What is ThirdPair, do you even play cards Bro?

It all began before the dot-com boom, in the days when the internet was being forged by a scrappy group of geeks. These tireless individuals worked long hours to build the infrastructure for some of the first groundbreaking websites. To blow off steam, this motley crew—drawn from all walks of life—found camaraderie and chaos at the premier internet hosting company. Their job? To keep the internet running for an eclectic mix of clients: entrepreneurial visionaries, corporate executives struggling to grasp emerging tech, DARPA researchers intent on controlling information, porn moguls, and hackers alike.

The pace was relentless. New solutions, technologies, hardware, software, and code updates arrived at breakneck speed. Staying ahead of it all wasn’t just the job; it was a necessity. Crashing websites meant lost revenue, and for their high-paying clients—some spending over $30,000 a month on hosting—that wasn’t an option. While content may have been king, speed was its crown. And though bandwidth often got blamed, the real heroes—or culprits—were the servers this team built, maintained, and supported.

This was the premier support team. They served big-name clients, including companies behind high-profile events like online lingerie promotions during major sporting events. Other clients filed taxes, sold luxury cars, hosted online lotteries, and powered gaming platforms. These engineers were the best of the best, and they knew it. They thrived on the high stakes, even when it meant rebooting servers mid-day with the ever-present risk of failure. If things went sideways, they’d spend sleepless nights in the data center rebuilding servers armed only with Marlboros, Mountain Dew, and sheer determination.

The stress was immense, but so were the rewards. Before the dot-com implosion, they were paper-millionaires, living on the edge while awaiting their big paydays. They borrowed, spent, and dreamed big, living like kings in anticipation. A weekly poker game became their outlet—a place to celebrate, unwind, and indulge. But forget Arabian oil tycoon stakes—this was a $20 buy-in, bring-your-own-booze affair, with everyone chipping in for iFratelli’s pizza.

It was during one of these games that a legend was born. Earlier that day, their fearless leader—let’s call him Schleprock—had been promoted to director. That night’s poker game was both a celebration of his success and their bond as a team. However, there was one team member no one liked: Dopey. True to form, Dopey wasn’t invited but got wind of the game and approached Schleprock, who reluctantly revealed the location to avoid HR trouble. Schleprock made the rules clear: “$20 buy-in, cash only. BYOB. This isn’t a work-sponsored event.”

When game night arrived, the regulars showed up armed with their drinks of choice—Cowboy with Jack Daniels, Tigger with rum, Papasan with Bud Light, Saint John with his cheap whiskey, and a haze of Marlboro smoke filling the air. Then in walked Dopey… carrying a six-pack of Zima.

“Hey, Schleprock,” he said. “I forgot cash. Can I write an IOU and make good on Monday?”

Schleprock, torn between incredulity and an HR nightmare, begrudgingly agreed, watching in disbelief as Dopey scribbled his “IOU” on a slip of paper and dropped it in the makeshift coffee-can bank.

The night unfolded in good spirits—cheap booze flowed, hands were won and lost, and the camaraderie was palpable. Then came a pivotal moment: a heated hand of 7-Card Stud. Saint John won with three of a kind, but Dopey—grinning—claimed victory, declaring, “I’ve got three pair!”

The table erupted. Explanations flew: poker hands are always the best five cards. Dopey reluctantly conceded, but the damage was done. Saint John, ever theatrical (imagine a cross between Jason Bourne and Norm MacDonald), plucked Dopey’s IOU from the bank. Holding it aloft, he declared, “Dopey, on Monday, you’re handing me my $20 in person…” His voice trailed off as he read the slip.

His face flushed with fury. “DOPEY! This is an ATM receipt that says you’ve got 35 cents in your account!”

The room exploded with laughter. Dopey, humiliated, stormed out, leaving behind a tale that would be retold for years. That night, the legend of the Third Pair Bitch was born.

As the monthly game grew, so did the need for a name. They immortalized that first chaotic session with a logo: a pair of red queens (bitches) flanking the Dead Man’s Hand (black aces and eights). It was a reminder to stay authentic, never be the next dead bitch, and for the love of all that’s sacred, never bring Zima to poker night.