He’s holding Babraham Lincolns.
Caught in a flytrap.
Lay it down on “The Tarpits.”
Short-weeding the double-down avocado splitter.
Deuce trips.
So I pull trash from the flop, and end up sinking the Titanic.
Laboratory rats to the left, and I know the guy on the right has a suicide johnny—nothing else to do but drop the transmission.
He was short-stacked, so I raised with nothing but a bumpy melinda and a bullet.
Crunking the small blind.
So a Madeleine Albright pops up on Fourth Street.
After his raise, I know he’s sporting two mustaches, and I can see one otter swimming the river on the flop.
I’ve got leaky quads, and I call, after he bulldozes the pit with half his gold towers.
I fold.