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THE MOST IRRITATING
MAN IN THE WORLD
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Everyone should have an alter ego. Clark Kent had Superman,
Bruce Wayne had Batman, and I've got Dr. Dice.
My wife is particularly enthused about my alter ego, and the
last couple of weeks have been very exciting for her. Dr. Dice is in the
midst of back to back tournaments.
I'm talking, of course, about the game of Liar's Dice, which
Wikipedia describes as a class of dice games for two or more players
requiring the ability to deceive and to detect an opponent's deception. Dr.
Dice happens to be a master. No brag, just fact.
"I'd ask you to wish me luck," I said as I prepared
to walk out the door last Friday night for the first tournament, "but
Dr. Dice doesn't really need any. Skill should do the trick, as
always."
"How come it's always skill when you win, and bad luck
when you lose," she replied, barely looking up.
"Coincidence, I guess," I retorted. "And I play
with a lot of amateurs who have no idea what they're doing. Sometimes
their horrendous calls get lucky."
"Couldn't you come up with a different alter ego?"
she asked. "It kind of makes me a little uneasy that you think you're
the best liar in the world."
I could see her point. But a skill is a skill, and Dr. Dice (he
always refers to himself in the third person) just goes with it. In the game
of Liar's Dice, honesty is for losers. Dr. Dice was born to be a good liar.
Not me, just Dr. Dice.
"You won't care about Dr. Dice being a good liar when he
comes home tonight with a boatload of cash," I said, referring to the
money that always changes hands in dice games.
She rolled her eyes, clearly expecting the opposite. She
is not a fan of Dr. Dice. For that matter, neither is anyone else. No one
roots for him, primarily because he's the most obnoxious man on the planet.
Lest we forget, Dr. Dice is my alter ego. I'm not obnoxious, he
is. I'm not a braggart, he is. I'm not a liar, he is. I have no control over
him. I only love him. But I'm the only one who does.
I left my disrespecting wife behind and drove to the
tournament, which was conveniently located in a restaurant's upstairs room
that we have fondly named the "Bada Bing Room."
Eight of my high school and college friends were waiting for
me. They greeted me warmly, as Dr. Dice had not yet arrived. He would appear
once the games began.
Dr. Dice had organized the bi-annual tournament, as always.
Eight friends, all of whom loved me and hated Dr. Dice. Should be a fun
night.
After a drink or two and dinner, the game of Liar's Dice began
and, out of my control, Dr. Dice made his appearance. We all put in five
dollars for the first game. Dr. Dice was not happy.
"FIVE DOLLARS!!??" he cried. "How am I going to
feed my family with measly winnings like that? I can only win $40 per game,
and we'll probably only play a total of two games. This is hardly worth my
time!"
Having known Dr. Dice for a long, long time, his friends
ignored him, just like his wife ignores him. The game began and, incredibly,
Dr. Dice was the first one eliminated.
"AMATEURS!" he shouted, pounding the table in
frustration. "I'm sick and tired of playing with lucky amateurs. I
should only play in National Tournaments, where I belong!"
While he waited for others to be eliminated and a winner to be
crowned, there was nothing left for Dr. Dice to do except berate his
fellow competitors.
"THAT'S THE STUPIDEST CALL I'VE EVER SEEN," he would
bellow. "That's going in Chapter 12 (Stupid Calls) of my book, 'How to
Play Liar's Dice and Irritate Everyone.'"
It was not a good night for the Doctor. He lost the second
game, too. Badly. He went home, $10 short, and announced to his wife that it
was not a good night for lying.
"Good," she said. "And by the way, you do
realize you're the only one who calls you Dr. Dice."
"It's only been about 20 years since he first made an
appearance," I glumly replied. "It will catch on. Superman
probably started slowly, too."
She patted me gently. "Keep lying to yourself," she
said. "You clearly need the practice."
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