The People Under The Stairs
I live on the upper floor of what is probably a 60-80 year old house. Maybe closer to 60. Either way, the question is, how can you live in a house that’s this old and not own your own plunger?
The people under my stairs answered that for me Sunday.
The only reason I mention this, is that they went out and bought me a
new plunger, seemingly feeling embarrassed about giving me back one that had been used.
Uh, OK. What did I think they were going to do with it? Plungers have a use, and it usually results in getting a little bit dirty. I understood that much going in.
Actually, just as I was playing about hand number three in the PJK Tournament last night, my extremely attractive neighbor came up to give me the new plunger. Now, she’s not only involved with the guy (who’s really quite cool) she lives with, but is completely and utterly out of my league, so it’s not as if I was wanting to “work on her” or something like that, but she did come up seemingly with the intention of chatting. And here I am playing Internet poker on a new interface, and was obviously not even listening to a hot chick who wants to talk.
Damn you poker. Damn you right to hell.
Of course, had I not been first out last night, this post would have been an illustration in the focus I gave to my game, and how it ultimately was the reason for my triumph.
Instead, I’ll blame the hot chick. They get away with so much in this society that every once in awhile they need to bear the brunt of the blame from time to time. So I’m putting this on her shoulders (her slim and milky white shoul… oh, stop it.). Blame the hot chick!
Not, of course, the
absolute hammering that was so obvious that I called it out before I called the first raise. What a dumb call on my part.