Cincinnati Hold ‘em

Hang on, this one’s pretty stupid! It’s not my fault – it’s just what came out when I started typing as I was watching Sunday’s game. In honor of the Pope’s visit to the U.S. and his mass at Yankee Stadium, a holy place in it’s own right, here it is…

With an off day, a few Reds decided to get together for a little day-long poker game at Bronson’s apartment up on Mount Adams. The sky held a strange, purple tint that wove through the dark clouds hanging over Cincinnati, and more than one Red commented about it.

The gambling group consisted of Ken Griffey, Jr., Adam Dunn, and Joey Votto, who had begged the others to be included in their media star clique. Bronson whipped up a batch of his special nachos, a delectable concoction of fresh tomatoes, red and green peppers, onion, garlic (four cloves), and jalepenos with chili powder, tabasco sauce, ground lime peel, cilantro, and Mexican oregano all mixed in with some JTM taco filling and a little something else to make them special.
“All right, they’re together again!” Griffey exclaimed when Bronson set the nachos in front of them as Dunn began to deal the cards. Bronson’s nachos were Junior’s favorite food. Griffey, Dunn, and Bronson began to chow down and eventually noticed Votto hadn’t touched them.

“Dude, you’re allowed to have some,” Dunn said.

“I’m a vegetarian,” Votto said to disgusted faces.

“How do you live without meat?” Dunn asked as he slurped up some taco filling meat off a nacho.

“You’re eating dead animal. That’s disgusting,” Votto replied.

“You don’t think eating dead plant is disgusting?” Griffey asked him. Votto paused.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Plants don’t have blood in them.”

The room grew silent. Cards were dealt, anties paid, bets were made. No one said anything unrelated to the game for several hands. Finally, Griffey spoke.

“Plants don’t have blood in them. That sounds like something JB would say.”

“Johnny Bench?” Votto asked, his face brightening.

“No, Jeff Brantley.” Votto grew sulky. “‘Cept Brantley wouldn’t dream of not eating meat. That’s all he DOES eat. Won’t touch the vegetables.”

“That’s a shame,” Votto said, nearly whispering.

You’re wrong, Griff,” Dunn said. “JB eats fried okra. And fried green beans. Hell, he’d probably eat fried broccoli if they had it.”

“They do have it,” Votto said. “They eat it in India all the time.”

“Man, is this India?” Griffey said.

“No, but lots of Americans love Indian food.”

“What’s Indian food?” Bronson asked. “Buffalo?”

“Not Native Americans,” Votto said, flabbergasted. “Real Indians, you know, from India, the country.”

“Why’d they name a country after our Indians?” Dunn asked. Votto’s mouth dropped.

“You Americans are really stupid. You use your schools for socializing rather than getting an education, eh?”

“Relax, rook, I was just pulling your leg,” Dunn replied. Griffey and Bronson laughed cornily.

“Oh.”

The game continued in further silence until Votto had nearly cleared out his checking account.

“Don’t worry, rook,” Dunn said. “Keep up the way you’re playing, and someday money will be no object for you, either.” Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

“You expecting someone?” Griffey asked.

“No,” Bronson replied. “Probably just some chick looking to get some from me. Happens all the time.” He went to the door and opened it. Standing in the doorway was the shock of their lives.

“Your Eminence, why, um, this is a surprise.”

“Bless you child,” the Pope replied.

“Come in, come in,” Bronson said confusingly. The Pope knocked his hat off as he passed through the doorway. He took off his outer robe and handed it to Bronson. Seeing several empty chairs around the poker table, he chose one next to Dunn and sat down.

“I’m sorry, You Holiness,” Dunn said.

“For what?”

“For us gambling here.”

“Why should I care? Us Catholics are not a bunch of uptight, puritanical hypocrites like those butter Christers you have trying to ban everything they don’t like in this country. We like to have fun. Just think of the Catholic countries. The Irish. The Italians. The Spanish – I mean, they have a daily naptime because they stay up so late! All of Latin America, with their carnivals and fiestas. We got the French, too, but they’re not so fun. Too busy looking down their noses to enjoy themselves, I say. But every group has their black sheep. Catholic monks are the ones who perfected beer and wine. Breweries in Europe? They were all started by monks.”

"Let's not forget raping and pillaging all of Europe and most of the Middle East, too," Dunn snapped.

“Let’s not argue here,” Votto said. “Let’s just play poker.”

“You’re just taking his side because you’re Catholic,” Griffey snapped.

“No, he’s right,” Bronson said. “Let’s just deal. You in, Your Papel Blessedness?”

“Call me Ben. And yeah, I’m in.”

“Wait. Dude’s got God on his side. I think that’s an unfair advantage,” Dunn said.

“You think God is up there helping me to win a poker game?” the Pope replied. “I think He’s got bigger things to worry about.”

“Yeah, like you stupid Americans warring all over the place, eh?” Votto said as he looked at the Pope. Griffey stuck his tongue out.

“Shut up, Canuck.”

They played a few more rounds in nervous silence, the Reds stealing occasional glances at the Pope as if he were going to shoot lightening bolts at them from his eyes. Votto’s luck began to change, and he started winning. He secretly harbored the notion that the Pope was mystically allowing him to win because he was a Catholic and not a heathen like the others. Then, another knock came from the door. Bronson looked at the others and shrugged his shoulders before getting up to open the door.

“Sorry I’m late. Bloody hell, don’t you Americans put up street signs? Or do you not name your bloody streets?” Votto shuddered at the word “blood.”

“Still haven’t found what you’re looking for?” the Pope asked a pissed off Bono.

“God, damn!” Dunn said. “This is a weird night…Sorry Pope. Gosh, darn! This is a weird night.”
“Your Eminence,” Bono started, looking around the apartment. “I thought you said this was a party.”

“It hasn’t started yet,” he replied.

“What party? This is just a poker game.” Bronson said.

“No, we decided to have a party at your place. You guys are dead. You stink. You couldn’t hit water from a boat. You might as well go up to the plate without bats. We thought we’d stop by to liven things up, get you all motivated to play ball.”

“Is God rooting for us?” Votto asked innocently.

“God roots for everyone.”

“Even the Yankees?”

“Oh, well, except the Yankees. His Son hates the Yankees. Plus Satan’s best friend owns them. And God isn’t too fond of the Cubs, either. Most obnoxious sports fans on the planet.”

“Is that why He never lets the Cubs win?”

“No, that’s the The Goat and Steve Bartman and Dusty Baker.” Votto gave him a pensive look. “God did send me here to put the spirit back into y’all, as you say in these parts. You look lifeless at the plate.”

“But I’ve been hitting!”

“Well, we didn’t expect you to be here. If I’m not mistaken, you invited yourself, right?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Bono joined in the poker game, and soon he and the Pope were talking of other things like placing bets on baseball. Bono, who was secretly a huge sports fan, knew more than his share about baseball, and he was pretty knowledgeable about Major League Baseball odds and particularly the odds of winning the NL Central. Everyone on the planet knew the Cubs had no chance of winning a World Series. Bono was particularly apt at betting on sports. After all, he IS Irish, and betting on sports is an Irish pastime. It all started with betting on horse racing, at which the Irish are among the world’s best. With globalization came sports such as baseball, jai alai, and that sport in Afghanistan where they pass around the dead animal. It went on to include American Idol, Dancing with the Stars, and the six-year old Americheer competition.

“I’m placing bets on the Cincinnati Reds,” he said.

“But we stink. Even the Pope says it. How are we gonna win?” Dunn asked.

“No wonder you’re losing, with that attitude,” the Pope said under his breath. Dunn frowned, went to the fridge, and pulled out another beer.

“Your team is just stuck in a moment you can’t get out of. You need to walk on, some days are just better than others. Tomorrow will be a beautiful day, no more electrical storm. It’ll be the sweetest thing when you win.”

There was a knock on the door and another and another. Soon, Bronson’s apartment was filled with partiers. There were local partiers like Nick Lachey, George Grande, and The National. There were American partiers like Michael Stipe and Tom Brady. And there were international partiers like Tony Blair, the Dali Lama, one of Saddam Hussein’s look-alikes, and the sane members of Oasis, who informed Bronson that they no longer wanted him covering their songs. He responded by reminding them that they hadn’t put out a good album in a decade, so they rescinded their demand. The Pope and Bono spent most of the time arguing whether or not the transubstantiation was the actual body of Christ or if it was just symbolic. The Dali Lama congratulated Michael Stipe on R.E.M.’s new album Accelerate, the best since New Adventures, he said. George Grande had the first beer of his life, figuring that if the Pope was drinking, it must not be too bad, and he drained twelve Sam Adams, regretting how he had missed such a glorious pleasure over the course of his existence. The National played their song Apartment Story in honor of them being in Bronson’s apartment, and the sane members of Oasis tried to convince singer Matt Berenger to take the insane member’s place, to no avail. After half a keg, Noel Gallagher succeeded in convincing Bronson to be Oasis’ singer, an agreement they both fortunately forgot the next morning.

The party really took the edge off the Reds foursome. The next day, Griffey, Dunn, and Votto hit two homers a piece, and Bronson threw a no hitter in his next start. Their good fortune and renewed enthusiasm caught on with the rest of the team, which threw off its losing clothes and tore up the National League for the rest of the season.

I’M SICK OF THE LACK OF OFFENSE!!!!11!!!11!!
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