By Christopher Moore
Life’s like poker, except the house cheats, the dealer’s on meth, and the pit boss is God — and he’s in a mood.
You don’t get to choose your starting hand. Some folks get pocket aces and a last name that opens doors. Others get a 7-2 offsuit, a childhood trauma or two, and a family recipe for heart disease. From there, it’s just bluffing your way through until you either win big or get escorted out by security in the form of “natural causes.”
Every bet’s a little death wish. You shove your chips in on marriage, a career, or that “can’t miss” business idea your cousin pitched — sometimes you hit the jackpot, sometimes you’re broke, drunk, and Googling “how to fake your own death” at 3 AM. Folding? That’s just admitting you want to live to lose more tomorrow.
And just when you think you’ve finally figured out the odds, the river card shows up — cancer, a car crash, or your kid saying “I want to be a TikTok influencer” — and suddenly you realize the universe has been slow-playing you since birth.
The goal isn’t to win every hand — hell, most hands aren’t worth the sweat. The goal is to outlast the smug bastards, drag the final pot into your corner, and light a cigar with their hopes while the whole table wonders how the hell you’re still breathing. Then you push back your chair, flip the table, and walk out like you just robbed the place… because in a way, you did.
–The Gun Loving Hippie Dad … Who Fixes Stuff
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