Fucking Stanley

“C’mon Stan­ley, show your hand! You bet, I called, you show.” There’s a big sigh.  A shrug.  Another sigh. A very long pause.  “C’mon is my straight good?” I ask impa­tiently.   Stan­ley gives yet another sigh and turns over the nuts.

He’s slow rolling again.

“Oh, that’s slowrolling?” He asks coyly.  “I’m sorry, Dude.”   Yeah, right. He knows he has my num­ber.  He’s just one of those guys that’s gets under my skin.

Why do I choose to spend my Mon­day nights with this guy?  The rest of the week I’m sur­rounded, mostly, by peo­ple that want my life to be bet­ter.  Not this guy.  He wants me guess­ing whether I’m com­ing or going.  He wants me on the verge of get­ting up and leav­ing the table.  Noth­ing would make him hap­pier than to hear “Fuck you , Stan­ley” and wait for the door to slam.

You know what?

I love it. I even love him.  He’s a liv­ing, breath­ing, slow rolling work­out for my patience and anger man­age­ment.  You know what else? I’m get­ting in bet­ter shape. What used to send me into a mur­der­ous rage now only barely irks me.  I know what’s com­ing and I roll with it.  I wish I could say I have a zen-like amuse­ment about it all,  but I don’t.

So here we are again.  Stan­ley bet. I called. I wait. He’s really Hol­ly­wood­ing. “I’m vul­ner­a­ble” He says.   “Just show it.” I say.  Reluc­tantly, he turns over a full house.  “I have the small one.”  He says with a smirk. “That’s good…”  I say.  Then I wait.  And pro­ceed “…because I have the big one. Oh, is that slowrolling?  My bad, dude.”

I play poker to say “Push those chips a lit­tle closer to me, bitch.”  Okay, so I still hold a lit­tle resentment.

Why do you play? Let me know at stories@whydoiplaypoker.net