So Mob lost with 2xSL lock against RMP?
ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?!
Tongues on the mage. Drain mana on the mage. Neither happened. Mage powercasted nonstop without interruption. Druid ate more mana burns than Pwyff. Kill yourselves.
Sorry, Mob. You're either pro or a noob. That's life.
Saturday, December 8, 2007
Thursday, December 6, 2007
What's Good
Get Hot or Not'd Bitches.
HOT
HOT
- Blinding felhunters to get off shatter combos.
- Sap mage. Wind up shatter combo. Sap priest.
- Human rogues.
- Blinking out of charge. Yup, I said it.
- Five piece S3 with damage gems.
- Focusing priests again.
- ZA damage trinkets.
- Players opting for the battle staff over the MH/OH due to poor scaling between S2 and S3 OH. (Too bad you lose totem killing potential)
- Abusing /sit macros to proc crit talents.
- Rank 1 CoC -> Poly.
- 17/0/44 because of long CC chains and because silence is marginally improved by potential PS denies.
- 11/11/39 and 30/0/31 druids
- Clazzi's WE and AP/Frost lock dueling vids with Eye of Moam spam.
- Daydreaming about fire specs after 2.3.2.
- Evasioning to preempt Intervene->Disarm.
- BG Dailies.
- That girl from Hitman. (But not Hitman)
- Avatar Drama.
- Walljumping with the flag in WSG up and behind the base yelling that you won't drop it till everyone agrees that you're efmaous.
- Influx of sweet new hordeskis on BDF.
NOT
- Wanding totems when you can melee them with a 1h. Hello GCD.
- Stam gems.
- Detect magic change allowing priests to see exactly where fear wards are and whether they've been dispelled or reapplied.
- Spellsteal. (Okay, it never was)
- Lack of sweet alliance guilds on BDF selling BT gems.
- Fire still probably sucking after 2.3.2.
- Icy Veins.
- Shadowpriest survivability.
- The word spicy.
- Comparing Runic and Golden Spellthread and realizing 13dmg = 66 healing.
- Exploiting personal rating to get weapons/items even on very low rated teams. (suicide tanking rating on alts)
- 5s.
- Dahis re-disappearing.
- Fake casting to bait Felhunter CS. Scorch go.
- PTR 2.3.2 dueling competition.
- 2v2 Queue Times and Blizzard's decision to do nothing about it.
- Players rocking S1 gear to get that double +35 resilience.
- Needing 60 badges for that dumb cloak.
- eSport talk.
- Lack of info on WotLK.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Spotted
I think somebody really needs to do a TMZ for WoW. Screenshots or short videos humiliating popular players. Witty, flippant commentary. Some good nipple shots. I'd do it but Stormstrike is slightly too bumblefuck to be involved in the action. Alright, that's a lie. The truth is that I'd be so good at it that this site would become a black hole of awesome (no, not brown) such that it would in fact endanger all other web traffic, plus like life on Earth.
I actually just got out of a meeting with some scientists, who told me "In conjunction with global warming, the electromagnetic surges associated with the traffic your site will draw for being too fucking awesome will disrupt the space time continuum potentially opening a black hole or at least a tear in the space time fabric where all sorts of Terminators or immortal samurai will pop out." Al Gore was there and clearly deeply concerned. He was wearing a Dr. Evil suit and had a little mini-gore with a "Support Stem Cell Research" T-Shirt on. Big Gore talked with words I didn't understand, but little Gore spoke my language, "I like burning girls. With fire. They like that." Yes they do, little man, yes they do.
I'm not talking RP gossip, talking the real deal. Who's bad? Who's gay? Who just CS'd a treant? My paparazzi spies would be everywhere, watching, waiting, frapsing. Slip up in a duel against a hurtbag and you might be reading:
Spotted: Affix loses to a hunter in blues. Looks like this little gnome isn't always at the top of his game. Little bit of drama on that RMP 3s we all know and love getting into little A's head? Talk is discontent in the ranks. Better watch what you put in tells A, pics get around town. Is this the beginning of the end for QC's Vindicator Gladiator dreams or a fluke occurrence? Only time will tell, but this arena-er thinks this could be one rocky season. XOXO RADIKAL
I actually just got out of a meeting with some scientists, who told me "In conjunction with global warming, the electromagnetic surges associated with the traffic your site will draw for being too fucking awesome will disrupt the space time continuum potentially opening a black hole or at least a tear in the space time fabric where all sorts of Terminators or immortal samurai will pop out." Al Gore was there and clearly deeply concerned. He was wearing a Dr. Evil suit and had a little mini-gore with a "Support Stem Cell Research" T-Shirt on. Big Gore talked with words I didn't understand, but little Gore spoke my language, "I like burning girls. With fire. They like that." Yes they do, little man, yes they do.
I'm not talking RP gossip, talking the real deal. Who's bad? Who's gay? Who just CS'd a treant? My paparazzi spies would be everywhere, watching, waiting, frapsing. Slip up in a duel against a hurtbag and you might be reading:
Spotted: Affix loses to a hunter in blues. Looks like this little gnome isn't always at the top of his game. Little bit of drama on that RMP 3s we all know and love getting into little A's head? Talk is discontent in the ranks. Better watch what you put in tells A, pics get around town. Is this the beginning of the end for QC's Vindicator Gladiator dreams or a fluke occurrence? Only time will tell, but this arena-er thinks this could be one rocky season. XOXO RADIKAL
Sunday, December 2, 2007
More Poker Noir
It's Vegas this time. Bellagio poker room. Your usual haunt. No celebrities, well, no real celebrities. Amusing how ESPN turned a few cardplayers with personality disorders into household names. Whatever, you're a not a pro and while the money is attractive, this life isn't you. This is a fucking game and not your life. Saying it again into the bathroom mirror doesn't fucking help either. Besides, you're not even that good.
Yet you're here every other weekend now. You're on the tables 22 out of the 30 hours you're here for the weekend. Fifteen-thirty. Always fifteen-thirty now. Four-eight is soft and good money, but it's picking off tourists. You graduated into eight-sixteen after about a year of raping and pillaging four-eight for 250 bets a weekend. Eight-sixteen is a snake pit. Lots of fobs and wanna-be rounders scum. No thanks. Fifteen-thirty is softer. You know to always avoid the second from bottom limit games. Those games are for those who like grinding away for hours to make less than you'd take at minimum stakes. It's cool. Those guys feel good that they aren't playing the lowest game.
It's not big money. It's a few grand most the time. You spend it on expensive suites, fru-fru tasting menus, drinks at Tao or Ghost Bar, and girls at Rhino. Things you can't take with you. Things hard for the IRS to trace -- you picture yourself getting dragged away like Charlie Sheen at the end of Wall Street -- for winning cards in Vegas? What a fucking joke. Besides Daryl Hannah wasn't even hot, or maybe it was just an 80s hair thing -- how did people ever fuck when they looked like that? Blue Horshoe likes 'em a little more tan, slim, and less permed.
The Bellagio is still the Bellagio. As lame it is, Ocean's did it justice. It is fucking marvelous. You're embarrassed by your inability to hold back a big dumb grin every time you come out from the shops into the actual casino. The air is cool, hyper-oxygenated; it keeps you feeling perpetually awake and slightly more confident than you ever would in the real world. Not that what surrounds the casinos is the real world. The phonies and scenester wanna-be socialite bitches are a whole 'nother story though...
Back to the cards. Pocket 10s under the gun. You slide three pieces of crushed paper across the felt. You hear yourself, "Raise it up." You've got two of your friends on the left -- they get out of the way, quickly.
Creepy asian geezer with lipstick calls. Looks like the guy was some sort of Thai transvestite hooker 100 years ago. The Thai love a little dicks with their chicks. No, that's not racist. You think, I like a little dicks with my chicks too, mine. Either way he plays like his piece was removed during his dress up days. Top twenty hands exclusively, but he's running hot. He's fashioned the few thousand he's run up into giant phallic stacks with no distinction in denominations. Not overcompensation, compensation.
A champion fat white college kid folds out. He's wearing two Burberry polos, one blue, one green, with both collars popped to the sky. He's got an obnoxious white Emory viser and crunchy citrus dyed blond hair. Sloppy fat. Hideous Tag on his wrist. Clearly all swag poker paid for and he's anxious to represent. He's hemorrhaged 1200 to the table in the three hours you've sat. He plays about as tight as the thai she-male.
New guy folds. Wow, lots of chips.
Turtle calls. Okay, he isn't Turtle but he could be. Pink, yes, pink yankees cap. Said it was his girl's. Otherwise, chubby white Italian in slightly thugged out clothing. Loud, funny, reckless. Live straddles every hand. That's a blind rereaise preflop that synthetically moves the button to the left one position. It makes it so you don't have to act first preflop, but is generally a retarded thing to do...unless it really pisses off the guy next to you -- which it was doing, hence the new guy. Turtle plays about any two cards the same color but is clearly stronger than he lets on. Keeps himself out of trouble. Takes down a lot of hands and, until you guys showed up, clearly dominated the scrubs on this table. Either way, him being in the hand means you actually have to play. Fuck. Since when does he ever call.
Geezer calls. This guy is all the negative loser card player stereotypes. Stained Chicago Bears sweatshirt. Track pants. Calls the waitresses "honey" and tips likes a well, rhymes with new. Messy. Dirty. This one's a real snake though. Tight like any other player over 35, but actually makes moves in hands. Check-raised you a few hands back on the nut straight when you flopped top two pair. Gutteral voice, terse, mean. Guy would look about as at home if you saw him sleeping on some cardboard on the streets downtown. He's been cashing out racks of chips all night so it's pretty impossible to know exactly how well he's been doing -- his cards have been frigid the past two hours, but who knows with this guy.
The small blind, an Armani-Exchange clad, emo, Mike-Tyson lisp speaking, gay fob folds. This one actually talks. Talks trash too. Loses money too. Calling station who loves to pay for "table killer" flushes and straights even when he severely lacks the pot odds. But what about the implied odds? Kill yourself.
Big blind, who is more soccer-dad than cardplayer calls it up.
"Five players." Ugh, fat dealer. One of those who constantly tell you to push your chips in because their own fatness prohibits their reaching across the table. Ten minutes till dealer switch, thank god. "Push in your chips"
"Sorry." Bitch.
9D-9H-AH.
Cool. You know you should check. You continuation bet anyways. A continuation bet is raising on the flop after raising preflop. It's like saying, "Yeah my hand is still good." It's often a bluff and players generally read it that way, but it is one of those things that is hard to mathematically value. It's powerful even though it is logically often a negative expectation play. If your hand sucks, has no drawing potential, and you think you aren't likely to take the pot with bluffing later, putting more money into the pot is retarded. Sometimes, however, it pays to just be in hands against weaker players. Good things can happen for you and bad players often pay up the most when they do. Still, your two black 10s suck.
The she-male folds. This matters a lot. "Guy" like him called preflop from pretty early position. "Guy" like him doesn't bother participating without at least a good spec hand. Ace-X suited maybe. Could maybe have been suited connectors but he probably wouldn't call a raise from early position with that sort of hand. K-Q suited maybe? Mid pair? You're a mid pair. Jacks or higher would have been a raise. Eights or lower probably a fold from that position from this guy. This guy should have fucking had an ace.
"Afraid I've got to." Turtle reraises of course. He is still going on and on with this story about this young girl in Columbia to the fat kid two seats over. New guy seems entertained but is quiet. The chump white kid is clearly sketched out hardcore, but it's all part of the game. Turtle could have the ace with a real kicker, or maybe a 9. No real information yet. He could just think you're BS, be bluffing the 9 and figure he can squeeze out the real aces and take you out later. You did bluff the ace. Well, sort of.
Dirty geezer calls without saying anything, as per usual. Obviously, ace with a real kicker. A-Q or A-K. Not a great situation to be in even if you're rocking the ace with a solid kicker. Four players left, one of which is the big blind -- someone could really have a 9. Or some fucking hearts.
Soccer dad checks his cards. One of those, "Was that a heart?", checks. Quickly calls.
You should fold. You should, "Call's good." Fuck. That was a retarded call. It's pretty late. You see the one cute waitress with a tray of Red Bull heading to the Stud tables. She's got a little Celtic pattern sort of tattoo behind her ear on her neck. From this distance it looks like a butterfly. Diet Red Bulls on the tray. Nice. Fuck the Taj. You try to make eye contact with her--
"Sir, push in your chips, please."
"Oh, sorry." Wow.
10H.
Money in the bank. Shorty what you drank. That's a money card. Soccer dad could have the flush, but you just housed him. Hidden house. Nasty. At this point, not betting would be giving out more information than betting.
"Raise it up." You think back on this one time in Junior High where you were all forced to learn to slow dance and you got stuck with this fat girl with atrocious Doritos breath. You could practically hear that bag opening vacuum seal breaking sound every time this girl spoke. Karma bitches.
Turtle grins. "That's a nice bet, but make it 60." Guess he had the 9 after all...
"Player raises. Sixty to call." Fatty.
Geezer is going to fold. He instead raises.
"Player raises. Ninety to call."
Soccer dad raises. What just happened here?
"Player raises. One twenty to call."
Now, everyone has some fucked up war stories on the tables. You play enough hands you see weird shit. But this hand makes zero sense. Your bet could have been still the ace. Turtle's raise could be the nine. The Geezer you put on A-Q or A-K, but he is clearly stronger to reraise to three bets. Oh, it's the waitress.
"Can I get a Diet Red Bull?" She's definitely cute. Mid twenties. Almost model tall. Olive skin, dark hair, great body. Ugh, it is a fucking butterfly. She looks like a surfer. You know what they say...
"Sure. Drinks for anyone else?" My friends are arguing about the voiceover in Blade Runner. Fucking dorks. What is she doing working this job anyways? She's too peppy, too cute, too young. Sad as it is to play cards all weekend every weekend, the service side of casino life is worse. Guess the tips aren't bad. You wonder how many douchebag guys hit on her every night. Then again, what's one more.
The only other hands that geezer could have are: A-A, 9-9, A-9, some 8-9 or 9-10 suited crap, or the hearts. Hard to picture him playing suited connectors for two bets. Maybe soccer dad has the hearts, and both the Geezer and Turtle have a piece of the 9s. You're good to call this unless you can place someone on A-A or 9-9 with a decent probability. The other problem with calling is that it's inconsistent with how you've represented your hand. You've also been slow played to fuck by these guys all hand.
"I guess I'll call." The table has come alive with everyone now focused intently on this hand.
Turtle and Geezer quickly call it up to the max of four bets. Fifth street incoming.
10D.
Well, the hand certainly grew simpler. "Well, I'll raise again."
"Player raises. Thirty to call."
Now what, Turtle. A piece of the nines doesn't mean shit now. He raises. Geezer folds. Soccer dad raises. You want to kiss that Dorito breathed girl on the mouth. Still, it makes no sense. Geezer was clearly the hearts which are now garbage. The only way this hand makes any sense is that one player has the 9s and one has the aces. You raise, everyone calls, showdown.
"Sorry, but can you push in your chips, sir?"
"It's okay -- they're mine."
You show the 10s.
"Runner runner bomb, are you kidding?" Turtle mucks his hand.
"Nice hand." Soccer dad mucks.
"Oh come on, who had which?"
Turtle says he'll tell you for 50 bucks. Fuck him. He had the nines. You collect your chips as slowly as possible and revel in the jealous stares. "I'll post the blind, but deal me out. I'll be right back."
"You going to the gelato place? Get me a--"
"Nah, just the gift shop. I'm feeling a bag of chips." Course you didn't actually buy the Doritos, but you went and looked at them. Looked real hard before going across to the gelato place instead. She probably liked ice cream too.
Yet you're here every other weekend now. You're on the tables 22 out of the 30 hours you're here for the weekend. Fifteen-thirty. Always fifteen-thirty now. Four-eight is soft and good money, but it's picking off tourists. You graduated into eight-sixteen after about a year of raping and pillaging four-eight for 250 bets a weekend. Eight-sixteen is a snake pit. Lots of fobs and wanna-be rounders scum. No thanks. Fifteen-thirty is softer. You know to always avoid the second from bottom limit games. Those games are for those who like grinding away for hours to make less than you'd take at minimum stakes. It's cool. Those guys feel good that they aren't playing the lowest game.
It's not big money. It's a few grand most the time. You spend it on expensive suites, fru-fru tasting menus, drinks at Tao or Ghost Bar, and girls at Rhino. Things you can't take with you. Things hard for the IRS to trace -- you picture yourself getting dragged away like Charlie Sheen at the end of Wall Street -- for winning cards in Vegas? What a fucking joke. Besides Daryl Hannah wasn't even hot, or maybe it was just an 80s hair thing -- how did people ever fuck when they looked like that? Blue Horshoe likes 'em a little more tan, slim, and less permed.
The Bellagio is still the Bellagio. As lame it is, Ocean's did it justice. It is fucking marvelous. You're embarrassed by your inability to hold back a big dumb grin every time you come out from the shops into the actual casino. The air is cool, hyper-oxygenated; it keeps you feeling perpetually awake and slightly more confident than you ever would in the real world. Not that what surrounds the casinos is the real world. The phonies and scenester wanna-be socialite bitches are a whole 'nother story though...
Back to the cards. Pocket 10s under the gun. You slide three pieces of crushed paper across the felt. You hear yourself, "Raise it up." You've got two of your friends on the left -- they get out of the way, quickly.
Creepy asian geezer with lipstick calls. Looks like the guy was some sort of Thai transvestite hooker 100 years ago. The Thai love a little dicks with their chicks. No, that's not racist. You think, I like a little dicks with my chicks too, mine. Either way he plays like his piece was removed during his dress up days. Top twenty hands exclusively, but he's running hot. He's fashioned the few thousand he's run up into giant phallic stacks with no distinction in denominations. Not overcompensation, compensation.
A champion fat white college kid folds out. He's wearing two Burberry polos, one blue, one green, with both collars popped to the sky. He's got an obnoxious white Emory viser and crunchy citrus dyed blond hair. Sloppy fat. Hideous Tag on his wrist. Clearly all swag poker paid for and he's anxious to represent. He's hemorrhaged 1200 to the table in the three hours you've sat. He plays about as tight as the thai she-male.
New guy folds. Wow, lots of chips.
Turtle calls. Okay, he isn't Turtle but he could be. Pink, yes, pink yankees cap. Said it was his girl's. Otherwise, chubby white Italian in slightly thugged out clothing. Loud, funny, reckless. Live straddles every hand. That's a blind rereaise preflop that synthetically moves the button to the left one position. It makes it so you don't have to act first preflop, but is generally a retarded thing to do...unless it really pisses off the guy next to you -- which it was doing, hence the new guy. Turtle plays about any two cards the same color but is clearly stronger than he lets on. Keeps himself out of trouble. Takes down a lot of hands and, until you guys showed up, clearly dominated the scrubs on this table. Either way, him being in the hand means you actually have to play. Fuck. Since when does he ever call.
Geezer calls. This guy is all the negative loser card player stereotypes. Stained Chicago Bears sweatshirt. Track pants. Calls the waitresses "honey" and tips likes a well, rhymes with new. Messy. Dirty. This one's a real snake though. Tight like any other player over 35, but actually makes moves in hands. Check-raised you a few hands back on the nut straight when you flopped top two pair. Gutteral voice, terse, mean. Guy would look about as at home if you saw him sleeping on some cardboard on the streets downtown. He's been cashing out racks of chips all night so it's pretty impossible to know exactly how well he's been doing -- his cards have been frigid the past two hours, but who knows with this guy.
The small blind, an Armani-Exchange clad, emo, Mike-Tyson lisp speaking, gay fob folds. This one actually talks. Talks trash too. Loses money too. Calling station who loves to pay for "table killer" flushes and straights even when he severely lacks the pot odds. But what about the implied odds? Kill yourself.
Big blind, who is more soccer-dad than cardplayer calls it up.
"Five players." Ugh, fat dealer. One of those who constantly tell you to push your chips in because their own fatness prohibits their reaching across the table. Ten minutes till dealer switch, thank god. "Push in your chips"
"Sorry." Bitch.
9D-9H-AH.
Cool. You know you should check. You continuation bet anyways. A continuation bet is raising on the flop after raising preflop. It's like saying, "Yeah my hand is still good." It's often a bluff and players generally read it that way, but it is one of those things that is hard to mathematically value. It's powerful even though it is logically often a negative expectation play. If your hand sucks, has no drawing potential, and you think you aren't likely to take the pot with bluffing later, putting more money into the pot is retarded. Sometimes, however, it pays to just be in hands against weaker players. Good things can happen for you and bad players often pay up the most when they do. Still, your two black 10s suck.
The she-male folds. This matters a lot. "Guy" like him called preflop from pretty early position. "Guy" like him doesn't bother participating without at least a good spec hand. Ace-X suited maybe. Could maybe have been suited connectors but he probably wouldn't call a raise from early position with that sort of hand. K-Q suited maybe? Mid pair? You're a mid pair. Jacks or higher would have been a raise. Eights or lower probably a fold from that position from this guy. This guy should have fucking had an ace.
"Afraid I've got to." Turtle reraises of course. He is still going on and on with this story about this young girl in Columbia to the fat kid two seats over. New guy seems entertained but is quiet. The chump white kid is clearly sketched out hardcore, but it's all part of the game. Turtle could have the ace with a real kicker, or maybe a 9. No real information yet. He could just think you're BS, be bluffing the 9 and figure he can squeeze out the real aces and take you out later. You did bluff the ace. Well, sort of.
Dirty geezer calls without saying anything, as per usual. Obviously, ace with a real kicker. A-Q or A-K. Not a great situation to be in even if you're rocking the ace with a solid kicker. Four players left, one of which is the big blind -- someone could really have a 9. Or some fucking hearts.
Soccer dad checks his cards. One of those, "Was that a heart?", checks. Quickly calls.
You should fold. You should, "Call's good." Fuck. That was a retarded call. It's pretty late. You see the one cute waitress with a tray of Red Bull heading to the Stud tables. She's got a little Celtic pattern sort of tattoo behind her ear on her neck. From this distance it looks like a butterfly. Diet Red Bulls on the tray. Nice. Fuck the Taj. You try to make eye contact with her--
"Sir, push in your chips, please."
"Oh, sorry." Wow.
10H.
Money in the bank. Shorty what you drank. That's a money card. Soccer dad could have the flush, but you just housed him. Hidden house. Nasty. At this point, not betting would be giving out more information than betting.
"Raise it up." You think back on this one time in Junior High where you were all forced to learn to slow dance and you got stuck with this fat girl with atrocious Doritos breath. You could practically hear that bag opening vacuum seal breaking sound every time this girl spoke. Karma bitches.
Turtle grins. "That's a nice bet, but make it 60." Guess he had the 9 after all...
"Player raises. Sixty to call." Fatty.
Geezer is going to fold. He instead raises.
"Player raises. Ninety to call."
Soccer dad raises. What just happened here?
"Player raises. One twenty to call."
Now, everyone has some fucked up war stories on the tables. You play enough hands you see weird shit. But this hand makes zero sense. Your bet could have been still the ace. Turtle's raise could be the nine. The Geezer you put on A-Q or A-K, but he is clearly stronger to reraise to three bets. Oh, it's the waitress.
"Can I get a Diet Red Bull?" She's definitely cute. Mid twenties. Almost model tall. Olive skin, dark hair, great body. Ugh, it is a fucking butterfly. She looks like a surfer. You know what they say...
"Sure. Drinks for anyone else?" My friends are arguing about the voiceover in Blade Runner. Fucking dorks. What is she doing working this job anyways? She's too peppy, too cute, too young. Sad as it is to play cards all weekend every weekend, the service side of casino life is worse. Guess the tips aren't bad. You wonder how many douchebag guys hit on her every night. Then again, what's one more.
The only other hands that geezer could have are: A-A, 9-9, A-9, some 8-9 or 9-10 suited crap, or the hearts. Hard to picture him playing suited connectors for two bets. Maybe soccer dad has the hearts, and both the Geezer and Turtle have a piece of the 9s. You're good to call this unless you can place someone on A-A or 9-9 with a decent probability. The other problem with calling is that it's inconsistent with how you've represented your hand. You've also been slow played to fuck by these guys all hand.
"I guess I'll call." The table has come alive with everyone now focused intently on this hand.
Turtle and Geezer quickly call it up to the max of four bets. Fifth street incoming.
10D.
Well, the hand certainly grew simpler. "Well, I'll raise again."
"Player raises. Thirty to call."
Now what, Turtle. A piece of the nines doesn't mean shit now. He raises. Geezer folds. Soccer dad raises. You want to kiss that Dorito breathed girl on the mouth. Still, it makes no sense. Geezer was clearly the hearts which are now garbage. The only way this hand makes any sense is that one player has the 9s and one has the aces. You raise, everyone calls, showdown.
"Sorry, but can you push in your chips, sir?"
"It's okay -- they're mine."
You show the 10s.
"Runner runner bomb, are you kidding?" Turtle mucks his hand.
"Nice hand." Soccer dad mucks.
"Oh come on, who had which?"
Turtle says he'll tell you for 50 bucks. Fuck him. He had the nines. You collect your chips as slowly as possible and revel in the jealous stares. "I'll post the blind, but deal me out. I'll be right back."
"You going to the gelato place? Get me a--"
"Nah, just the gift shop. I'm feeling a bag of chips." Course you didn't actually buy the Doritos, but you went and looked at them. Looked real hard before going across to the gelato place instead. She probably liked ice cream too.
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