GPITW: Days 10-11

[gonores]

*Warning: Part two of my story is going to portray me as a bit of an immature prick. Sometimes, when confronted with idiocy, I develop a bit of a mean streak. I make it a point to leave an impression with those who I feel are wronging me. I’m not proud of it, but I’m not ashamed of it. I hope to grow out of it some day, but for now, this aspect of my character is a pretty good source of entertainment for me.

Part 1

The preliminary hearing for my ticket was set for two months later, in July. The raw skin not quite fully healed on my wrists served as a reminder of my mistreatment at the hands of MPD. I planned on going to court and voicing my opinion on the matter. I wanted to handle myself civilly as long as I could voice my complaints to someone who cared. Not being acquainted with the legal system, I didn’t realize that a preliminary hearing was not a time to open my mouth to say something beyond “not guilty.”

While my hearing did take place in a courtroom, complete with a judge, bailiff, and all the other accoutrements of a regular courtroom. However, my hearing took place in the back of the courtroom with some rent-a-suit law student-sized assistant district attorney with jug ears and a $10 haircut. He sits me down, goes over the charges, and lays out my options for me. I can either pay the fine or plead not guilty.

But I’m moving next month. I can’t show up for my trial.

He gives me an exasperated look.

Either pay the fine or plead not guilty.

Look. I’m pretty sure I’m guilty. I just want to tell the judge about the way I was treated.

Blank stare.

Either pay the fine or plead not guilty.

Come on man. Just let me talk to someone about this.

Either pay the fine or plead…

He didn’t get through the statement. I sorta snapped and shot out of my seat. I said “OK, STOP!” And “stop” everyone did. The whole courtroom stopped. Judge, bailiff, plaintiff, prosecutor, stenographer…everyone stopped what they were doing to see who was making an ass of himself in the back of the room. I sit back down and lean forward, trying to get my tirade back on track after it almost exploded on the launchpad. I start speaking in that sort of whisper-yell parents use in a fight with each other after they send their kids into the next room.

Despite the derailing my invective took in its first two seconds, I must say I was proud of how I delivered the body of my speech. I whisproar at jug ears about how much I hate this town and how terrible the cops are. I told him it was downright embarrassing how Jereme and I were treated. I remembered to squeeze in the part about how city officials are so much more worried about lining their coffers with fine money than they are about the safety of the city’s citizens. I was on a roll. I was articulate. My F-bombs were hitting those big, jug-shaped targets like Reggie Miller free throws. I’m glad I didn’t practice my diatribe…it would have sounded contrived, and contrived diatribes just don’t jive.

It didn’t matter Jug ears could care less…he was probably thinking about how the Dilbert comic from Monday about how work sucked was so true. It’s a good thing I was prepared to deal with such indifference to my plight.

Having just returned from Las Vegas, I happened to have $15,000 in cash laying around in my apartment. The morning of my trial, I decided it would be a good idea to take this large amount of cash to a room where many people were being tried as criminals. Not only was I planning on bringing this large sum of money, I was planning on pulling out this wad of money in front of everyone and peeling off a few bills Sonny Corleone-style if I needed to prove a point.

It’s times like this that it seems fitting that myself and the other kids from the Gifted & Talented Program in high school had to ride the short bus home from school.

Anywho, back in the courtroom, I say something along the lines of “I don’t even give a sh*t about the fine. Here…take the damn money.” *peelpeelpeel* *tosstosstoss* “But let me tell you something. This is the most expensive $281 Madison will ever make. I’m spending my last month in the shithole town destroying government property until I feel like I’m even with this town.”

A little voice in my head told me I probably should not have said that. And by “little,’ I mean “huge,” and by “voice in my head,” I mean “imposing officer of the law.” The hand on my shoulder told me I was done talking. That hand pulling me to my feet by my collarbone told me my legal troubles weren’t limited to my addiction to carrying glass bottles. I was promptly led off to a side room. The officer was so gentle while guiding me to my seat that I almost didn’t hit the back of my head against the wall. I think it was safe to say this action pretty much killed all the momentum I had.

Officer Waters started jamming his finger in my face and lecturing me about how I was just in a court of law, and that I needed to treat a court of law with the respect it deserves. He then asked me if I knew how much trouble I could get into for that little “destruction of public property” comment I made. I start to reflect. I really didn’t know how much trouble I could get into for that. I know cops are very good at using such fear tactics to get people to accept with smaller penalties, so his next statement came as no surprise. “I’m going to write you a disorderly conduct ticket, and you’re going to consider yourself lucky that this all you’re going to get.”

I realize I can either take this lying down, or I can roll the dice, tempt fate, and contest these rather weak charges. I lie down like a little girl. I apologize and tell him I was out of line. He starts writing me my ticket, and as he is writing, he mutters something about how much of a little bitch I became when someone bigger than me stood up to me. I say nothing.

He leads me out of the room, where jug ears is waiting for me with my $300 in Franklins and my glass bottle ticket. He tells me I need to see the cashier to pay my fine. I take my two citations and walk down the hall to the cashier. Now that the big scary officer is gone, I decide I can be a big hard-ass again. I march right up to the cashier and whip my two tickets and five hundred dollar bills across the counter and mutter something like “I don’t need no change and I don’t need no receipt. Just tell me how to get the hell out of here.” The poor, stunned old lady points me toward the door and tells me to take a left at the end of the hall.

I march out in a huff. I put on my best “don’t f*ck with me” face and charge out the door. It takes me the one-block walk to my car to start cooling down. What had I just done? I was a dick to a bunch of people who were just doing their jobs. Someone out there deserved to feel my wrath, but it wasn’t jug ears, and it wasn’t that cashier. Another thought comes to me. I look behind me to make sure someone wasn’t following the scent of money that was practically dripping off me. I can’t say this day made me proud to be me.

And then, as I’m walking back to my car, in my reflective state, I bore witness to the epitome of justice.

Right there
Under my windshield wiper
A Little
Yellow
Stupid
F*cking
Parking Ticket.



OK, Tuesday I made 72 BBs. Wednesday I made 54BBs. Thursday I made 74BBs. That’s exactly 200BBs. I could bore you about the minutiae of my days, but this is long enough and I’d rather give you guys a fun hand with a concept I’ve been toying with.

The scene is the Bellagio 30/60. PJN is directly on my right. I have QJo. Something happens preflop…somehow, I’m last to act. The flop comes QJx. Somehow, it gets down to PJN and I. The turn brings [QJx]Q. PJN bets out, I raise, he pauses. I tell him I will let him see one of my cards in exchange for seeing one of his cards. He agrees and flips my queen. I flip his 8. He calls. I scream out “NO TEN.” River is a ten. He bets, I raise, he pays off. Everyone laughs.

Obviously, in this spot, it’s a terrible idea to divulge info. But what about in other spots? When is it a good idea to show one card for one card? I’ll post my ideas later.

Total BBs made: 699
To goal: 801
Hands: Still not enough.

[Baulucky]

"Never understimate the power of a little Bureau-Rat".

[odellthurman]

Beer does taste better out of a glass bottle than an aluminum can. But not that much better.

[CCx]

[ QUOTE ]
contrived diatribes just don’t jive.

[/ QUOTE ]

Pretty sure my head exploded right about here...nh

[Hock_]

Not a bad story, but what's so bad about having a $10 haircut? Maybe the cops were slapping you around like a little bitch just because of your expensive h-do, fancy boy.

[img]/images/graemlins/grin.gif[/img]

[*TT*]

Gonores and I are sitting at an 8/16 game at the Wynn, killing time and having fun. Nasty local nitty old lady (NLNOL) sitting to our right complaining about the dealer because she doesn't speak English as a first language. NLNOL is getting out of line, voicing her complaints in front of the shift manager (who has come over to give Gonores lots of love). DFM and I decide to take turns fouling NLNOL's unprotected hands by mucking our cards into hers. Our actions made the table, the dealer, and the shift manager proud... DFM, my hat is off to you my friend.

PS: You delivered as promised during diner.

TT [img]/images/graemlins/club.gif[/img]

[James282]

[ QUOTE ]
DFM and I decide to take turns fouling NLNOL's unprotected hands by mucking our cards into hers. Our actions made the table, the dealer, and the shift manager proud... DFM, my hat is off to you my friend.

PS: You delivered as promised during diner.

TT [img]/images/graemlins/club.gif[/img]

[/ QUOTE ]

Absolutely hilarious. I need to remember this if I ever play live again.
-James

[josh_x]

ok i'll stop the bumping. I remember these posts as being just about the greatest things that ever came out of the general texas holdem forum. Hopefully gonores can right another story for old times sake.