Bad Luck

In an effort to console me, a psychiatrist once told me that much of what I consider flaws trace back to mere bad luck. I've been medically diagnosed with bad luck and I still play poker on a weekly basis, which is about as reckless and foolish as a trapeze artist diagnosed with vertigo insisting he doesn't need a net.

I said to the doctor: “To hell with your diagnosis. I'm gonna beat the odds, man!”

Raising an eyebrow, he said, “Oh, yeah? Fifty bucks says you don't.”

“You're on, Dr. Fucker!” I said, and dug for my wallet.

And so we rolled a game of dice on the plush carpet in his office. I rolled five straight snake-eyes that he matched by rattling off sevens—astoundingly with just one die on three occasions.

Fondling his newly won wad of cash, he chuckled snidely. But once he detected my fuming and dejected disposition, his devilish grin straightened—somewhere between reproach and compassion—and he said to me...

“There. Now do you see the adverse consequences of your compulsive behavior?”
My face colored like a bloody clown shoe, I pried my tightly pinched lips apart to mutter a simple response.

“No.”

The doctor's hands collided elatedly.

“Great! Double or nothing, then, chump. You game?”

I screamed: “Make it triple or nothing, asshole!”