[I have a friend who is an amazing writer but he tends to abandon his writing projects often. I wanted to save his writings for posterity and make them more widely available. The MonkeyPope Archives contain his collected works.]
Monday, September 19, 2005
The MonkeyPope and The Others
That’s pure funk, baby.
MonkeyPope funk. So get up off the downstroke!
The MonkeyPope just played a monster game of online poker against an opponent that people at the table claimed was a bot. Well, from a starting table of nine, it came down to me and botman. And I played aggressively, instinctively, I said to myself in a Charlton Heston sneer, “Now what do I got as a big hairy ape man that this damn dirty machine doesn’t? The right to bear arms!” But that didn’t help me much. So then I invoked a saying I live by, WWCHAMITTCD (What would Charlton Heston as Moses in The Ten Commandments do?) Easy, he’d call botman’s all-in with his pocket 3’s. After all, Moses (that’s me now) has the chip lead (by about 2500) and he’s got something else in his corner…God.
Well, botman flipped up AJ and down splashed a rainbow flop of QK8. His outs — the three other aces and three other jacks, along with the four tens still left in the deck for a gutshot straight draw. God, I like poker lingo.
Botman hits a ten on 5th street for the straight and suddenly has a commanding lead on me. To his more than 10,000 chips, I have less than 2500. But a new factor enters the equation. Observers start typing in the chat box that they had bet their friends that a 10 would fall on the river. That’s right, people were watching and placing sidebets on the unbeatable bot. Oh no, bitches. Now I had a duty to all mankind to destroy botman, like Kaspararov versus Big Blue, like Agassi versus Sampras (people, Sampras was a robot, fyi), like Arnold versus T2 if Arnold was human, like Moses versus the golden calf, if the golden calf was automated, like some shit versus some other shit.
I’ll be god-damned if it weren’t MonkeyPope Funky Pope Time. Suckah MCs.
I clawed, clawed. Observers begged me just to sit out, that it was impossible to beat the bot, save face, save dignity, self-respect and bow to its superiority?
Hey man, all I have in this world is my balls and word and I don’t break them for no one. I was in the zone and in the heat of the moment and confused by mixed metaphors, so I did not keep track of individual hands. But hand after hand, I played with subtlety and passion, laying down when it felt wrong, pushing when it felt right, ignoring pot odds, statistics, relying on the innate qualities that made me human, like craving nachos.
Before I realized it, I had a small lead and when I noticed it, I got Q6 in the small blind. Botman doubles the blind at me. Normally, I’d fold, but one-on-one versus botman with God in my corner and all the hopes of humanity on my shoulders? You bet your finger-filled bunghole that I was feeling it. I knew this was the one.
Flop comes 3Q2. Botman pauses (how very un-bot-like of him…). Then pushes all in. Six isn’t a very good kicker even for high pair, but Jesus age fucking Christ, it was for God and humanity, I knew this hand was mine, no, not mine, but all of ours (I gesture expansively with my arms as if I’m holding the world with tender loving care). I call. Botman flips over AK. Bitchass botman was about to go down versus Q6. Botman’s got 6 outs, the other aces and kings in the deck, but like I said, when you’re defending all of humanity, God’s got your back, baby. Botman didn’t hit shit except a brick wall of human dominance named DA MONKEY FUNKY POPE! Bitchass.
In the words of the Nazis, that’s the Triumph of the Will, excuse me, Triumph des Willens! Schnell! Schnell!
Well, gentle readers, while the MonkeyPope enjoys regaling you with his vanity, he is the bearer of sad news. His current living conditions will change at the end of week, resulting in a complete loss of internet connectivity for an undetermined, but albeit undoubtedly long, period of time. I may not have the opportunity to update again until late November. But just imagine how much delicious funk will be stored up in me by then, just waiting to gush out. And I promise some very interesting updates in the future. There may be another post before my little training hiatus, but the possibility is slim. I have to move, prepare for a field training exercise this weekend, keep up on my homework in class, register my car, submit my TDY/PCS leave form, and far too many other menial crap tasks to list here (but let me vent — all this junk is exacerbated by the, shall we say, ‘Southern Work Ethic’ so strenuously practiced here which couple with military incompetence and apathy means you are required to visit an office at least four times before they deign to assist you, if they’re not taking an extended lunch or coming in late or leaving early. Fuckers. Oh, that felt good).
Well, brilliant then. I believe I’m off.