OK, I fold.

[PsYcHo-ScHnAuZeR]

I'm horrible at poker. I avoid it. Whenever I'm invited to a game I just collect the addresses of the other players and mail $50 to each of them. I learned my failings many years ago, when I got together with friends for a weekly game. They always started out the same way:

"Boys, the name of the game is Oklahoma Roll 'em. Queens are wild, jacks are better, deuces ride the mule train." Then he'd deal you two cards up, two down. You peek at your cards: junk. What to do? If you fold now, this will mark the 17th consecutive hand you threw away; so far you've spent $6 just to look at cards. You could have gone down to the drugstore, bought a deck of cards for two bucks and spent a nice night at home looking at the cards with no pressure, and you'd be up $4.

But no. You sip your beer — did that give it away? Would it be better not to sip? But then they might think you were distracted by your hand. You sip. You look at what other guys have — nothing special, except for Ed Earl over there, who has two aces showing. What are the odds he has two aces down? Excellent. Because Ed Earl has that damnable poker karma that sits lightly on the shoulders of some men, the ability to effortlessly summon good hands from the random gestures of Dame Chance herself.

OK, I fold.