Friday, December 16, 2005

Tourist Induced TILT

Friday afternoon I want to do one thing: get the fuck out of work and play poker. This has been an especially stressful weak, and although I was beat, I still thought I'd go scoop a few pots with medium suited connectors.

The fucking tourists in Rockefeller Center tilted me right out of my plans. I left work at 49th & Park, and hauled west past Saks 5th Avenue. All the fucking d-bag tourists from middle America are stopped in the street looking at the window displays. I dodge and weave through them like Barry Sanders, but at the northwest corner of 49th and 5th, every d-bag in the world is stopped right on the fucking corner! I lower my shoulder like Mosi Tatupu trying to pound the ball over the goal line, and plow through the throng of douchebags.

All I could think of was the immortal Andrew Dice Clay quote from Ford Fairlaine:

Dice: "Go back to Michigan"
Douchebag: "Oh, we're from Wisconsin."
Dice: "Yeah, and I'm from my dad's penis. Get outta here."

So, being a savvy NYC commuter, I ditch the throng by the Rock Center X-mas Tree, and duck underground to the no-so-secret tunnel to the subway. I crush through a trio of Korean tourists blocking the path, and dodge and weave down the hall. Things are going ok until I get to the end of the path: a revolving door. As I try to exit the revolving door, this fucking asshole chick sets herself right in the middle of the revolving door exit. I had nowhere to go - not even Kevin McHale could have rolled off the screen she set for me. I get frozen 1/2way out of the revolving door and get railed from behind by the still spinning door, crushing my ankle.

I take two steps, shake my head, and let out a delayed: "FUCK," as I look back over my shoulder. Now the girl who was behind me in the revolving door, who just plowed into me through no real fault of her own, apologizes profusely, as I try to tell her I'm not mad at her, but rather at the fucktard who decided to block my exit.

I hurdle down the stairs to the subway, just missing the closing doors of my train. At this point, believing in Friday afternoon zen-karma poker theory, I decided to just go home. When things are already going somewhere between kinda bad and very bad, there's no reason to fuck with the quan and tempt the poker Gods.

I hit Jamba Juice on the way home and got a giant frickin' frozen fruity drink - it's like a half gallon. Boo yah. A few hours in the recliner watching the CSI and Sleeper Cell episodes I recorded this week should do the trick...

until next time, beware of retarded tourists.



David said...

I feel your pain. Every day I do 37th & B'way to 51st & 9th. It's basically a douchebag obstacle course.

Huge Junk said...

I would have performed the Icky Shuffle, employed the Deion Sanders "must be the money" dance he used to do in the endzone, and maybe even the OJ jumping over airport luggage move to get to that train. Even if I had to knock an old lady on the tracks.

You sir, are a better man.