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All right, jerks. Here's another blog.

Poker has not been good the past month. (If your income is < 0, is it called outcome?) What's worse is that I can't even leave the casino in peace after getting curb-stomped.
There's a portly middle-aged fellow who is a regular player at Riverwind, goes by Blade because he sells knives for a living. His picture is currently atop this blog because I hate myself. Blade is kind, well-meaning, and an absolute pain to play with. He is constantly trying to change seats or decks of cards because he is extremely superstitious. On top of that, he takes forever on every decision and goes to great lengths to avoid putting any money in a pot without the absolute best possible hand.
Blade was not at my table on Tuesday, but he walked past and said hi to me and a few of the other regulars. "Matt, you're too tough for these guys." Evidently, I wasn't too tough for them since they were beating the crap out of me. After I dusted off the rest of my stack, I walked right past the cash-out cage toward the door. "Matt!" Blade hollered as I neared the exit, "Tell 'em where you got it."

You have to know Blade to fully appreciate that story, but I don't even know the name of the fellow who decided to make fun of me on Friday. Again, I wasted eight hours of my life trying to win a single pot of poker, and when that failed I simply wanted to walk to my car, drive to Whataburger and order up the 5,000-calorie pity party.
This time, as I again waltzed past the cash-out cage toward the door, a guy sitting in the waiting area yelled at me. "Bro, it ain't gonna rain in here." I had played with this drooler a couple of times in my life but I don't know his name or why he was talking to me. I gave him a puzzled look.
"Your pants, man. It ain't gonna rain in here, you don't need the high waters. Try some jeans next time bro." Then he bursts out laughing.
I was wearing sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I looked down to see that yes, in fact, my pants were a little short. This was likely a combination of the fact that I had gained 15 pounds over Thanksgiving and that I buy generic sweatpants from Target that aren't really made for tall people. Also, I don't go to the casino trying to impress idiots like the guy who was at that moment laughing in my face.
He clarified that he was "just f***ing with you, bro." I nodded, fake-smiled and decided I deserved an apple pie with my Triple Whataburger.

I got another blog coming soon, a couple of poker-etiquette stories about a character named Captain. Was going to put it all in this one but those three orders of Whataburger fries made me tired.