Snowball effect

Right now I'm enjoying the pleasant sensation of a man who's just faced the long drop, only to have the rope snap on the way down (and whose executioners just shrug their shoulders and say "ah fuck it, let's let him go"). I played some seriously dodgy omaha this evening, but thankfully the poker gods decided merely to spank me lightly, before giving me a lollipop and telling me I'm a good boy really. They're such teasers.

Fresh from some minor satellite success, I decided to leap into a comfortable-looking 1/2 plo game for some post-tournament relaxation. Of course, best-laid plans and all that, and within 30 seconds I'm slinging $200 in with top 2 against top set, goodnight Vienna.

Not one to let such things irritate me (ha ha), I sink into 3 other 1/2 games, and do my money in all of them. No, MURDER my money in all of them. In cold blood. I felt like some sort of benevolent and rather insane monarch, spraying money around to all my loyal subjects. It was just embarrassing.

One rush of blood later, I'm playing short-handed 5-10. The last refuge of the desperate man (or Matt the Jug, where the hell is he when you need him anyway?). After 1 hand I'm down a monkey. Marv! Things can't get much worse. Oh, tell a lie, Alan Betson wipes out the recipient of my money in a $5000 pot, so now we're heads-up. Thanks but no thanks. Let's not and say we did.

Only one thing for it then. Ahoy, the verdant pastures of the 10-20, for once mercifully devoid of the Jones/Ashby element. One last roll of the dice for Lord Miros. What's the worst that could happen?

Luckily I don't even like Dr.Pepper, otherwise I'd probably be writing this from the deck of the slow boat to China. There was one point where I was faced with a pre-flop re-reraise of $1200, holding a very sexy QQT7 (single-suited). I love crap like that! Clutching my head in my hands, I knew this was the defining moment. If I slung it all in with this absolute piece of dogshit, I knew I might as well give up and turn my computer off for good. But I really, REALLY wanted to. And it would get me right out of it!

Needless to say, I passed, and I would've won. But I think that pot finally made me knuckle down and get on with it. From there on in, I never lost another pot. The old Miros magic started to flow again. My dodgy 10-high flushes held up against trips; my speculative bets with two pair and the blockers found callers, but then the miracle pair-up arrived. And of course I cold-called a raise and a reraise with the classic 3789, et voila, the old 993 floperoo. Ah, just like the good old days!

So I struggled my way out of it, accepting a small loss as a very reasonable price to pay. I'm not a greedy man, you see. The poker gods don't like greed. And it doesn't pay to stir them up.

Thanks for the ride, boys. Most of all, thanks for getting me out of it. I promise I won't do it again.