It’s irreversible now: Biscotti turned 26 the other day. So the age of 30 is not at all far away now. And my age is already damaging my brain, my memory to be more specific: I forgot all about the homegame we had on my birthday. But then I found an old report on my desk about the last homegame we had at Quattro Cane-Iz and I realized I didn’t yet write about it.

The corruption was everywhere again in this illegal cardroom: when I entered they tried to convince me that the seating was already decided and I was placed next to the Iranian idiot from the Netherlands. I simply replied by going all-in on the first hand. They immediately realized they can’t fuck with Biscotti. Just when I was starting to get in the game, I told them about the horny grape I saw in the Colruyt (”she had wel iet”, as we say), they were trying to steal my button every time I was on it. That made clear to me it was time for my masterplan: I tried to mark the cards by dropping them in the ashtrey, but they noticed it.

From that moment on I concentrated myself on the quest for a Tipke for my big cigarette, while the invalid fatty was telling everybody some nonsense about buying a car with his redundancy bonus. That period proved the theory of the Roguish Buffalo: when you don’t search for a good hand, you’ll find it. I cracked aces by making a flush and I was very proud of myself after that hand.

But then I was confronted with the luck of the overbetting pseudo-pro. That guy spiked the first flush of his life that night, so I had to know something was going on. After I bought in for the legendary amount of 5€, I fought myself back in the game. I threw it all-in with QQ preflop against K5 from this moron, and the idiot made a wheel on the river. When the fatty said “Bye bye Biscotti”, I wanted to punch him in his face so the blood would pour out of his head. In the end I didn’t, but I’m not sure I can control myself next time in that spot.