Shut Up, Bitch (The Estrogen Version)

All events are completely fictional. Any resemblance to actual places, characters, or shoes are completely coincidental.

Yes, I know it's 3am, but I have to tell you this story while it's still fresh on my mind.

Folks, I love a good fight, but not when I'm in the middle of it. There have been some legendary battles at the local poker room. It usually involves a drunk on tilt. Nearly always a man. I've seen a lot of pushing and shoving. There was a famous incident where a guy dropped his pants and mooned the dealer. Another guy deliberately poured his drink into the automatic card mixer. These antics usually attract security to the table pretty quickly. Well tonight there were no less than 15 security guards surrounding my 3/5 NL table. This was clearly an event! Funny thing is, except for the security guards, there wasn't a man within 20 feet.

Here's how it went down. We start this story a few hands into the evening. There is a raise to $20, and 5 callers, including Seat 7, who's in the big blind. The flop comes A-x-x, two spades. The small blind in the 6 seat is kind of a regular. She's played conservatively up 'til now, spending a lot of time nursing the stack of chips her husband bought for her with a few hundred dollar bills he peeled off a large stack before he headed to the $20/$40 table for his regular game, like he does every Friday night. She's rubbing the "#1 Grandma" keychain as she stares at her dwindling pile of chips. She bets out $50.

The 7 seat has her fingers tented on the table. She keeps them there at all time. Never plays with her chips. The nails are carefully manicured, like the toes peeking out of the peep toe stilettos, which are a striking feminine contrast to the subdued black tank top and jeans she wears with a black hoodie, her face completely void of makeup. "Raise," she says, deliberately, then carefully reaches for a stack of reds. Carefully sets $125 across the line.

Fold, fold, fold . . . around to the 5 seat, clicking her freshly-polished tips with the aces painted on them against her stacks of reds. She's been talking all night, criticizing the play of others, attributing her own success on random 2-outers to "pot odds" and other lame excuses for her run on the table. She studies the cards, clicks her nails, snaps her gum. "All-in," she says, waving her inch-long tips at the table as she leans back in her seat. Hitches up her low-rise jeans, pulls her Juicy hoodie down over her muffin top. Stares at the nails on her left hand.

Seat 6 fingers the "#1", then mucks her cards. Seat 7 looks at her pocket kings, looks at the table, looks at Seat 5s stack of reds that's twice as big what Seat 7 has behind, and says, "If I fold, will you show me?" Seat 5 raises one painted-on eyebrow, pouts her Merlot-colored lips, then agrees. Seat 7 looks at the ace one last time, and tables her pocket kings. Seat 5 turns over pocket queens, and laughs that Fran Drescher nasal laugh. "Dems bitches, bitches."

"Nice hand," Seat 7 says, in a measured tone that doesn't necessarily imply "nice" at all. Seat 7 may be on tilt, but doesn't show it.

Yet.

There are a few hands in the interim and then Seat 5 gets involved in the biggest pot of the night with Seat 1 and Seat 4. Seat 4 has gone all in over a small raise and several calls. She's a regular. You can measure time passing by the width of the gray between her scalp and the bottle blond at the tips. She's a rock. Was probably pretty 10 years ago, but now the black eye liner is smudged onto the wrinkles under her eyes, making her look perpetually tired. Today was payday. She rubs the worn Binion's chip she uses as a marker and keeps her eyes on the table, not looking at her chips in the center. Seat 5 leans forward, using the table to push up her ample cleavage, sighs, and says "Call."

Seat 1, a lithe little Asian woman who's been chatting amiably with those around her, narrows her eyes and goes all in over top of Seat 4. Her face is impassive as she rolls her neck, the silky black sheath of hair falling down her back. Seat 5 is now facing two all-ins with $1,500 in the pot. She ponders a long time, tapping her tips on the table, the gum still snapping, before Seat 4 calls the clock. Seat 5 asks the dealer, "How much time do I have?" The dealer replies that she has 30 seconds. "Let me know when I have 2 seconds left," Seat 5 pulls out a mirror and tube of lip gloss, and applies a fresh coat. Checks her cards. Checks her Blackberry. Checks her cards. Dealer calls two seconds. Seat 5 waits one more second before folding, using the nail tips to nudge her cards into the pile.

Seat 7, who is not involved in the hand (but may still be on tilt from two hands ago), is chiding Seat 5 for being a drama queen who watches too much TV. "What was that all about? You knew you were going to fold. Unless you forgot how to read the numbers on your cards. Should have spent more time in math class and less time behind the bleachers."

After the hand is over, Seat 5 says to another player, "I was just trying to piss of the Professor over there," and points to Seat 7. Seat 7 replies, "Me? This isn't about me. You weren't just wasting my time. You were wasting everyone's time." Seat 5 looks at Seat 7 and says, "Shut up, bitch."

What happened next was unbelievable. Seat 7 says "What did you call me?" Seat 5 sneers and smiles a fake smile with her exaggerated purple lips. "Nothing. Bitch." The last word was under her breath, but audible to the entire table. Seat 7 stands up, knocking her chair over, and walks behind Seat 5. "What did you call me?" It was a whisper, but it was quite menacing. Seat 5 has got 40 pounds on Seat 7, but she won't look Seat 7 in the eye. "Do you see this crazy bitch?"she says to Seat 6, who keeps rubbing her key chain and looks away. Seat 5 looks at Seat 4, who chooses this moment to grab a pack of cigarettes and step away from the table. Seat 7 leans in closer behind Seat 5. "Repeat what you said to my face."

Seat 5 stays in her seat, and says under her breath "f---in' crazy dyke bitch", and that's when the dealer calls for the supervisor. The next 5 minutes were a bit of a jumble. Seat 5 was desperately trying to convince the dealer and floor guy that Seat 7 was out of control and threatening and needed to be kicked out immediately. Interestingly, Seat 7 never said another word. The floor kept asking the dealer to tell what really happened, but Seat 5 wouldn't let him get a word in edgewise. She talked louder and faster, gesticulating with her fake nails, dropping her "g's" left and right. It got so bad that the dealer got up and yelled at the supervisor, "Don't ever do this to me again! Take control!" By this time, the entire security team showed up. The floor called in another dealer and said, "All right. No one is getting kicked out, but you all need to calm down and just play poker."

At this point Seat 7 finally spoke up and calmly said, "I would like to have a table change." The floor supervisor asked which game she'd like to be seated in. "Any game without stupid, fat, luckboxes who don't know how to keep their mouths shut and play poker."

Seat 5 started to stand in protest. "Are you calling me stupid and fat?"

Seat 7 glanced down at Seat 5's muffin top squeezed into stretch jeans a size to small, and smiled a wry smile.

"No. I'm calling you lucky."

Now, here is your test.

Which shoes should you wear to a catfight?

Respectfully submitted,

The Wife

So, MHG, do I get the backrub?