You know who's a genius?

A genius is the guy who figured out that the chocolate shell lining the sugar cone on "Drumsticks" is not only tasty, but helps the ice cream from melting all over your fingers. A genius is a guy who dresses up in a shockingly green jacket with question marks embroidered all over it, screams into the television camera, and somehow sells enough books to make a second commercial.

Genius comes in all sizes, shapes, and colors.

And I bet that all these guys can play pocket Jacks better than I can.

I used to work at a McDonald's as a kid, and I would have these dreams that weren't exactly nightmares, but were scary in their mundanity. I would grab blocks of preformed burger and - thunk thunk thunk... thunk thunk thunk - I'd put the burgers on the grill two at a time in a four-by-three pattern before pulling the clamshell grill lid down with a hiss....

Thunk thunk thunk... thunk thunk thunk... hissssss...

My nights were spent in slumber, staring at the burned-in image of burger after burger thunking down under the never ending grill - one after another.

I never woke up from that dream with beads of sweat on my brow. My hands may have smelled like grilled beef, but that took years to wash away after a couple summers in the trenches anyway. It was a dream that made me avow to never spend my days or nights in the midst of repetitive work. I promised myself I'd wipe these dreams clean from my subconscious.

To be replaced, with any luck, with dreams of living out my days with the shipwrecked survivors of a Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue shoot on the white sandy shores of a fruited isle.

It's been a long time since I thought about late 80s Kathy Ireland in a grass skirt, give me just a second here... alright, I'm back.

I had the dream again, but this time it wasn't about burgers. It was poker plaguing my addled sleeping mind.

I fancy myself a fairly average poker player awash in a sea of retarded minnows bumping into each other on the way to burning through their third buy-in. I know what I'm doing a little bit, and know enough about this game to not get myself into too much trouble.

But I absolutely cannot find a way to win in these waters with pocket Jacks.

They call them "fish hooks," but I'm still unclear as to whom they are designed to reel in. They have faces instead of marks, letters instead of numbers. They're higher than a ten, and tens are pretty good, right? I think a couple of those guys are even smiling at me when I look at them sideways. They look like I should be playing them strong.

That being said, do I realize they're the redheaded stepchildren of the paint cards? Absolutely. Can I find the strength to lay them down pre-flop? Nuh-uh. I'm weak. I just can't do it.

And it was a couple Tuesdays ago I had the uneasy sleep a couple of cocktails and a compliment of curry will cull. It was in dreams where I found myself at a table of ten in some nondescript casino somewhere deep in my subconscious. I look down under the gun to find pocket Jacks. I raise to three times the big blind, and get two callers. Flop has an Ace, and I lay it down to the button's raise of my feeler bet.

Okay, the "standard raise" isn't going to work.

I'm now in the big blind, and here are pocket Jacks again. I'm put to the test by a middle position player pushing all-in pre-flop. I look across the table at a cowboy named Shane in a ten gallon hat. He's nervous, doesn't look like he wanted the call. I roll the dice and push. He turns over Ace / Queen and catches one of each on the flop. I don't improve and immediately rebuy.

Next hand, Jacks. Small blind. I complete with a simple limp with a big blind check behind me. The Queen on the flop doesn't look dangerous, but my check-call strategy doesn't pay off when the big blind catches two pair to his hole card rags on the flop.

On the button? Jacks again. I lay the cards down and look furtively around the table and room to make sure I'm not getting "Punk'd." A cigar chomping old timer in the three seat gurgles out an astute observation: "You got them two lil' boys in the hole again?" I shake him off unconvincingly, and see nothing but a min raise and a couple of callers entering the pot before me. I decide to push. I've gotta be good here. Two callers, and pocket Queens take the pot down.

Rebuy.

I'm like the Ron Popeil of Poker at this point, inventing up marvelous ways to be taken down with pocket Jacks. I'm like a reliever who doesn't have his stuff, I'm throwing meatballs across the plate and can't find the high heat.

And I lose. And I rebuy. And I lose. And I rebuy.

In some weird twist of fate, it's nothing but Jacks for me. I push all-in on a Nine high board, and someone's got an open-ended straight draw and hits. I slow play a flopped set and watch the third Club give Ace / Nothing of Clubs his flush. Not only can't I find a way to win with these things, but I absolutely cannot find a way to lay them down either.

I've lost count of the rebuys, but somehow there's an endless supply of black chips in my pocket. I dig in for another and the slick man in the white tuxedo in the ten seat quips, "My good man, may I offer a piece of advice?" I nod, and he continues. "The line between sanity and insanity is performing the same act twice and anticipating a different result." He passes a smile in my direction and tilts his martini glass towards me with a knowing wink.

I'm cracking up. More Jacks, more losses. They're piling up, and the black chips keep coming out of my pocket. I lose to sets of treys, Broadway straights, flushes four on the board, it doesn't even matter. My frustration mounts, but the little voice inside my head comes back to the same central point:

They're Jacks. What do you expect?

I did wake up from this dream in a light sweat. My hands instinctively went to my pockets to look for the remaining black chips, but my pajamas don't have pockets. I cured those burger joint dreams when I quit the McForce, and swear in my 2AM discomfort that not only will I never eat curry after 8PM again, but I will try to find the intestinal fortitude to lay down those pocket Jacks every once in awhile.

I'm restless, and I promise myself I'll re-read Harrington and Brunson and Sklansky. These are the books of Daniel, Doyle and David. My gospels, the Rosetta Stones of my poker education. They'll have the answers.

Unfortunately, advice on pocket Jacks in the texts on which I rely all boils down to two simple words: "It depends." Should I raise pre-flop? Probably, but it depends. Should I play them fast? Well, look at the flop, and even then? It depends. If I flop a set? Well, you'll probably play it fast, but it depends.

That's not good enough for me and my litany of promises in a 2AM moment of clarity. I decide to swear off pocket Jacks, at least for right now. I just can't make them work, so why torture myself? Forget them, move on.

I sleep, less than soundly, but remember my vows and promises in my 2AM haze. Remember them, that is, until I log in to my online poker account that night and see my least favorite hand in the second orbit.

Jack of Hearts, Jack of Clubs.

I take my time evaluating the situation, grit my teeth, and move my pointer from the "Fold" button to the "Raise" window.

I'm pretty sure I could still run a clamshell grill in the middle of a lunch rush at the Golden Arches, and it's easy to see that a time-tested axiom applies to both my McD's tenure and my inability to let go of those Jacks.

Old habits die hard. Too bad Jacks get knocked off a little more easily than my old habits.