(Warning: this is what happens when you open your big mouth and lose a prop bet. Kids, don't try this at home.)

It is with a plethora of self-condemnation and a paucity of vexation that I bring to you a cautionary tale. A tale so morbid it scarcely bears repeating, but alas I must, as the terms were stated clear.

aka Crow is a dish best served cold...
All hail Iak, the master of the flop. Yes, I lost a prop bet to the mighty Sir Iakaris, and now I must pay the price. Indulge me, if you will, as I attempt to bestow upon him my unequivocal deference to his vast superiority in all things poker.

aka Dealt by the hand of the Doctor, the prognosis is in (and it doesn't look good)...
The terms were simple, to last longer was the only goal. Though my stratagem was contrived with ingenuity, it was no doubt (no less...no more) the fault of my own devices that contributed to my loss. I am truly the Equus Asinus of the poker blogging world on this day. To think, even for a moment, that my humble offerings at the table could somehow compete with your eminence was truly a disgrace and a rather remarkable misjudgment on my part.

aka Et tu, Brute?...
It seems almost fitting that my tournament hopes were slashed to bits at the hand of Wheaton, for if not for him you would not be here. It was his tournaments that brought you into our inner circle, encouraging you to wield your sword - nay, your scepter, through the vast school of fish only to end up at my door. It was Wheaton himself who unceremoniously tossed me from the tournament on this day. A day I will rue? Yes, perhaps. Yet a day that will live forevermore in my thoughts. If you prick me, do I not bleed, Wil? Is that not enough?

aka Keep your feet, mine are big enough for both of us...
No need to further put your feet on the chopping block, I am certain that mine will henceforth fill the virtual shoes. That is, when they aren't in my mouth choking back thoughts of ever questioning your poker excellence again.

aka Not enough? A sonnet, perhaps?...
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself, and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy victory comes by his hand that brings
A better kicker, which boots my set of kings.
(Admittedly, I changed that last part just a little. My sincerest apologies to the Bard himself.)

aka Lest we forget, all is not lost...aka I win! I win!...
It is true that my sorrow may be more rhetorical than real. Perhaps I am speaking just slightly in jest. I do recall, just moments after my fall from grace, that this occurred on another table:

Could it be that as you choke on your thesaurus weave wonders with your writing I may be plotting further revenge? Stay tuned, dear Iakaris, for the end is not near - I have only just begun.

aka The change has been passed, thus ends the deal...
Yeah yeah, you got your money. And your post. I'm all settled up, no? ;)