Grubby at PokerWorks

Did I actually just turn down a game of strip poker with four drunk girls?
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One day I’ll wake up and realize slot machines are just not fun anymore.

The day that happens I’ll be out of a job.

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I’m not looking forward to my Vegas trip this weekend.

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One amendment to Thursday: when I got home, out of sheer habit I launched two SnGs and then passed out before the second level. Somehow I sleepwalked to bed and when I awoke, I checked how I did: 5th and 4th. The Bubble. Man, I need to work on that. I used to play much better while asleep.

I still haven’t talked about Vegas yet, but would you rather read about my usual big slot loss (damn African Diamond with those big gorilla symbols) or read about running after drunk chicks vomiting in people’s yards?

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Thursday began as a precursor to the drunken blogger weekend that would descend onto Chicago 24 hours later.

Went out with coworkers to the Village Tap, where true to my heart, we ordered girlie shots.

Yeah, do I go to Lane Bryant to buy the brassiere that opens in the front or the back. If they’d been playing Kelly Clarkson, I’d have been all set.
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• Getting my (only) pocket aces cracked by Fuel, who runner runnered quad tens after going all-in pre-flop.
• Holding and petting a clay donkey intermittently throughout the tournament.
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“You suck less than me,” my friend said as he threw me two $20s.

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I was about to post this when I see Ken scooped me, but I thought I’d post anyway to reiterate how a giant casino corporation can do so many things wrong and still stay afloat.

And it’s all because we humans are weak and are victims to that dopamine released when gambling (that’s my personal excuse, anyway).

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Rubbing it in my face about my depleted Poker Stars account (yes, the same account I Moneygrammed $600 to for the $150 bonus), this security word popped up while I was trying to buy tickets to a play:

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