Why Do I Play Poker?

It’s time to pay up, just like KGB said in Rounders so many years ago. Eric Schwartz is the win­ner of one hun­dred Amer­i­can dol­lars for his sub­mis­sion to why­doiplay­poker. Thanks to every­body who sub­mit­ted.  We learned a lot.  Mostly, that peo­ple don’t want to sub­mit their sto­ries.  This is why Eric Schwartz will be the first and last recip­i­ent of our monthly give­away.  Feel free to con­tinue to sub­mit,  were just not pay­ing anymore.

But we do want to share Eric’s sub­mis­sion.   So here goes…

Why do I play poker?

Two Words.

Mel Fuck­ing Gibson.

Mel Fuck­ing pater­nal holocaust-denying (fine, Mis­ter Chris­t­ian.  I’m a cru­ci­fix­ion denier.  Who’s got the pho­to­graphic evi­dence?) Gibson.

Mad Douchebag Max, no mat­ter how bat­shit insane, no mat­ter how much the ass­hole no mat­ter many whiskeys beyond Thun­der­dome he rides, will always get the bet­ter table at Spago or what­ev­er­the­fuck ” in” place there is now, which I wouldn’t know about because I’m not Mel Shrimp­ing the Mal­ibu Bar­bie Gibcuntson.

Because in life,  money, power, they play.  They play always.  Guar­an­teed if Mother Theresa and Mel Gibfelch wanted front and cen­ter at the Bon Jovi reunion, the wrin­kled nun would be hang­ing with the lep­ers in coach.  By lep­ers, I mean me, except I fuck­ing hate Bon Jovi, prob­a­bly because he’d get the seats right next to Mel Gibanalslurp.

But sit Mel Dow­nun­dereater next to me at Hol­ly­wood Park and we have a dif­fer­ent sit­u­a­tion.  At the table, we are equal.  For at the table, money?  Power? Irrel­e­vant.  What mat­ters is the cards.  And cards change every hand.  That means for­tune changes every hand.  I’m a song­writer.  I wait for inspi­ra­tion.  I hope for tal­ent.  I pray for flashes of bril­liance, for the per­fect song.  These things might never come.  But you wait long enough, you sit long enough, you are patient enough and have a big enough bankroll to sur­vive the doubts, droughts and suck-outs, you WILL find your­self look­ing at the cor­ners of two cards, bent upwards under­neath your unwashed thumb, with As on them.  And when you do, and when Mis­ter Cock­odile Dundee whips out his uncir­cum­cised, latex-ignorant kan­gadong and throws it on the table, you can chop that moth­er­fucker off and smile all the way up the Â 405.

And that is why I play poker.

Thanks Eric!   See you at the tables!

Stay tuned for our about­face at whydoipoker.net!

Wow that was a shit­load of excla­ma­tion points!