Chef Cele serving up b-sides like fucking mini-tacos over here. Antipasto from the family Costco. Cele is the high roller at the local $1/$2. Making pot-sized bets with 27o while I'm folding JJ like a boss. I told him to quit overbetting; I'm over here sweating while he's shredding more money than he's netting. Down $500 but them's pennies to him. 50 thousand to be precise. He's on the button—on his phone nuttin'—calls a big bluff and wakes up with the nuts. Checks AA and then checks out the dealer's DDs. She's got the implants but they still make his pants dance. Move it along you fucking hornballs. These 60-year-old nit limpers trying to get back home in time for the latest Castle re-run. Cele down to 100 bigs after he got outflopped by the James Harden of small-stakes. This guy's a fucking lunatic. Grey-bearded and black silk haired—sitting cross-legged in his chair; has a flair to three-bet with bottom pair. I'm the fuckin' Dr. Seuss of gritty-nitty table observations. "Get off your phone, Joseph," I appeal to my comrade. He's shit-posting on Twitter and giving away hand information—which I believe to be illegal? Look down at my hand: it's a monster. Big nuts with the works. Flop cums: Ace of Hearts (nice); Seven of Diamonds (brick city); Queen of Spades (very cute). Check my monster and, well, it grew a couple of inches. Old greybeard staring at his fucking shriveled nards and probably thinking he's got somethin'. He checks to me, and right next to me, Celest is weak but bets the next street. I know he thinks he's good here, but I gotta set the kid straight. Runout is clean as a whistle: fire my loaded cockgun into these cockgobbling pot-ogling doinks. Bada bing. 2 folds and a call. My AK has been emptied, and this fucking idiot's 47o has morphed into a bigger monster. River coddled his dumb-ass like an overprotective parent. Throw my chipstack at his (fake) sickpack; skip the chit-chat and git the fuck out 'n don't come back. Cele escorting me out in between motherfucking and lucky duckling accusatory slander. That's not slander ... just a bit of friendly banter. Expressed with a loving candor—hold the pander. F-bombs in glorious theatric aplomb. Good night; we are gone!
Aight where we heading next?
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