Legends of the Fall

We're still at the MGM on Friday night, though the sequence of events is hardly chronological. Think of it as Pulp Fiction-esque, minus the cursing and stilted dialogue.

I met the Card Squad that night. First up was my second-favorite Canuck (sorry Joanne, Luc Robitaille is still Number One) and, though I can't recall it with any clarity, I must have belted out a screeching chorus of Joooooo-AN-A-DA at some point.

Later, I took my drunk ass over to a certain 1/2 NL table and tapped a certain Wil Wheaton on the shoulder. I tarried but briefly, partly because I was a little self-conscious, partly because Paul Phillips was there and I didn't want him making fun of my flowery metrosexual shirt and partly because Wil was in a game and I was just standing there, semi-tongue-tied like a big Gork (half Geek/half-Dork). Regardless, he was as gracious and complimentary in person as he has been previously toward this foolish little corner of the Intarweb. I left, allowing him to continue crushing the table, though I did get a chance to talk to him in some greater length at other points of the trip. I think I made an impression. Or rather, I think my wife did.

I had met Derek in June, of course, but was pleased to spend a bit more time in his company this time around. There may have been laughing and his fetish for $500 chips was uncovered.

As mentioned, most of the evening, I was 'round the corner at the bar. I like that bar. It's where I first met most of the bloggers six months ago. They have Newcastle. The bartenders are quick with service and tolerant of the bloggers' desire to tilt most everyone. Some were serenaded, some were flattered, all were engaged at levels to which they are probably unaccostomed and performed admirably. Maybe because, tilt efforts aside, bloggers tip like motherfuckers.

At one point, I was standing there with Chad, across from--and facing--the bar. TrumpJosh, whom I'd met earlier and had filled me in on the meaning and origin of "Slainthe" (Gaelic for "cheers") was talking to Rini. When all of a sudden...

People falling is funny. America's Home videos has been on...what?...15 years. But on that show, you see the set up and you know what's coming. Uh oh. It's a pinata! Someones gonna catch one in the junk! In the case of Josh, there was no warning. One minute, he was there, his left elbow leaning on the bar. The next, his feet were above his head. When his legs went out from under him, he grabbed at the bar with his free hand, but missed, the attempt only serving to put him more off balance. With his other hand, he cradled his beer. His full pint of beer. Impressively, he managed to hold onto it, saving a shattered glass cleanup on Aisle 4. More impressively, he managed to throw 12 of the 16 ounces right into his own mug.

There's that beat after something like this happens. Uh, what's the protocol here? That was the funniest thing I've seen in my entire life, but...uh...maybe he's hurt. I stepped to give him a hand back up, getting there late, as his feet where already under him. He was embarassed, but provided insight anyway,

"I just fell and threw my beer in my own face."

Aaaaaaaaaaand...there it is. Chad and I doubled over immediately. There was no way to stop it. I'm aware this is quite possibly one of those "had to be there" moments. But let me try to illlustrate Just. How. Funny. it was.

The next morning, I found Chad and drizz in the IP casino. I took one look at the former and said, "Dude, the first thing I thought of this morning was Josh falling and I started laughing all over again." Not only did Chad confess to doing the exact same thing, but we then proceeded to laugh uncontrollably about it AGAIN. It would not be the last time either. So, for this trip, Otis was definitely off the hook.

************************

Well, now that I've confirmed what an insensitive jackass I am by telling tales on Josh, I'll tell one on myself, which, thus far, has only been heard by the dear and patient wife. You might even say it was a bit of karma.

That same night, Otis, Mike and I moseyed on over to play some craps. I was still riding high, Phil Gordon's money in my pocket, so I bought in for $200 at a $10 minimum table, higher than my usual stakes. It wasn't half bad to start, but the end came quickly. Like three immediate seven-outs in a row to decimate the chips we'd protected so fondly.

However, somewhere in the middle there, a guy rolled for a substantial amount of time. He wasn't paying off my numbers often enough to get me unstuck, but he wasn't crapping out, either. The problem was, I had to pee. Bad.

I may have the world's smallest bladder. Especially when drinking. Twenty minutes between pit stops. Tops. The longer this guy rolled, the closer I got to having a serious accident. I was moving around uncomfortably, trying to stem the flow. I manipulated myself. I leaned against the padded railing, trying to cut off all leakage. Still, the roll went on interminably.

When it ended, with me not substantially richer, I was off like a shot. And here's where I'd like to throw out a hearty "F U!" to the MGM and their architects for having the nearest bathroom sitting on the other side of 80 yards of slow-walking geriatrics. Jesus. This is one of the bigggest casinos around and they have like two rest rooms. The WSOP set up at the Rio was better than this.

Well, I got there. Barely. I thrust myself toward a urinal and unzipped, the presence of porcelein starting my process. But I couldn't find it. No, not that. I couldn't find the easy access hole in my Hanes boxer briefs. And the train had begun to sail, if you catch my drift.

I didn't panic, but I wasn't swift enough, either. By the time I sprung free, I'd say 3 ounces had already found their way into my underpants. It was funny. And humiliating. Knowing I'd have to take steps, I unbuckled my belt and pants button, which aided in a quick chicken walk to a stall once I'd managed to wrap up my business. Working hurriedly, I got my shoes and pants off and descarded my skivvies, not too much the worse for wear. My pants took only a small hit, which was covered by my untucked shirt. I needed to pat myself dry, but otherwise, I came out of it pretty well, though, probably the next afternoon, a poor MGM janitor found my soiled shorts stuffed in his toilet paper dispenser.

AND THAT, ladies and gentlemen, is how I ended up going commando at the MGM on Friday night.

Next up: Jousting with The Mark and Matt from Lima, Ohio