Sunday, June 7, 2009
For three years now there has been a nasty little member of the marsupial family plaguing my lawn (or lack thereof as my friends and neighbours know very well). Mr. Mole, lawn destroyer extraordinaire. Also known as Little Brown Bastard. I've cursed him. I've cursed his mother. I've cursed his uncle and his sisters and his brothers. I threatened that I would search out and kill his whole family if he kept up his digging antics. I tried to smoke him out, drown him, trap him, stomp him. I've tried to reason with him. Offered him my time-share in the Poconos if he'll just...move...out. But alas, Little Brown Bastard has eluded me.
In No Limit Poker, one mistake can cost you a tournament. One misread on your opponents and you are walking the streets reflecting on your own idiocy like a Wall Street broker buying up GM. Mr. Mole made that one costly mistake today and I was there to take advantage. He bluffed at the wrong time and I had Aces.
We are out in the garden enjoying a nice Sunday afternoon. Sunshine, my wife, is picking the dead leaves and petals off struggling flowers and notices that each time she presses a begonia back down into the soft earth, it slowly pops itself back up again. After a few attempts she calls me over. "I think Little Brown Bastard is after my flowers," she shouts. I look closely at the bobbing flower. "I think you're right," I whisper, my eyes glazing over with fury and hate.
I grab my shovel. Not the flat one, the nice, sharp spade with a pointy end. I am calm. I can see Mr. Mole across the poker table. His whole stack is pushed into the center. He's got his dark glasses on and he's staring down. I stare back. Look close. He's hiding behind those glasses but he's fully exposed. I raise my shovel up above my head. In a deranged, overdramatic whisper I speak my final words to Little Brown Bastard. "I CALL"
The shovel spears deep into the loose dirt. I lift it up and look for red paint. Evidence of my victory. There is none. "Does he have me beat again?" I think. I step on the mount of dirt. It doesn't bob or move at all. I shove my hand into the war zone and immediately find his tunnel. I root around, sifting the dirt and cursing his name over and over. How could he get away again? He had no outs!
Then my hand brushes against soft. I turn over the dirt and my nemesis flops into the open. I stand there shocked. Stunned. Victory is mine! "I killed the mole! I killed the mole! Sunshine! I killed the mole!" I scream. The rush of victory shoots up my spine and into my brain. I pump my fist and jump up in the air. It looks like the end to every cheesy 80's action tv show. "He's DEAD," I say.
"You're DEAD," I tell him, just in case he wasn't aware.
One mistake, that's all it took. Goodbye Little Brown Bastard. You were a good nemesis...but I'm glad your dead.