It was a chatty $2/5 game in Vegas. Good vibe. Good action. The waitress came by and several players ordered adult beverages. She was standing behind seat six, and I was in seat one, so when it came my turn to order, everybody heard it. “I’d like a glass of milk please.” The player next to me was gone from the table when we ordered drinks. When my milk arrived, he asked me what it was. “Milk,” I said. “Oh,” he said, “I thought maybe it was some sort of coconut cocktail concoction.” “Nope, just milk.” I saw some listeners grinning. On the next hand, I had 7-5 on the button. One player limped, I limped, the small blind completed, and the big blind checked. Four players. I had the smallest stack with $500. The flop was 9-5-5 rainbow. The three of them checked, and somewhere in my mind maybe I was thinking about the verb definition of my drink, so I checked too. The turn was a queen, putting two hearts on board. The small blind bet $25. The next two players folded. I milked, I mean, I called. Headsup now. The river was the king of hearts. Final board: 9-5-5, Q, K, with three hearts. The small blind bet $40. I called. “I have top two,” he said, and he showed king-queen. I had that beat, so I turned over my hand. One of the chatty players had payed close attention to this hand and the showdown, and he took a sudden interest in me. “What’s your name friend?” “Milk,” I said, deadpan. Everybody laughed, and my name was Milk for the night.
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