I'm sitting across the room from the person responsible for giving me the best poker lesson I'll ever receive. A few hours ago my poker tutor called me from her driveway, crying because she was afraid to enter the house. Our house.
Two days ago, while she was home sick, my wife awoke to a loud thud, ran into the hallway and found two strangers in our house. They had rung the doorbell a few minutes earlier but my wife ignored them, assuming they were solicitors or the county tax assessor hounding us about the status of our perpetual basement project.
Instead, two poor souls whom society has failed assholes were standing in our landing, looking right up the stairs at her. So, like a good poker player, she re-raised, screaming "Get the hell out of my house!" They folded, running out the broken front door, with our recently diagnosed epileptic rescue dog and Mrs. Case Jack in hot pursuit.
The getaway car backed out of the icy driveway, Barkley running alongside eagerly trying to hitch a ride (note to self: next dog – Rottie), and my wife standing in her socks and pajamas in the 4 degree Minnesota winter, yelling, "I got your plate you MotherFuckers! I got your plate!"
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