In The Chips
HO HO HO!
We find ourselves perched on the very verge of Christmas Eve, with only one last lonely candle to light on our Advent wreaths before all holly breaks loose, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la. For anyone who hasn't already made sure to keep themselves on the Nice List instead of the Naughty List, the jig is pretty much up at this point, and your best bet is to plan to improve for next year and just write off this season as a lost cause. This has also been an eventful week full of other notable days, such as Hanukkah beginning on the 15th, as well as the eagerly anticipated Winter Solstice on the 21st. This is good news for anyone suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder, and even those of us who aren't, because from now going forward, all of the days are getting longer and sunnier, and I just can't think of anything better than that. For people who need even more cheering up than that, here's a little something that ties in with the current poker craze that's all over TV and the internet these days, featuring a bit of old-fashioned parlor humor from a master of the genre. Here's hoping that you have a holly, jolly and jingle all the way!
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Ladies’ WildBy Robert Benchley
In the exclusive set (no diphtheria cases allowed) in which I travel, I am known as a heel in the matter of parlor games. I will drink with them, wrassle with them and, now and again, leer at the ladies, but when they bring out the bundles of pencils and the pads of paper and start putting down all the things they can think of beginning with “W,” or enumerating each other’s bad qualities on a scale of 100 (no hard-feeling results, mind you – just life-long enmity), I tip-toe noisily out of the room and say: “The heck with you.”
For this reason, I am not usually included in any little games that may be planned in advance. If they foresee an evening of “Consequences” coming over them, they whisper “Get Benchley out of the house. Get him a horse to ride, or some beads to string – anything to get him out of the way.” For, I forgot to tell you, not only am I a non-participant in parlor games, but I am a militant non-participant. I heckle from the sidelines. I throw stones and spit at the players. Hence the nickname: “Sweet Old Bob,” or sometimes just the initials.
One night last summer, I detected, from the general stir among the ladies and more effete gents, that I was being eased out of the house. This meant that the gaming was about to begin. But instead of the usual clatter of pencils among the croupiers, I saw someone sneaking in with a tray of poker chips. They almost had me out the door when I discovered what was up.
“Well, so long, Bob,” they said. “Good bowling to you.”
“What’s this?” I came back into the room. “Are those poker chips?”
“Sure, they’re poker chips. It’s all right to play poker, isn’t it? The reform administration’s gone out.”
I assumed a hurt air. In fact, I didn’t have to assume it. I was hurt.
“I don’t suppose I’m good enough to play poker with you,” I said. “All I’m good enough for is to furnish the liquor and the dancing girls.”
“Why, we thought you didn’t like games. You always act like such a gol-darned heel whenever a game is suggested.”
“My dear people,” I said, trying to be calm, “there are games and games. ‘Twenty Questions’is one game, if you will, but poker – why, poker is a man’s game. It’s my dish. I’m an old newspaperman, you know. Poker is the breath of life to a newspaperman.” (As a matter of fact, I never played poker once when I was on a newspaper, and was never allowed to do more than kibitz at the Thanatopsis games of Broun, Adams, Kaufman, and that bunch, but poker is still my favorite game in a small way, or at least it was.)
Then there was a great scrambling to get me a chair, and sell me chips. “Old Bob’s going to play!” was the cry. “Old Bob likes poker!” People came in from the next room to see what the commotion was, and one woman said that, if I was going to play, she had a headache. (I had ruined a game of “Who Am I?” for her once by blowing out a fuse from the coat-closet.)
As for me, I acted the part to the hilt. I took off my coat, unbuttoned my vest so that just the watch-chain connected it, lighted my pipe, and kept my hat on the back of my head.
“This is the real poker costume,” I said. “The way we used to play it down on the old Trib. There ought to be a City News ticker over in the corner to make it seem like home.”
“I’m afraid he’s going to be too good for us,” said one of the more timid ladies. “We play for very small stakes, you know.”
“The money doesn’t matter,” I laughed. “It’s the game. And anyway,” I said modestly, “I haven’t played for a long time. You’ll probably take me good.” (I wish now that I had made book on that prediction.)
It was to be Dealer’s Choice, which should have given me a tip-off right there, with three women at the table, one the dealer.
“This,” she announced, looking up into space as if for inspiration, “is going to be ‘Hay Fever’.”
“I beg pardon,” I said, leaning forward.
“‘Hay Fever’,” explained one of the men. “The girls like it. One card up, two down, the last two up. One-eyed Jacks, sevens, and nines wild. High-low.”
“I thought this was going to be poker,” I said.
“From then on, you play it just like regular poker,” said the dealer.
From then on! My God! Just like regular poker!
Having established myself as an old poker-fan, I didn’t want to break down and cry at the very start, so I played the hand through. I say I “played” it. I sat looking at my cards, peeking now and then just to throw a bluff that I knew what I was doing. One-eyed Jacks, sevens, and nines wild, I kept saying that to myself, and pulling very hard at my pipe. After a minute of owlish deliberation, I folded.
The next hand was to be “Whistle Up Your Windpipe,” another one which the girls had introduced into the group and which the men, weak-kneed sissies that they were, had allowed to become regulation. This was seven-card stud, first and last cards up, deuces, treys, and red-haired Queens wild, high-low-and-medium. I figured out that I had a very nice straight, bet it as I would have bet a straight in the old days, and was beaten to eleven dollars and sixty cents by a royal straight flush. Amid general laughter, I was told that an ordinary straight in these games is worth no more than a pair of sixes in regular poker. A royal straight flush usually wins. Well, it usually won in the old days, too.
By the time the deal came around to me, my pipe had gone out and I had taken my hat off. Between clenched teeth I announced: “And this, my friends, is going to be something you may not have heard of. This is going to be old-fashioned draw poker, with nothing wild.” The women had to have it explained to them, and remarked that they didn’t see much fun in that. However, the hand was played. Nobody had anything (in comparison to what they had been having in the boom days) and nobody bet. The hand was over in a minute and a half, amid terrific silence.
That was the chief horror of this epidemic of “Whistle Up Your Windpipe,” “Beezy-Weezy,” and “Mice Afloat.” It made old-fashioned stud seem tame, even to me. Every time it came to me, I elected the old game, just out of spite, but nobody’s heart was in it. I became the spoil-sport of the party again, and once or twice I caught them trying to slip the deal past me, as if by mistake. Even a round of jack-pots netted nothing in the way of excitement, and even when I won one on a full house, there was no savour to the victory, as I had to explain to the women what a full house was. They thought that I was making up my own rules. Nothing as small as a full house had ever been seen in the game.
The Big Newspaper Man was taken for exactly sixty-one dollars and eight cents when the game broke up at four A.M. Two of the women were the big winners. They had finally got it down to a game where everything was wild but the black nines, and everyone was trying for “low.”
From now on I not only walk out on “Twenty Questions” and “Who Am I?” but, when there are ladies present (God bless them!) I walk out on poker. And a fine state of affairs it is when an old newspaperman has to walk out on poker!
Robert BenchleyFrom “After 1903 – What?”Harper & Brothers Publishers
We find ourselves perched on the very verge of Christmas Eve, with only one last lonely candle to light on our Advent wreaths before all holly breaks loose, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la. For anyone who hasn't already made sure to keep themselves on the Nice List instead of the Naughty List, the jig is pretty much up at this point, and your best bet is to plan to improve for next year and just write off this season as a lost cause. This has also been an eventful week full of other notable days, such as Hanukkah beginning on the 15th, as well as the eagerly anticipated Winter Solstice on the 21st. This is good news for anyone suffering from Seasonal Affective Disorder, and even those of us who aren't, because from now going forward, all of the days are getting longer and sunnier, and I just can't think of anything better than that. For people who need even more cheering up than that, here's a little something that ties in with the current poker craze that's all over TV and the internet these days, featuring a bit of old-fashioned parlor humor from a master of the genre. Here's hoping that you have a holly, jolly and jingle all the way!
=================================================
Ladies’ WildBy Robert Benchley
In the exclusive set (no diphtheria cases allowed) in which I travel, I am known as a heel in the matter of parlor games. I will drink with them, wrassle with them and, now and again, leer at the ladies, but when they bring out the bundles of pencils and the pads of paper and start putting down all the things they can think of beginning with “W,” or enumerating each other’s bad qualities on a scale of 100 (no hard-feeling results, mind you – just life-long enmity), I tip-toe noisily out of the room and say: “The heck with you.”
For this reason, I am not usually included in any little games that may be planned in advance. If they foresee an evening of “Consequences” coming over them, they whisper “Get Benchley out of the house. Get him a horse to ride, or some beads to string – anything to get him out of the way.” For, I forgot to tell you, not only am I a non-participant in parlor games, but I am a militant non-participant. I heckle from the sidelines. I throw stones and spit at the players. Hence the nickname: “Sweet Old Bob,” or sometimes just the initials.
One night last summer, I detected, from the general stir among the ladies and more effete gents, that I was being eased out of the house. This meant that the gaming was about to begin. But instead of the usual clatter of pencils among the croupiers, I saw someone sneaking in with a tray of poker chips. They almost had me out the door when I discovered what was up.
“Well, so long, Bob,” they said. “Good bowling to you.”
“What’s this?” I came back into the room. “Are those poker chips?”
“Sure, they’re poker chips. It’s all right to play poker, isn’t it? The reform administration’s gone out.”
I assumed a hurt air. In fact, I didn’t have to assume it. I was hurt.
“I don’t suppose I’m good enough to play poker with you,” I said. “All I’m good enough for is to furnish the liquor and the dancing girls.”
“Why, we thought you didn’t like games. You always act like such a gol-darned heel whenever a game is suggested.”
“My dear people,” I said, trying to be calm, “there are games and games. ‘Twenty Questions’is one game, if you will, but poker – why, poker is a man’s game. It’s my dish. I’m an old newspaperman, you know. Poker is the breath of life to a newspaperman.” (As a matter of fact, I never played poker once when I was on a newspaper, and was never allowed to do more than kibitz at the Thanatopsis games of Broun, Adams, Kaufman, and that bunch, but poker is still my favorite game in a small way, or at least it was.)
Then there was a great scrambling to get me a chair, and sell me chips. “Old Bob’s going to play!” was the cry. “Old Bob likes poker!” People came in from the next room to see what the commotion was, and one woman said that, if I was going to play, she had a headache. (I had ruined a game of “Who Am I?” for her once by blowing out a fuse from the coat-closet.)
As for me, I acted the part to the hilt. I took off my coat, unbuttoned my vest so that just the watch-chain connected it, lighted my pipe, and kept my hat on the back of my head.
“This is the real poker costume,” I said. “The way we used to play it down on the old Trib. There ought to be a City News ticker over in the corner to make it seem like home.”
“I’m afraid he’s going to be too good for us,” said one of the more timid ladies. “We play for very small stakes, you know.”
“The money doesn’t matter,” I laughed. “It’s the game. And anyway,” I said modestly, “I haven’t played for a long time. You’ll probably take me good.” (I wish now that I had made book on that prediction.)
It was to be Dealer’s Choice, which should have given me a tip-off right there, with three women at the table, one the dealer.
“This,” she announced, looking up into space as if for inspiration, “is going to be ‘Hay Fever’.”
“I beg pardon,” I said, leaning forward.
“‘Hay Fever’,” explained one of the men. “The girls like it. One card up, two down, the last two up. One-eyed Jacks, sevens, and nines wild. High-low.”
“I thought this was going to be poker,” I said.
“From then on, you play it just like regular poker,” said the dealer.
From then on! My God! Just like regular poker!
Having established myself as an old poker-fan, I didn’t want to break down and cry at the very start, so I played the hand through. I say I “played” it. I sat looking at my cards, peeking now and then just to throw a bluff that I knew what I was doing. One-eyed Jacks, sevens, and nines wild, I kept saying that to myself, and pulling very hard at my pipe. After a minute of owlish deliberation, I folded.
The next hand was to be “Whistle Up Your Windpipe,” another one which the girls had introduced into the group and which the men, weak-kneed sissies that they were, had allowed to become regulation. This was seven-card stud, first and last cards up, deuces, treys, and red-haired Queens wild, high-low-and-medium. I figured out that I had a very nice straight, bet it as I would have bet a straight in the old days, and was beaten to eleven dollars and sixty cents by a royal straight flush. Amid general laughter, I was told that an ordinary straight in these games is worth no more than a pair of sixes in regular poker. A royal straight flush usually wins. Well, it usually won in the old days, too.
By the time the deal came around to me, my pipe had gone out and I had taken my hat off. Between clenched teeth I announced: “And this, my friends, is going to be something you may not have heard of. This is going to be old-fashioned draw poker, with nothing wild.” The women had to have it explained to them, and remarked that they didn’t see much fun in that. However, the hand was played. Nobody had anything (in comparison to what they had been having in the boom days) and nobody bet. The hand was over in a minute and a half, amid terrific silence.
That was the chief horror of this epidemic of “Whistle Up Your Windpipe,” “Beezy-Weezy,” and “Mice Afloat.” It made old-fashioned stud seem tame, even to me. Every time it came to me, I elected the old game, just out of spite, but nobody’s heart was in it. I became the spoil-sport of the party again, and once or twice I caught them trying to slip the deal past me, as if by mistake. Even a round of jack-pots netted nothing in the way of excitement, and even when I won one on a full house, there was no savour to the victory, as I had to explain to the women what a full house was. They thought that I was making up my own rules. Nothing as small as a full house had ever been seen in the game.
The Big Newspaper Man was taken for exactly sixty-one dollars and eight cents when the game broke up at four A.M. Two of the women were the big winners. They had finally got it down to a game where everything was wild but the black nines, and everyone was trying for “low.”
From now on I not only walk out on “Twenty Questions” and “Who Am I?” but, when there are ladies present (God bless them!) I walk out on poker. And a fine state of affairs it is when an old newspaperman has to walk out on poker!
Robert BenchleyFrom “After 1903 – What?”Harper & Brothers Publishers
posted by El Tango Fandango @ 5:49 PM
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