I’m actually quite good at poker. At least, I am at first. Every time I play poker the following little narrative happens:
I sit down at a table with friends (or whoever I’m playing with), and we all toss in $20 and grab some chips. At first, I dominate the party. My sense of timing in picking winning hands is infallible. I’m bluffing like a pro, having people fold when I’m running with a Jack as a high card. The frustration on the faces of the other players is clear to see.
But then I hit what I like to term the alcoholic event horizon. There is a point where, after drinking a certain quantity of alcohol (more if it’s beer, less if it’s bourbon) that I tip over that edge of being a really careful, clever player and become Captain Risky himself.