I'd be more worried about that tapeworm going to town on your intestines

I like playing poker. I thought I was good at playing poker. So when I lost all those times, I just assumed it was because of the drinking. But no. It turns out I'm just not very good at playing poker. And by not very good, I mean terrible.

It's really a bad combination to enjoy doing something that you're bad at when that thing involves gambling. Very few of the other things that I'm less-than-proficient at necessarily lead to me losing money. The smart course of action would be to just stop playing poker. Or to at least work actively to get better at it. Instead, I choose to plug away in my own obstinate fashion, bullheadedly "playing my own game" like a "renegade maverick." Which all translates to me losing money.

Poker, like most similar pursuits, has its own language, its own customs, its own winners and losers. The flop, the turn, the river. The nuts. The tits. The balls. You feel very cool, very insiderish when using these terms and concurrently playing. Which is very different when to using these terms while NOT playing. Observe:

Scene: An office. The proverbial watercooler. Or a literal one. Bill approaches Dave.

Bill: Hey, Dave. How was your weekend?

Dave: Hi Bill. Yeah, not too bad. Went to Coney Island with the kids. Nice evening with my wife. You know, pretty relaxing. How about you?

Bill: Oh yeah, me too. Nothing much. Just played some poker with some friends.

Dave: Cool, yeah, that sounds great--

Bill: (interrupting) Oh yeah, it was great. Except, get this-- you won't believe the hand I got busted out on.

Dave: I'm not really a big po--

Bill: No, Dave, seriously, this was ridiculous. So I've got kings in the hole. I raise to four times the big blind pre-flop. Three folds and then Jeff, my friend Jeff, calls. I'm feeling pretty good with my kings against one player. The flop comes and it's 10 6 3 rainbow--

Dave: Bill, I don't really know what you're--

Bill: So, I check. I figure I can still beat whatever he's got. He bets into me. Half the pot. I raise. Little check raise. Nothing huge, just double. He calls. The turn is a 7. Still rainbow. This time, I bet. I'm worried he might have played some bullshit preflop because he thought I was overplaying a bluff. You know, like he might have played an 8/9 suited or something? So I bet the pot. That's a pretty big fucking bet, but I figure I've gotten my value out and I'm ready to take it down. BUT HE CALLS! Can you believe it?

Dave: Uh huh. Look, I've really got to get back to w--

Bill: Then the river. THE RIVER. It's an ace. I figure there's no way he stayed in with just an ace so I go all-in. He sits. He thinks. And then he calls! We flip 'em and he had the ace!! Ace, four! Off-suit! He stayed in that whole time! Called four times the big blind preflop! I mean! COME ON! I'M SO MUCH OF A BETTER PLAYER! HE JUST GOT LUCKY!

Pause.

Dave: Okay. Yeah. I'm just gonna... go.

He starts to back away slowly.

Bill: BAD BEATS MAN! IT'S ALLL BAAAAADDD BEEEAAAATTSSSS!!!

Bill is dragged away screaming by building security.

Dave: Well. That was weird.

fin