Sorry for all the times I sucked out on you. Really, from the depths of my fat-absorbing heart.
Now you owe me an apology, an enormous one at that.
Bigger than Obama winning the presidential election. Greater than the waves surfed by champions. A Sorry so loud it could wake up a small town, better yet, bring the dead back to life. And you’d better mean it, too.
For what? Yeah, for starters, the cash games, the tournaments, the online transfers, the casino trips, the gatherings in a shady basement that you invited me to. No, begged me to attend. Whatever you did, cheat, colluded, send signals, worked, because my hard-earned paychecks fed you, clothed you, paid for your school loans and worst, fattened up your girlfriends.
I, on the other hand, blew the green paper away more effortlessly than dandelion leaves, and for a number I-don’t-wish-I-had-fingers-to-count of years I chased each bill like a famished wilderbeaste. Chase, meaning I called insurmountable bet amounts to turn you, to river you but failed to catch up against your bottom-two pair, cards you should never have even called a raise with pre-flop. My reputation disintegrated while yours climbed higher than Mount Everest’s peak, my relationships with people I never even knew existed tarnished before I formally introduced myself–all thanks to you degenerates.
OK, you’re right. You never did put a gun to my head and forced me to put my money on the table. Sure, you won my money fair-and-square. I was obsessed, fine. You’re entitled to your own opinions. However–this isn’t a game of blame–so if you’re defending your loose winnings, stop, because it’s futile as fuck.
Big Foot better feel bad the same day you apologize to me for trying to steal my thunder.