A Bad Beat Story: Part II... A Guest Post from Daddy
Editor's Note: I'm at the gate in LaGuardia airport about to leave NYC for four days. I'm sitting next to a guy that smells sour milk and cat piss. With my luck he'll be sitting next to me on my flight into the heart of darkness. Anyway, I begged the suits at Fox Sports to send me on a non-poker assignment. Since I'm the low man on the totem pole, I get to visit Northern Kentucky to cover a competitive eating contest. If all goes well, I'll have enough material to start up my new competitive eating blog... the Tao of Fink. (I know Mean Gene got that obscure reference!)
I'll be back on Monday. For now, I'm handing over my blog to Daddy for a few days. He returns with the follow up to his classic guest post from January. If you don't know, Daddy erased his blog and I'm fortunate that his rare public apperances have been here on the Tao of Poker. You should reread Daddy's original guest post A Bad Beat Story.
A Bad Beat Story: Part II
"Hey man, what's up? I haven't talked to you since the day after New Year's. How are things?"
"Good. Certainly a lot better than the night you last saw me. I still have nightmares about that bitch, and I haven't had Mexican food in over four months."
"Yeah, man, that was a truly horrific beat. I've told tons of people about that, and they all laugh, but only because it didn't happen to them."
"Sure as shit it didn't happen to them. But that's not the point. I was calling for two reasons. First, to see if you are going to Eric's wedding, and second to talk 'friend to friend' about a problem I've been having."
"Yeah, I'll be at the wedding. I'm flying in Thursday, and flying back out Monday morning. You want to talk then?"
"No. I need someone to talk with now. It's poker. It's driving me insane."
"How much are you down?"
"It's not about being down. It's about poker controlling every single thing that I do. I have dreams about flops, turns, and rivers for crying out loud. It always ends badly too. Usually it's a two-outer, sometimes a miracle backdoor runner, but regardless it's always bad. I wake up every night in a cold sweat not knowing where I'm at or who I am. Candice thinks I need professional help, but I ain't gonna go see no shrink. Not for this."
"Jesus, dude. That's way fucked up. Maybe you should just take a break from the game for awhile or something."
"I can't. It's everywhere. If I'm sitting in traffic I'm playing license plate poker with every tag that I can see. Dollar bills, credit cards, raffle tickets, anything that has numbers represents a hand. I can't separate poker from my real life, and it's scaring the shit out of me."
"And you're not losing?"
"Of course I'm losing, but that's not the point. The point is that I think I'm losing my mind. These nightmares happen every night, and sometimes they don't involve actual poker hands that I'm playing, but have something else relating to poker. Last night for example, I had a dream that I was watching a World Championship of Poker where every country had a poker team kind of like the Olympics. I don't even know if this exists yet, but it was real vivid in my dream."
"Who won the gold?"
"That's the thing, bro. I didn't even see the final match but I do know that it was between Costa Rica and Vietnam. They started to announce the teams, and each guy came running out of a tunnel to loud music as their name was called. First it was Humberto Brenes, Alex Brenes, and Jose Rosenkrantz for Team Costa Rica. The crowd was going nuts and they were waving flags and singing Costa Rican fight songs. The announcer introduced Team Vietnam next and Men the Master, Scotty Nguyen, and Chau Gaing came out. But for some fucked up reason when it was time for Chau to come out of the tunnel a group of like twenty hairy fat guys came running out."
"Man, maybe you do need some help. Do you have any idea what that signifies? I'm horrible at interpreting someone else's dreams. I can't even translate my own."
"Oh, I know what it signifies. All of the big fat guys were wearing shirts that said CHOW GANG and they were running over everyone in their path and eating everything in sight. Next thing I know I'm transported to my house where I'm sitting on my porch reading Harrington Vol. II, and I hear this rumble coming from down the street."
"The Chow Gang?"
"Sure as shit. By this time there were probably fifty of them. They ran right into my house and I tried to stop them, but two of them threw me down and started in on me pretty good. I remember not being able to get up, but I could hear the carnage coming from inside my house."
"Christ, man, that's crazy."
"Yeah, that's not even the best of it. Finally, I'm somehow able to get up, but they have my door blocked off with three fat guys. I walk around my house and look in my kitchen window and my fridge is on its side, and it's completely empty. There's just boxes, jars and food scraps all over the floor. There were also two guys standing over my stove pouring every can of soup I had into a giant pot. They just kept chanting 'Chow Gang! Chow Gang! Chow Gang!'"
"That'd be a pretty sweet T-shirt to have now that you mention it. Of course it would only be funny to us."
"Dude, that's not the point. This isn't funny at all. Next thing I know I'm walking around my house and I climb up over my back fence and I see six of these guys standing around my fire pit. I snuck up to get a closer look, and there it was, my oldest cat, Frank, skinned and skewered roasting on a spit. Poor Frank, roasting like a Memorial Day hog surrounded by a bunch of fat guys chanting 'Chow Gang! Chow Gang!'"
"Aw fuck. I loved Frank."
"Yeah, me too. I loved it when he would lay on my chest and watch the World Poker Tour with me. Anyway, so, instead of jumping back over the fence and getting the hell out of there, I pulled out my cell phone and called information asking for PETA’s phone number."
"Yeah, like I said, these dreams have been getting crazier by the day."
"What did PETA say?"
"Well, I got this old lady on the phone and I tried to best describe what was happening at my house. She asked for specifics, and when I told her about Frank I could practically hear her fainting on the other end. That's when I finally asked her if she knew anything about this Chow Gang and if they've ever been reported before."
"What did the old lady say?"
"She said, and I quote, 'Chau Gaing? The poker player? Those fucking Cambodians will eat anything.'"
Daddy is a donkeyfucker from Hilljack, Indiana. You can buy an official Snail Trax shirt and merchandise by visiting the SnailTrax Store.