I sat there, vision blurred, not by tears, but by a feeling of shock. My amazement at the excellent play of my opponent paled in comparison to the numbness seeping through my extremities as I watched my hard-earned chips slide across the virtual felt. I couldn’t feel my hands, I was a little queasy, all those feelings you get right after a Clydesdale steps on your exposed testicles. Don’t ask me how I know this.
It wasn’t even a bad beat, that was the worst part of it. I was behind at every. single. point. JJ v TT is never a good match, but when a pair of Jacks came on the flop, I never in a million years expected quads. With the cold-call of my preflop raise, I did expect AJ or something that I was losing to, but since the guy we put the squeeze play on was all in, we checked the flop and turn. Then my miracle card, my third 10 came on the river, giving me a boat the likes of none since QEII set sail on her maiden voyage. Tens full of Jacks, the absolute Love Boat.
Fucking Titanic is more like it. Variance bent me over like a queer cowboy tonight, and she rode me like a two-dollar mule. Yes I know I’m mixing metaphors, bugger off. So now my junk hurts so bad I have to blog standing up, and I don’t even have a REAL bad beat story to tell. That’s the worst part of it, being behind all along and knowing that the mother absolutely played you. I’d rather have a donkey catch runner-runner to a 6-high straight than just get outplayed.
Oh well, I ain’t broke, and there’s more pokah tomorrow.