Table etiquette in poker isn’t a complicated thing, really. Too much demonstration, slow-rolling, talking when you’re not in the hand, smelling bad, looking bad, being a general asshole – it’s not rocket science my friends. Remember, when you’re going to a poker game that you’re not going to a bordello, a crack house, an abattoir, or a pig sty. Look at the fellows on television. Okay, some are bad dressers, and some even look like they could use a shower, but the best players in the world often dress the part – sporty, clean, fresh – and most certainly don’t look like they have body odour problems, or gastrointestinal ailments that would impinge on the performance of their peers.

At a recent home game in Ancaster, where some old acquaintances decided to stage a nine-man tournament, I found myself with a commanding chip lead after only a dozen hands. I was having one of those nights when the poker gods generously lubricate your path to the crown. I mean, I was getting decent cards but more importantly it seemed any two cards I played were capable of hitting the flop hard. For instance I played 7-5 of diamonds in the small blind and the flop came 7-7-5, and after I checked someone moved all-in, having slow-played A-A. So I took buddy’s chips and he was sent into the other room to stew while the tournament continued. Yes, another cautionary tale of slow-played aces.

But the tournament soon became a secondary consideration in my mind. After a good hour of playing a horrible stench filled the poker room. I mean it was absolutely awful, like a country outhouse on a hot summer day. The homeowner, a fellow called Alex, who was actually a very nice guy and a very tough player, owned a rather bloated old golden lab, who was known to be somewhat gaseous. Thus the dog, dozing under the table by his master’s feet, became the obvious scapegoat for the rancid flatulence.

Complicating things was the presence of a woman at our table, a rather pretty lady called Julie. Julie was a half-decent player, red-cheeked, somewhat moist, and she winced and groaned at the awful stench. The fellas laughed it up, as if to suggest that if the little lady wanted to play with the boys she had to grin and bear such atrocities. But in truth, judging from the pained and uncomfortable looks on their faces, the smell was emasculating them, weakening their man bones, smothering their masculine spirit.

The game went on, and periodically a fresh hot sour wave would fill the room like mustard gas. I must admit I have little tolerance for bad odours. I began to lose the thread of the game, making several very poor decisions and being bluffed out of some sizable pots. Focus is so important in poker, particularly in tournament poker. Finally someone registered a complaint. An older man from Hamilton who spoke with a lisp asked Alex to kindly put his dog outside because the smell was giving him a headache. Alex complied and admitted that it was getting out of hand.

But even with the dog outside the smell would occasionally billow through the room and everyone would make faces appropriate to one of the worst stenches in the history of the world. But without the dog in the house what could be the source of the smell? This large fellow called Ramone, who wore an odd nose ring and had a little soul patch growing under his lip, said that maybe the dog had taken a poop under the table. Everyone looked under the table to find the offending turd but it was dark and filthy under that table and unpleasant to scrutinize.

The smell was definitely dulling my senses and I began to lose interest in the game entirely, almost praying for a quick exit. Julie, the pretty lady, also played as if she wanted to get the hell out of there and she called off all her chips with a miserable little hand that had no chance of winning. She said goodbye and hastily made her leave. She wasn’t sticking around for another game, and who could blame the lass?

The moment she departed that fellow called Ramone flared his nostrils and began to laugh, a braying unfriendly laugh that put everyone’s nerves on edge. He laughed until tears fell from his eyes and slobber poured from his mouth, gathering stickily on his soul patch. Then when he stopped laughing he said he had an admission to make. “Guys,” he said, “I have to apologize. You see, yesterday I ate a pound of lentils. That’s right, an entire pound of lentils.” He snorted back another laugh. “And, well, the lentils gave me this really really bad gas, and, well –” Ramone’s voice trailed off as he realized that no one had found his admission the least bit noble or humorous. Indeed the feelings at the table proved so negative that Ramone decided he better blow off all his chips before things got ugly. A bad smell can make people want to do bad things.

Ramone lost his chips and departed sheepishly, but little did he know how close things had come to violence. “I know the presence of Julie prevented him, coward that he is, from coming forward earlier,” Alex said later. “But blaming the dog was unforgivable.” Everyone solemnly agreed. “And who the fuck eats a whole pound of lentils?” he added as afterthought, to which no one had an adequate reply.

Emile Frendo of the Honeymoon City is a semi-professional poker player and winner of the 2006 Pirate Poker Open Championship.