To quote some famous Presidents:
Let me
be perfectly clear: There was no collusion, there was no collusion with that
Russian.
Recently my company sponsored a “Casino Night” for a large
gathering of our clients. At the end of the evening, people turned in their
chips for raffle tickets for a chance to win prizes. Employees were permitted
to gamble, but weren’t allowed to win any prizes. We were encouraged to give
away any chips we had left to the other players.
I’m not a gambler. I have never lost a nickel in a real casino.
But I do enjoy playing poker, even though I had not played in over five years.
So if there was an open seat at the poker table, I would play. If not, I would
circulate and interact with our customers, as we were encouraged to do. I let
the festivities begin and then casually walked around the “casino”. The one
poker table was full with the action already started. But on the back wall, the second poker table
was empty, except for the bored dealer, an attractive woman in her early-40’s,
sitting all alone. I felt sorry for her, and there were all these open chairs,
so I grabbed my friend Jeff and sat down at the table hoping more people would
join us.
The dealer’s name tag read “Amy”, but I assure you that wasn’t
her real name. “Amy” had a strong Russian accent. The type of accent that conveyed
she could have been dealing cards in Vladivostok last week. Maybe her name was
too long for a name tag, or perhaps it was too difficult to spell, but I can
imagine someone saying “Amy quit last week, so just use her tag.”
Amy, no, let’s call her Natasha, was amused when I told her
I couldn’t play aggressively because it would be impolite for me to take all my
clients’ chips. We exchanged some playful banter and soon several more players
arrived, including my colleague James, seated directly on my right, and play
began. After a few hands, James, leans over to me and says, “Don, I think the
dealer is really in to you. She keeps looking at you and joking with you!” I
attempt to disagree, but James is adamant. “No Don, she’s not looking at me
like that and she hasn’t said one word to me. She likes you.”
This was no surprise to me. Okay, unlike other people, I
will admit that I have colluded with a Russian for a long time. For many years,
I have done some very intense colluding, which has even resulted in two
offspring. In addition, over the years I have become good friends (but no
“collusion”) with several women of Russian descent. I am so glad I didn’t work
in the Trump campaign, or Robert Mueller would now be probing me in some very
sensitive areas.
So I have to admit, for some strange, unknown, reason,
Russian women find me attractive. Now if
you believe that awful stereotype about Russian women being unattractive, may I
remind you that I have been married to the most beautiful woman in the world
for 38 years. If you still doubt, one name: Anna
Announcer:
That’s Kournikova’s fifth double-fault today. She keeps staring up to the same
area in the stands. What could be distracting her?
And I believe it was Lenin and Stalin that wrote: “And the
Moscow girls make me sing and shout. They leave the West behind.” Wait! I’m sorry, that may have been Lennon
and McCartney.
I have never traveled to Moscow because of the fear of
being mobbed by Russian women and then interrogated by the KGB. “Vaht is your
secret! Tell us now!” Perhaps it would be more fun to be lusted after by
Swedish babes, but if that were the case, I envision being on my fourth
marriage or dead by now.
If you think this story is going to be about how Natasha is a
“dirty dealer”, discretely slipping me great cards, you would be wrong, so
wrong. My cards that night were horrible. I know all poker players complain
about their cards, but my cards were consistently anemic. In the first hour, my
best starting pair was K-7 unsuited, which I eventually folded. And I folded
that night more times than a complex origami.
Amy of course noticed I wasn’t playing any hands and
started to kid me about folding so much. At one point, she looked at my folded
cards and chided me in front of everyone for not playing them. The other players
around thought it was hilarious that Natasha was implying I was a terrible poker
player. But really she was playfully teasing me, I had folded 8-9 unsuited, not
a good hand at a large table.
But James could not let her comments go without a response.
He leans over as says to me in a remarkably good fake Russian accent:
“You
play like a tiny, weak man. You have no balls. You run away like a scared little
girl.”
The very next deal, I fold 4-7 unsuited. Natasha mumbles a
“hmmp”, with a look of derision. And
James continues his onslaught:
“You
are a horribly bad player. You are so awful that if you were in Russia, you
would be sent to a camp in Siberia. But for you, it would be a women’s
camp. Because you would be no threat to
them, because YOU HAVE NO BALLS!”
A couple folded hands later, Natasha remarks somewhat
sarcastically “I hope I deal you some better cards sometime.”
To which I immediately reply, “Oh I expect that you will
make me happy before the end of the night.” This is said in jest, with a funny smirk, trying to elicit
a reaction.
After he stopped laughing, James whispers to me, “Don, she
didn’t even flinch and she’s not blushing.” “Russian women don’t blush easily”, I reply “but now she
can’t look at me, so it did hit the mark.
And she did make me happy that night --- by finally dealing
me a couple good hands near the end, enabling me to acquire an impressive stack
of chips. Of course, just at that moment, a coworker appears out of
nowhere and says:
“Gee Don, you have a bunch of the customers chips! Have you
been sitting here all night?”
Me: “Uh, I uh, K-7 unsuited, bad cards …. blah, blah,
blah.”
But I was able to distribute lots of chips to all our
clients at the table. So, everyone was happy at the end of the night.
But there was no collusion. No collusion with the Russian.
No collusion whatsoever.
Lord, I
was born a Yankee man
Trying
for détente
And
doing the best I can
And
when it’s time for glasnost
I hope
you’ll understand
That I
was born a Yankee man
(much apologies to the Allman Brothers)
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