushed. My brain says "Mash, Monkey, Mash!", but my fingers don't listen.
This is normal for me after one of these trips to Vegas, usually because I've ingested enough alcohol to move myself one step closer to being clinically brain dead, and words are tough to form, let alone type. This time, however, I "took it easy", and my flight back to Minneapolis--which in the past have been as close to Hell as I believe there to be--was almost, dare I say, pleasant. Almost.
Had I not been plagued by the almost- falling- asleep- but- jerked- awake- with- an- embarrassing- head-bob monster (he's tight with his cousin, Boogie), I might've even been able to sleep. But he was lurking and I looked like an idiot yet again. I won't begin to talk about talk about drooling down the entire right side of my face and hoping that the attractive girl next to me wasn't staring. I was afraid to look in her direction for fear that my nervous smile would be met with a look nothing short of abject horror and genuine repulsion.
What can I say? I know how to wow the womens, especially those that have nowhere to run.
My girlfriend picked me up at the airport on Sunday, expecting stories, and both of us were a little disappointed in my retelling of said stories. I had an incredible time--and always do--but the times enjoyed are usually of the had-to-have-been-there variety. They're tough to put into words, that's for sure.
My only regret is that I fucked up on booking the flight, without realizing that I'd be leaving in the middle of the World Cup final. Quite dumb of me, I must say. I should've stayed another day, but the very short weekend was on the refreshing side rather than flat-out exhausting, so that's a plus. And after seeing some of my friends get casino-ly raped, repeatedly, it's better that I got out of Vegas with sphincter still in working order, and I can never complain about that.
I have many things to write about that require extra time, so that I can carefully choose the write words. Right words, whatever. With that being the case, I might as well start with what is easiest for me to write about; my WPBT Summer Classic II tournament experience.
I suck at tournaments.
What do you mean that's not enough? Fuck you people, it's my story.
Ok, you asked for it.
--image ganked from eventual champion, F-Train, AKA "The Jerk on my Left".
Oh how retarded I look. I look like I'd be more comfortable in a pair of Zubaz and a muscle tee exposing my backne, than a stylish Ben Sherman shirt and Calvin Klein ass-enhancing thong. Um, forget that I mentioned the last article of clothing. I never think about that people can't see it.
Anyhow, I don't normally wear sunglasses at the table because, for me, I don't think they help much. Though I've never recorded myself playing poker, I'm sure I have a plethora of undecipherable tics, and tics that cancel out tics. And if anyone is able to decipher them, well, they deserve to get all my chips, my girl and my respect. The sunglasses aren't going to save me.
In my defense, I was tired, the room was bright and I'd gotten laid the night before.
And Corey Haim is my little brother.
No, really, I was just tired and my eyes hurt. That's all. You can stop laughing anytime, thanks.
Everybody started the tournament with 4000 chips, the blinds began at 25/50, with 40 minute levels. A fairly good structure. Looking back, I should've Hellmuthed it up and arrived late, because I didn't play one hand out of the blinds for the entire 1st level. Not one. And you thought a virgin midget was tight.
No, I don't know what it means either. Just nod and smile, my friends, nod and smile.
I picked up AKo twice in the 2nd level, the first time winning the blinds and then a very small pot the second. That was painful. Everybody on my end of the table kept saying how tight I was playing, so I guess it's no surprise that they folded immediately when I raised. That was part of my plan, though, so I could steal when I needed to later in the tournament.
I changed my style not long thereafter, raising with 9-10s on the button when it was folded around to me. Only F-Train called making the remark of "My defending range here is huge", and yes, it made me wary. The flop came with two 6's and a blank, and we both checked, which was a stupid move by me. When the turn came a jack, he bet and I thought a bit before folding. He flashed a jack. I'm not sure what his other card was, though, and it really wasn't important. The outcome is still the same; I'm a pussy.
The very next hand, I'm dealt A4s one off the button, so when it was folded around to me, I raised again to 400. Human Head called in the big blind. Looking back, he actually put out a 1k chip but didn't announce raise, so the dealer had to count it as a call. Warning bells, sirens, and noisemakers all went off inside my head. Simultaneously. And at the same time. Raising the new person's blind was mistake #1.
Head was moved to the table just a few hands before this, and this is where my lack of sleep the previous night came into play. I had a brain fart, for sure. I didn't even think that about him not knowing that I hadn't played a hand the entire first 40 minutes. That I'd been playing so tight that the coal I'd shoved up my ass the previous night was now a diamond. Or at least diamondique.
The flop came out Q-high with two spades, and he immediately bet out for 1500. What could he possibly have that he'd want to reraise with there from the big blind and then open up with that much on the flop? A set? A lower flush draw with a pair? An overpair?
Instead of thinking about it and assigning him a real hand, I just put him on AK, no pair, and pushed for about 1300 more. That's a joke, people. The part about putting him on AK, not the pushing part.
It's no joke, however, that I didn't even think about stack sizes and the size of the pot before pushing. Mistakes #2 and #3. It was an easy call for him(about 3-1) with top pair and enough of a chipstack behind that he wouldn't be crippled.
I was happy when he turned over QJo, but none of my 12 outs, twice, hit, and I was out really, really early. I was trying to get lucky and double up before the break, but it didn't work out. If I would've folded right there, I still had plenty of chips to not be the smallest stack left, but I didn't want to play fold, fold, fold, push, double-up, repeat, poker for the rest of the afternoon, as I'm apt to do.
That's it; my tournament report in the span of 4 played hands. Pathetic.
The worst part about busting out was that I only got one beer out of the deal, so I was more disappointed that I didn't drink my tournament fee in booze than I was with playing like a retard. It wasn't until later in the afternoon that my frown turned upside down after the waitress asked me if want something to drink while I was watching Bob play.
Talk about the exact opposite of a bad beat.