Funny story about a guy who was just popping Viagra one moment, and then vowing to play poker tournaments online the next

Found this funny story online:

I went out on a date with a hot chick a couple of weeks ago. I was so excited to know that she was also a poker player like me and we agreed to play strip poker one day. Awesome! That night though, we were so hot for each other that after just a couple of drinks we went straight to her pad.

Oh, yes we made out. And made out some more. But the pecker! It. Just. Won’t. Launch. It has to be the alcohol (oh, yes blame it on the alcohol!). But this can’t be happening! This is THE night! It was the most willing I ever got to making out and it stretched out to eternity. I bagged the world record for the first and only woman who said no to sexual foreplay. Oh, the look on her face! No, not yearning. More like – exasperated… So with droopy shoulders (and slinger), I went home with my hand.

After a few days, I had to risk my face and ask her for another date – a date she can never resist. She didn’t answer my calls so I just left a message, “Would you like to go to Vegas for the weekend? There’s a Hollywood poker tournament in The Mirage. Call me if you’re game.” And boy did she call! She called and we were off to a 300-mile drive in no time. One word: Suicide.

She went there for poker, I went there to get laid (or vice versa, who knows?) so when we arrived the hotel, she went straight to the poker tables, I tried to cover all bases. I got her beer, I got me Soda. Then in a very sneaky fashion, I popped a Viagra. Oh, wait. Why not make it two pops? Tonight’s gonna be a goooood, loooong night! Yeah, man!

Right.

We agreed to play a couple of rounds before checking out the Hollywood poker tournament. Of course, the risk of encountering shitloads of retardation and assery in a poker tournament is very high mainly because of the retards that surround the table. The various smells are a different story in itself; one that has its own life, one that I will probably save for another article.

As luck would have it, I played against Mr. A-hole with terrible B.O., Mr. Tranny, who smells of weird Venetian perfume, and an old guy, who smells of fear.
Mr. A-hole tried to bluff me off of a nice pot unsuccessfully. After I called him down with a small pair, Mr. A-hole looked at me and said, “I should have known you can't bluff a calling station.”

Trash talks ensued like - “Dude, you’re drinking Sprite!” or “I enjoyed last night with your sister!” What got me really heated was Mr. Hefner over there spewing out unso-fuckin-licited advice on how I misplayed my hand and ways to better my play. My brain started to rot and before brain juices dripped out of my ears, I made sure I spilled out the best assery they all deserved. Have I told you about stench?

At this point, I was already hard. Really hard. Really, really hard that my shorts can no longer hide it.

Which reminds me, I had a date. I smile at her. $100 says I’ll get it on!
Soon enough, Mr. A-hole and I were exchanging low blows while Mr. Tranny screamed expletives everywhere. By this time, I was already downing mugs of beer while my date remained a quiet poker player. When I lost 96% of my life savings in round 2 of shootout, I tried to provoke Mr. A-hole into a square fight outside. To this, the dealer finally demanded us to leave. But retardation still persisted - besides, I was hard. Really hard.

No, not for Mr. A-hole. Definitely not for Mr. Tranny and most certainly not for Mr. Hefner! But how on earth can this be for the hot chick I was with? She had nothing to do with my life for the past hour and who has forgotten the longest make out session in world?

I was determined not to stand and leave the table. “You are requested to leave the table or else you will be asked to leave the premises,” said the dealer. It was a loud, frenzied scene with Mr. A-hole, Mr. Tranny, and the dealer. My date kept tugging my sleeve already but there is no way in hell I was gonna stand up and blow off the only reason I drove 300 miles for.

I was already sweating mad when I turned around and saw three security guards with canines coming up to get me. Apparently, Mr. Hefner was a VIP poker player and wanted to do away with the trash talks. My shoulders drooped once again in surrender but this time, the pecker was still unyielding. They escorted me and my date WITH HANDS ON OUR BACKS to the Gaming Control Authority to the stares of the entire gambling public. While walking, the huge dogs kept sniffing on my crotch. The guards noticed and snickered, “That’s mighty, Dude.”

My date’s jaw dropped. She gave me an odd look of disbelief. She was appalled.

By this time, I made my resolve to do away with the long drive to Vegas next time. From now on, I will stick to online poker tournaments, especially in http://www.hollywoodpoker.com/ where hot chicks do not have expectations and never get upset. I can even play poker losing little cash or losing no money at all. I even get cash backs and bonuses that I never get in casinos! There’s still the habitual fat assery online but no dealers or security guards to kick me out. And best of all, I don’t have to put up with various repulsive smells other than my own.

Reality check. My date and I decided to call it a night and do away with the Hollywood poker tournament. We treaded the endless journey on our way to the hotel exit with mocking stares, cheers, and guffaws. By the looks of it, she just wanted to melt. And me? I just wanted to press the eject button and rocket out of the ceiling. With a really, really hard pecker, mind you.

We managed the 300-mile drive home in silence. Once again, I had to go home with the sole company of my hand – only this time, a pauper. FML.