A Story I Couldn't Stomach

Benjamin Franklin once famously wrote that in this world, nothing is certain but death and taxes. Old Ben forgot about Action Al. If anything is certain in this world, it is that if Al wants to track me down badly enough in an attempt to foist one of his "hilarious" (that is, stupid) column ideas on me, he will manage to do so.



Sure enough, despite my vigilance, Al cornered me in a casino one night. "Hey, Maxey," he burbled, "I've got another great idea for your column."



Al's timing, as usual, was wonderful. I was in a great Omaha eight-or-better game, doing better than I had in months, stuck less than $100, and I was anxious to get back to my seat.



"Not now, Al," I said as politely as I could. "I've been away from my table for a while, and if I don't get back soon, they'll pick me up."



"Never happen, Maxey. The other players would never let them pick you up. You're the main reason they're playing."



What a charmer. I decided to employ diplomacy. "Let me through before I kick you in the nuts, Al!"



"Sure thing, Maxey, soon as I tell you about my idea," Al plowed on, undeterred. "Ever notice how many poker players have had stomach stapling operations? Wouldn't that make for a funny column?"



"Stomach stapling? That's crazy! What's funny about that? What has that got to do with poker? That's the worst idea you've ever come up with, and in your case, that's saying a lot. Now let me through before … "



At that moment, I was horrified to see a floorman picking up my chips. In a rage, I grabbed Action Al by the throat and began throttling him. "I'll kill you, Al!" I sputtered. "Did you see how long the list is for that game? I'll never get back in again."



"Aw, don't worry about it, Maxey," Al said, gasping for breath. "They only had a big list 'cause you were in the game.



See, everybody's getting up now."



My evening completely ruined, I retrieved my picked-up chips, fended off Al as he tried to give me added details for his story idea, and left the casino in despair. "Stomach stapling, stomach stapling," I kept chanting in disbelief as I drove home.



Not long thereafter, I was in Vegas and dropped by the Card Player office for a visit. Jeff Shulman walked by. "Ever notice how many poker players have had their stomachs stapled?" he asked. "That might make a good column."



"Great idea, Jeff," I responded instantly. "I'll start work on it right away."



Integrity is my middle name. With resignation, I parked myself at my computer and tried to come up with a few funny lines. I couldn't come up with anything. I tried doing research and learned that stomach stapling, also known as gastric bypass surgery, is a procedure once reserved for a few dangerously obese adults. Now, with more than 30 percent of Americans considered obese, such operations have ballooned in popularity. In 2005, nearly 200,000 Americans underwent that and similar procedures. Well, I didn't see anything funny there.



I tried to think of some connection with poker. It was obvious that many players would be candidates for stapling. Sitting immobile at the table for hours, getting no exercise other than occasionally throwing cards at the dealer, then getting stuffed at the buffet does not produce gym-workout physiques. I also knew that any number of poker players who did have the operation lost a lot of weight at first, only to gain much of it back again. Doing more research, I learned that the procedure might reduce the stomach to the size of a coffee cup. But it won't do much good, one doctor was quoted as saying, if the patient refills the cup hundreds of times a day. Still not much to laugh at.



Complications from the operation? They range from gas, pain, and diarrhea to malnutrition and osteoporosis, and there's even a death rate of 2 percent. (Oh, this was getting funnier and funnier.) Finally, unable to come up with anything, I swallowed my pride and did something I swore I would never do. I looked for Action Al.



"Hey, Al," I greeted him cheerily. "On second thought, I've decided that your stapling idea would make for a great column. What were some of the angles you had in mind?"



Action Al was in pig heaven. "I've got lots of ideas, Maxey. You could write that a poker room has more staples than an office supply store."



As Al doubled up in laughter at his "witticism," I swallowed hard and pretended to laugh along and take notes. "Not bad. What else you got?"



"How about writing how much trouble poker players have at airports because the staples in their stomach set off alarms at the security gate?"



"Oh, that's a gem. What else?"



"Well, poker players who had the operation have their own theme song."



"Which is?" I asked, fearing the worst.



"You know, Yesterday, the Beatles song. Remember the lyrics? 'Suddenly, I'm not half the man I used to be.'"



I was starting to get nauseous. Action Al, I am sure, once must have had a stapling operation on his head that reduced his brain to the size of a teacup – or maybe a thimble. Still, after another month of effort, I couldn't come up with anything better.



Sorry, Jeff, I give up. You write the story.