Poker, Dr. Pepper, and Flatulence
I don't know what every one else does at their family reunions, but at our trailer when the Jagermeister and Funions are gone it's time for Texas Hold'em. We usually have 5 or 6 players, but this particular evening we only had 4. In order to fill a chair (in this case a lawn chair) we invited my cousin Buck to join us. I don't remember exactly how old Buck was, but he had a girlfriend who was only 15 and he was never arrested for it, so I'm assuming some one else was buying him his Skoal Long Cut.
Buck sat down at the table with a container of Dr. Pepper under his arm that can only be described as a vat. I had no idea soda was sold in such large quantities. The bottle had handles on both sides as if it were way too heavy to be lifted by one hand alone. It also had its own tap, was vented for correct air flow, and, when tilted, effected the moon's gravitational pull.
A 12 ounce can of Dr. Pepper has a little less than 1 ounce of sugar in it. Multiply that by a drink so large it has class IV rapids and you get enough sugar to give the Kool-Aid man diabetes. To compound the problem, Buck was chugging the Dr. Pepper like it was some type of medical tonic that would finally give him pubes.
The cards were dealt and I peaked at my hole cards. I had pocket kings which is the second highest hand possible off the deal. As the bet went around the table I eyeballed each player to see if they would let anything out. When my eyes got to Buck he had this Joker-like smirk on his face like he was fighting a smile. I knew that face. He either had pocket aces or he was about to cut one. My suspicions for the latter were confirmed when Buck attempted one of the oldest covert farting operations in recorded history.
No one knows for sure where the one-cheek-sneak originated. Underworld art enthusiasts say Rodin's "The Thinker" is actually the first documented one-cheek-sneak. What was the guy in the sculpture really thinking you ask? "I hope I didn't shit myself!"
Still smirking like he just found money, Buck leaned slightly to one side. I suppose he was concerned that the very chair he was sitting on would somehow stifle his pollutants and he didn’t want the rest of us to be cheated out of its full potency. I was the only one who saw it coming, but I still wasn’t prepared for the aftermath.
Buck rolled back into the upright sitting position. It was either a false alarm or an SBD (silent but deadly). After throwing in a raise, he leaned back in his chair to take a front row seat for the ensuing chaos.
Why is it that people never seem to mind the smell of there own gas? It could be the foulest stench imaginable and yet the perpetrator is rarely ever affected. I propose a government grant be issued for funding to find out if he who dealt it did in fact smealt it. Perhaps the study could be expanded to also determine if he who denied it supplied it.
The fart was was so strong I could taste it. There was a dense gas cloud over the table and I swear it actually started raining inside my living room. The aroma traveled around the table much faster than the bet. Right before it was my turn to act the smoke alarm went off. All the other players had evacuated in single file lines through clearly marked exits. Maybe they were smarter than me or maybe they just weren’t holding pocket kings.
I saw my brother breathing into a shoe as if the damp funk of a sweaty sock was sweet nectar compared to the methane cloud engrossing the poker table. Visibility was down to about 3 feet. A cockroach couldn't make it out and hung himself with a shoelace. Lucky bastard.
As I pondered Buck’s raise I heard the high pitched shriek of sirens from outside. Did the neighbors call the cops? Was it so bad someone actually needed medical attention? While waiting for the Emergency Response Team I couldn’t help but wonder what could make a digestive tract produce such a foul odor. Had Buck come straight from a Thai restaurant? Did he have nachos for lunch with a side of broccoli? I tried to hold out as long as I could, but I was getting dizzy and my vision was blurred. Pocket Kings come and go but hep C last forever. I folded.
In the face of a pending public health crisis, I bolted for the front door, squashing the cockroach on my way out. His little legs were still twitching and I didn't want him to suffer anymore. I had been beaten by Poker, Dr. Pepper, and Flatulence.
More Short Stories By Bo Bixbie:
- Dora the Explorer and the Dump of Gold
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- The Jagermeister Challenge
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