Hey Checkola! Buckle up for the crappiest poker story you’ll ever hear—literally.
So, picture this: I’m the quintessential cowboy. Hat tipped low, boots with spurs, a denim jacket that’s seen more sunrises than most people have seen reruns of Friends. And this cowboy (yours truly) decided to mosey his way into Las Vegas for a good ol’ fashioned heads-up Texas Hold’em game against some high-rollers.
Now, you might think cowboys and poker are as natural a pairing as whiskey and regret, but it’s a rare sight to see one of us out here in the neon-lit jungle of Vegas. I figured I’d waltz in, out-bluff some city slickers, and ride out with my saddlebags bursting with their hard-earned cash. Only, today wasn’t my day.
The first mistake? Skipping lunch. I had a rumble in my stomach so loud it practically introduced itself to the bouncer outside the Bellagio. But hey, no big deal—I figured I’d grab something quick to munch on before heading to the tables.
Second mistake: That “something quick” turned out to be a greasy, two-pound burrito from a questionable taco truck with more health violations than it had hot sauce options. The kind of burrito where the chef insists, “You’ll feel it tomorrow, amigo!” Turns out I felt it about 30 minutes later… and trust me, amigo, I felt everything.
But let’s skip ahead to the real action.
I get to the table, face off against some wannabe hotshot whose slicked-back hair and oversized sunglasses scream, “I make bad investments and even worse decisions.” It’s just me and him—classic heads-up showdown. I’ve got position. I’ve got the chip lead. Hell, I’ve even got a pocket pair of aces. My confidence is through the roof, but unfortunately, so is my blood pressure.
See, somewhere between him raising and me re-raising, that burrito decided to show up for the game too. And let’s just say, it wasn’t in the mood to be subtle. My stomach sounded like a stormfront rolling across the plains, and I’m pretty sure the guy sitting across from me could hear it too. He smirks, assuming it’s nerves.
If only.
Now I’m sweating bullets—partly because I’m trying to keep a poker face, but mostly because I’m fighting a Category 5 stomach hurricane. You know when you can literally feel something brewing, and it’s not a good feeling? Like, you know whatever happens next will require medical intervention and possibly a hazmat team?
The guy raises me again, and I know I should re-raise. But in that very moment, I realize I need to push all-in before something in my digestive system pushes all-out. It’s a race against nature, and I’m definitely losing.
So, I look him dead in the eye, put on my best Clint Eastwood squint, and say, “I’m all in.” And I mean it in more ways than one. He looks stunned, then grins, thinking he’s got me beat. He calls instantly.
Cards on the table: My pocket aces against his measly pair of sevens. Should’ve been a home run for me, right? Well, I’m too busy holding my breath and clenching like my life depends on it.
Then comes the flop: nothing helpful for him. Turn? A big ol’ goose egg. River card? Nada. I win the hand. He’s down to his last few chips, but I’m too preoccupied to even gloat. My intestines are staging a revolt, and my colon is about to sign a declaration of independence.
I mumble something about needing a bathroom break and sprint faster than Road Runner on Red Bull. I make it just in time to the nearest restroom and proceed to have what can only be described as a spiritual experience. I’m pretty sure I saw my ancestors giving me a thumbs-up as I unleashed the fury of a thousand suns.
Five minutes later, I emerge, a changed man. Lighter. Wiser. But still traumatized. When I get back to the table, the dealer says, “You okay, man? Looked like you had some kinda emergency.” I just nod, too ashamed to admit that the burrito won a battle I didn’t even know I was fighting.
In the end, I did win the poker game, but at what cost? That taco truck took something from me that no amount of prize money can replace. And that something was my dignity.
So, my fellow cowboys and poker enthusiasts, let this be a lesson: Never roll into a high-stakes poker game with an empty stomach, and definitely don’t fill it with a burrito that looks like it’s plotting your demise.
Next time, I’m opting for a salad. Because while I may have pushed all-in on the table, there’s no way I’m letting myself go all-out like that again.
TL;DR: Went to Vegas, crushed a poker game, but almost lost more than just chips to a burrito-induced bathroom emergency. Wish I’d eaten healthier because I had to push all-in before something pushed all-out. 🤠💩
