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.