How to Survive a Table Full of Bros (Without Getting Arrested)

Testosterone, tequila, and the fragile male ego.

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It starts with one.

One tank-topped, spiky-haired, overly tanned Chad who calls me “boss man” and throws a crumpled twenty at the layout like he’s feeding a pigeon. I already know. My soul knows. The table is cursed.

Then another one pulls up. And another. Suddenly, I’m hosting The Bachelor: Frat House Reunion Tour, and these grown-ass boys are here to party like it’s senior week in Cabo.

Welcome to my nightmare…

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Bro Type 1: The Loud One™

This man’s entire personality is volume. He yells when he wins, yells when he loses, yells when he orders tequila shots from a cocktail server who clearly wants to file a restraining order. He doesn’t know basic strategy, but he will explain it to everyone like he invented Blackjack.

“YO DEALER, DOUBLE ME ON THIS HARD TWELVE, I GOT A FEELING.”

Sir. The only thing you’ve got is liver damage and an expired Planet Fitness keytag.

Bro Type 2: The Toucher

Why do his hands need to be on the table at all times? Chips, cards, other players, me—nothing is safe. He’s sliding cards, touching chips post-bet, fist-bumping strangers. Every time he moves, I flinch.

“Relax, bro, I’m just hyping the energy!”
Great. Now get your hand off mine and go sit down somewhere.

Bro Type 3: The Crypto King

You can spot him by the expensive chain, the shades, and the persistent smell of energy drinks and unverified ambition. He refers to all bets as “investments” and somehow finds a way to mention Dogecoin before the first hand is even dealt.

“Poker is all math, bro. Same as the blockchain.”
Cool. When you’re finished turning the UTH table into a TED Talk on crypto, maybe slide me a chip or two… no wallet address required.

Bro Type 4: The Gaslighter

This one? He swears he put a green chip down when I very clearly watched him bet red. “Nah man, you trippin’. That was always green. I BEEN bettin’ green.”

Gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss, but in the most annoying, manipulative, you’re-not-getting-away-with-it way. He’ll try to play the victim in front of the pit boss, until the eye in the sky hands me receipts and I casually remind him this isn’t his home game with the boys.

This one’s definitely a contender for most annoying because of the endless shot taking, slowing down my game.

Bro Type 5: The Bachelor Party Disaster

He’s wearing a crown, a fake veil, or some handcuffs he hasn’t taken off since Señor Frog’s brunch. His pants are suspiciously wet. And he keeps asking me if I know any strippers.

I’m the dealer. Not your cruise director.

Also: if your future spouse saw you right now, she’d legally marry the valet instead.

Bonus Bro Combo: The Pack Mentality

One Bro? Manageable. Two? Caution zone. A full table? Pure chaos.

They egg each other on, imitate sports announcers, do fake commentary on their own hands like they’re live-streaming to Twitch. Suddenly someone’s howling like a wolf, and another one is making fart noises. At a certain point, you stop trying to preserve your sanity and just try to survive until you get tapped out.

How gabro Stays Calm (Mostly)

I breathe. I smile. I imagine their cards catching fire. I picture myself somewhere peaceful, like the DMV or the dentist, where no one is yelling “HIT THAT 20, YOU WON’T” like it’s a dare.

Sometimes I respond with sarcasm so dry it could start a brush fire. Sometimes I just let them dig their own emotional holes, then bury themselves in their own bad bets.

And when I really need a mental reset, I remind myself:
I’m getting paid to witness male evolution regress in real time.

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This post brought to you by patience, tequila breath, and my last functioning nerve. Tip accordingly. 🚨

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🍒🎰🧃🌈🫦🎲🫦🌈🧃🎰🍒

Always 🔗hazlo con responsabilidad.

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