The premise is exactly what you’d expect: They walk around betting thousands of dollars on completely inane bullshit. They bet on how much a shirt costs. They bet on whether a girl they meet on the street is wearing a thong or “regular panties.” They bet on who can be the best bartender and, later, who can get drunk and blow closest to .08 on a breathalyzer. All of which should provide for fun, rollicking scenes complete with plenty of spontaneous comedy. Instead, sitting through the half-hour show is like listening to Jamie Gold—it’s painful, and you don’t really want to do it, but you’re sure it’ll get better eventually so you stick it out. But it doesn’t get better. Trust me.

I’ve heard that Gavin Smith and Joe Sebok have a similarly dreadful show. But I’ll bet you it’s not worse than I Bet You. (That joke, lame as it is, is worlds funnier than anything that happens with Laak and Esfandiari, by the way.)

So here’s some advice for The Unabomber and The Magician: if you’re going to have a show like this, be men about it. Or at least increase the comedy. I once watched Eric Celeste bet Tim Rogers $50 that Tim wouldn’t eat lint out of Eric’s bellybutton (for some reason, Eric always has garbage in his navel). And Tim did it. Now that’s an entertaining bet. What you guys are doing is just a waste of my time.

I’m back in Boston, at Pokerati’s New England Bureau, but I can’t stop thinking about Cali (maybe because it’s typically cold and rainy here?). There are a lot of crazy-ass stories from the trip Dan and I took to the City of Angels, and we might even tell you some of them one day (though probably not considering the content is decidedly NC-17).

For now, here’s all you need to know: The Playboy Mansion is everything I expected and more. Much, much more. Thanks Dan.

Yesterday afternoon, Dan and I ventured to the Bike to play some cash until the $300 + 35 NL tourney was set to go off around 7:15. We both sat $2-3 NL, which, oddly, had a max buy-in of $100. Dan killed the game. Meanwhile, the game killed me. I ended up skipping the tournament in an attempt to work back into the black. I won’t bore you with bad beat stories, but the true nut-kick came when my bad beat jackpot was counterfeited on the river. So I went to the bar …

Now, at that point, I had already been drinking Heineken. But, given the special circumstances/extreme disappointment, not to mention some encouragement from Tiny B, I decided to kick it up a notch and drink vodka while watching the Lakers-Suns game. Lots of vodka.

Thereafter, I wandered over to the banquet room to check on Dan. At that point, there were about 75 players still left in the tournament, and someone had put a rope up–presumably to keep spectators away from the tables. Here’s the thing, though: The rope only extended about three-quarters of the length of one side of the room. The other side had no rope. More importantly, there were several people sweating players from just feet away from the tables. So I naturally assumed that the rope was no big deal and started watching Dan. And not from a very close distance, mind you; I was actually inches away from the rope–I just wasn’t behind it, which turned out to be the rub.

For a while, no one bothered me. Then, somewhere around vodka-soda No. 10, a small little balding man came up to me and told me to move behind the rope. He looked like a pedophile (it’s so true; just saying). I couldn’t understand why the little balding pedophile (henceforth known as LBP) wasn’t asking the other spectators to move back. One “railbird” was literally seated over his buddy’s shoulder, eating a sandwich and peeking at his friend’s hole cards. And yet he went unmolested by LBP. Meanwhile, I was far enough away that the cards were a blur to me. (Then again, my eyesight isn’t so good, so who knows?) LBP was singling me out. Now, this may shock some of you, but I don’t do well when people pick on me, and this dude was clearly singling me out. So I argued with him. Some may say that I made a scene, but I think I handled it well. OK, OK, maybe telling him that he was a racist gimp on a power trip was a bit over the top. Still, I made it clear that I wasn’t going anywhere until he was prepared to move everyone behind the rope.

He left. I smiled.

Unfortunately, I misread LBP’s resolve (one of my many poor plays from the evening). After a short while he returned, and we resumed our move-back/fuck-you-Hitler dance. Finally, he had security escort me from the building. I tried to convince security that I was being unfairly persecuted. No go. Not only did they tell me that I had to leave the casino, but I was also instructed to leave the property. Problem was, I was really drunk, and I couldn’t drive. So I snuck back to the car, hunkered down in the backseat, and tried to get some sleep.

Approximately 35 seconds later, security knocked on the car window. (They have cameras at casinos now? Who knew?) They wanted to know why I hadn’t left. They told me that, if I didn’t leave, I’d be banned for life. Luckily, I struck a deal with one of the guards: I would promise not to try to re-enter the casino and would restrict myself to the backseat of the car–even though that arrangement potentially meant pissing myself, since, by that time, I had to use the bathroom badly (see alcohol consumption above). See that you do, he said, and walked off. And that was it. About a half an hour later, right around the time I was thinking about urinating on the floor of the rental car (I was afraid to even walk across the street to use the bathroom, because I thought they might arrest me on sight), Dan busted out of the tournament and drove me home.

For the record, I would like it noted that I love LA. I just don’t like the Bike. Soon, though, I will return there with a disguise. I will go looking for LBP, and we will resume our discussion.

I can beat this game–I know it.

“ComeOutPoker also boasts the first ever gay poker game, known simply as ComeOut Hold’em. The game is played along the same guidelines as Texas Hold’em, but all straights are eliminated from the ranking of the hands.”

That’s fine and all, but these guys cornered the gay poker market years ago. You know, credit where it’s due.

Seems our friend here at Pokerati has been busy. Grant recently joined the poker world in a part-time capacity—as an entrepreneur. He recently created a poker apparel line called “Lucky Duck.” Oh, and those of you who share Dan’s passion for pushing to legalize our favorite game can also pick up a “legalize poker” bracelet on Grant’s site. Part of the proceeds will go to the Poker Players Alliance.

Hot chicks and cards? I dunno, Dan, think it will work?

Sounds good if you’re math impaired, but I wonder how well it works. And I’m a bit skeptical about whether these sorts of programs can really assist you in defeating quality players. Not to mention: I can’t imagine that PartyPoker or PokerStars or the rest would be all that thrilled with players having this kind of help/edge when they log-on.