hold my chips

I don’t know if it was the chocolate beet cake, the two beers, sibling rivalry, or destiny, but I lost. Texas Hold ‘em: the name has good advice built right into it, wisdom for the ages which I could have used. One minute I’m play-acting “bad-hand-Luke” with a pocket full of aces, reeling in the chips from my buddies who think they smell bluster on the breeze. The next minute I’m locked in a bidding war with my mother’s son, dumpin’ discounted chips like Southwest vs. Value Jet.

At that hazy moment, on a full throttle of competative adrenalin, I went all in. I trusted my queen and jack, but they left me grounded. “Here come the guns,” my brother said, flipping over his pair of kings.

I found three consolations: 1) the third beer tastes really good when you’re not busy trying to play poker, 2) being the permanent dealer is kinda fun (”Joel…JOEL!!! It’s time for the flop.”) and 3) my little brother kicked the other two guys’ butts with my chips. And that’s really what it’s all about.