Sunday Dinner with Fossilman
After purchasing ten fossils from Greg Raymer at the WSOP (What can I say? Fossils are cool), Fossilman invited me to a nice dinner at his country home this past Sunday.
Pulling up to his sprawling estate on a beautiful afternoon, I was greeted by Greg, sitting in a rocking chair, eating a chicken pot pie.
Greg gave me a tour of the place, which was quite impressive. He led me to a dining room, where he said we could wait while his wife prepared the meal.
"Anything to drink, Nutz?" Greg asked, his breasts bouncing rhythmically as he strolled around the table.
"I'll have what you're having, Greg," I responded.
A wide smile formed on Greg's face as he reached for a saucer. "Two glasses of gravy, coming right up."
Raymer and I sipped on gravy and chatted while his wife prepared the meal. Greg reached into a drawer and pulled out a deck of cards.
"A few hands before din-din?" Greg said playfully.
"Oh, Greg, I don't know..."
"Come on," Greg insisted. "No money, just a friendly match."
I agreed, and picked up a tell on Raymer from the outset. When he had a good hand, he'd grab a drumstick in each hand, lift up his shirt, and rub his breasts with chicken. If not, he'd simply eat it. It was easy to exploit, and Greg became amazed when I mucked the second nuts face up. Clapping his hands together, chicken all over his face, Fossilman exclaimed "God DAMN, Nutz! I'd heard you were good, but I didn't know you were THIS good!"
A few hands later, Greg let out a rancid fart and whistled. Into the room came Chris Moneymaker, lugging a bedpan.
"#1 or #2, boss?" Moneymaker asked.
"#2...and you might want to get a second bedpan," Raymer responded.
Chris scurried out of the room.
"Greg!" I exclaimed. "What the [censored] is going on?"
"I'm taking a dump, what?" Greg said defensively. "You think I go in a toilet like some minimum wage scumbag? Hell, no! These are the kind of luxuries that are afforded to World Champions."
"OK, fine," I responded. "But Chris Moneymaker?"
"Huh?"
"Chris Moneymaker takes care of you?"
"How do you know his name?"
"Chris? He was the 2003 World Champion."
"That guy?" Greg said, confused. "Are you sure?"
"Isn't that how you know him?"
Greg, puzzled, responded, "Nutz, that guy responded to an ad my wife posted on Craigslist."
Greg and I ate like kings, and when his wife came back after her 10th trip from the kitchen emptyhanded, all hell broke loose.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, OUT OF FOOD?" Greg snarled.
"There's no more money, Greg! I can't afford to feed you anymore!" his wife exclaimed.
"This is what I grind it out 12 hours a day for?!?!" Greg responded angrily.
"I'm sorry, Greg! You're eating us into poverty!"
Enraged, Greg threw his wife into a cage and locked it. "Come with me, Nutz!", he demanded.
"Oh, I don't know, Greg. It's getting late."
"NOW!" Raymer exclaimed, poking me in the ribs with a loaded handgun. "You're gonna drive me."
"Where are we going?" I asked, terrified.
Greg's eyes narrowed, a deviant smile forming on his face. "The supermarket."
Greg handed me a pistol and a machete as we walked up to the supermarket. "I've got grenades, too. In case things get ugly," he said matter-of-factly.
Greg went to a register and fired a warning shot in the air. "I don't want anyone to get hurt. Just give me what I want and we'll be on our way."
The store manager approached, pleading with Greg. "Take all the money you want. We don't want anything to happen."
Greg laughed. "Money? I want all your [censored] FOOD."
The next 30 minutes are somewhat hazy, but I do remember Greg going aisle by aisle, downing jars of spaghetti sauce, cartons of ice cream, and bags of potato chips. In the midst of the madness, two bagboys who attempted to contact authorities were gunned down.
Greg laid down at the end of an aisle, rubbing his stomach. "God, that was incredible."
Off in the distance, I heard sirens, and decided it was my time to split before I became an accessory. Besides, I was late for my home game.
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