I Guess I Am Not The Only "Card Dead" Player On the Planet

I could of swore I was the ONLY poker player in the world running bad. Guess not.
For your reading enjoyment.
From Mean Gene Bromberg of meangenepoker.blogspot dot com;
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I was on a bit of a bad streak playing online. The night before I’d played 100 hands of Hold-Em and won one. One. But I didn’t lose too much, since I only saw 5 flops the whole time, thanks to an endless parade of hands like Q-3 and J-3 and 10-3. Unsuited, even. My teeth ground down to nubs I decided to play a little Omaha Hi/Lo Split, a game I’d been studying a bit. First hand, I scoop a nice pot. And then, the next 100 hands, I don’t win a single hand. I barely see a flop. I don’t care if you’re a genetic freak created by splicing the DNA of Robert Williamson III and Annie Duke, you can’t win in Omaha Hi/Lo with hands like Q-9-6-3, all of different suits. Which I got on, oh, 100 hands in a row.

I handled this tough stretch with my usual aplomb—breaking everything of value within arms reach; rocking on the floor while curled up in the fetal position; calling my Mommy. I calmed down and decided to play a little $10 sit-an-go. Maybe a tournament would change my luck, give me the chance to make some big bluffs, play the other players instead of the cards, since I couldn’t get cards to save my expletive-deleted life. The game moves along, I build my stack thanks to a few nice hands, and when we get down to four-handed I'm in 3rd place with a decent stack. Top three spots pay and that’s all I’m looking for—even a tiny profit would do wonders for my ego.

But the shortstack doubles up, doubles up again, and before you know it the blinds are big enough that I’m in a bit of trouble. But then in the big blind I’m dealt the ace of clubs and the queen of diamonds. The former shortstack, who now has me outchipped by a measly $10, raises big on the button. The small blind folds, and I decide its time for me to make my stand. I push all-in, hoping for a fold. But he calls, and turns over the ace and five of spades. Perfect, I’ve got him crushed. “No spades, no spades,” I chant.

The flop comes Q-7-2. Fantabulous, I’ve flopped top pair. But it’s a far better flop than that—all three cards are clubs, and I’m holding the ace of clubs. There are no straight draws out there, and I quickly realize that my opponent is nearly drawing dead. The only way he can win is to go runner-runner fives to make trips. And the five of clubs doesn’t help him—that makes my flush. So, unless the five of diamonds AND the five of hearts come consecutively on the turn and river, I double up and leave him with just $10.

I don’t need to tell you what happened. I wasn't even worried when the five of diamonds came up—hey, he'd still have to hit a one-outer to win. When that one-outer hit, I didn't scream, I didn't swear, I didn't throw my monitor through the TV set. No, I was actually happy. Relieved, even. Why was I so calm? Because I'd just taken the worst beat I'd probably ever take, and it was just in a piddling little tournament. I hadn't gotten skunked at a World Series final table, and I wasn't playing no-limit in a seedy bar as a gangster held a gun to my dog's head. I'd just survived the worst beat imaginable, under the best conditions possible. And I came through it A-OK. After I called my Mommy again, that is.