That’s what I got to listen to for the first five minutes of my down dealing heads-up to Sam Grizzle and his buddy Paul. The self proclaimed great pee hole punchers of the south were sitting right at my table, playing poker and lucky lil ol me was dealing to their greatness.

They were playing $100-200, a three game combination, Omaha 8 or better, Holdem, and Hi/lo regular.

Nate came by just as I announced, “Time pot!”

They asked Nate for a time pass and he said ok. They thanked Nate. So did I! But not because he saved them each $7. Because if he’d have said “NO” they would have cashed. Now I was facing a half hour of shuffle, deal, shuffle, deal, and all the pee hole punching conversation I could handle. Not to mention the fact that it would be a working dead spread for me.

Sam went into some kind of poem that resembled something a group of 16 year olds would chant at their first kegger. Paul said Sam had to write the words down for him. Sam said a guy had told him that he could turn it into a rap song and Sam would make $300,000 from it.

After three hands of Hi/lo Regular they decided to take it out. I couldn’t even begin to figure out what the limit was when they were playing Hi/lo. Ante $25, bring-in $25 on one hand, $50 on the next, andcomplete to $100 one hand and $200 on the next. I didn’t even ask. Think that makes me a bad dealer? Who cares what you think? You should try it sometime. They were so busy talking pee hole punching and elaborating over what great cocksmen they were and hookers and the game that had been there before I got there to deal to the graveyard that was left, that there was no way I was even going to open my mouth other than to ask for antes/blinds and announce what hand had to bring in the bet.

They didn’t care that I was female while they were talking about pounding the lower regions of a female’s anatomy and it wouldn’t matter who was sitting in the box, male or female, their behavior would have been the same. They don’t respect themselves or anyone else in the world and they certainly aren’t going to change their colors if I say something, so I didn’t. I dealt.

The game had been a real game an hour before and they talked about how much money they each made and how they should just quit and not try to beat each other and Paul said he was going to let Sam keep $XX of the amount. Let’s just assume that Paul put Sam in that game.

Paul gave me a $1 toke after the first five minutes of dealing with no action.

Sam and Paul went to war in a Holdem hand in which the flophad two spades. The whole thing ended on the turn when Paul threw his hand away after another bet/raise war. Sam laughed and showed down a Q-9 Spades, no pair, just Queen high. They had a bit of a dialogue duel over that one.

Sam said, “I’d tip you dealer, but I didn’t have the best hand.”

To which I replied, nada, zip, zilch, just cut and dealt the next hand.

When they first started talking about pee hole punching I had a moment of instant rebellion. I wanted to tell them to shut up and play. The other side of my head switched on and I just went into the silent, deal the cards mode. I had no win. If I got involved in the conversation, even to ask them to clean it up, I was going to have to listen to Sam. UGH! Let sleeping dogs lay, Linda! *Pats self on back* Good job!

Paul was on a roll with the word fuck. Every other word was fucking, fuck, fucked and constituted the majority of his conversation. A friend of his left the $60-120 game with some racks of chips and sat beside Paul for a few moments. They had a verbal tango, mostly from Paul’s side. Man, that guy can just gnaw a bone intofine sliveredshards- he just kept repeating his statements and verbally jabbing his friend. Then Dennis sat down beside the friend (Dennis is a player that comes in from Canada and spends some time with us now and then), just more or less to hang out for a bit, definitely not to play.

Sam was eating. He picked up a baquette and leaned back in his chair, placing one end of the baquette up against his crotch and holding it so it appeared to be his member, and took off on a thread about going to a strip club. He may have been quite entertaining to Paul and the sweaters but I never even looked over at him, I stared straight ahead, across the room, while I waited for them to act on their hand. Sam expounded about how if he went to the strip club like that, he’d probably own the place before he left for the night.

Really? All it takes is one big dick to own a strip club? I figure the girls there would put a giant condom over his whole body and proclaim him to be a total dick. And who stakes a rail bird at a strip club?

The game and conversation went on. Phlagg!

Sam made a wheel in Omaha 8 or better and won a big pot. Yuppers, I got a $1. A few minutes later, Paul’s friend cashed out, Paul was leaving too, Sam went off to do something, and Dennis was still sitting beside me. He shook his head and made the comment that I had to deal a half hour to all of that and make nothing too. Umnhn-n-n! You be so right, Dennis. But that part of my job is never going to change.

Dennis left.

I started doing the set-up.

Paul walked back over to pick up his jacket, etc., and looked at me and said, “Goodnight.”

I responded. “Goodnight.”

So ends another pee hole punching session.