Don Rickles Challenged Johnny Carson to Poker on Live TV — He Never Made That Joke Again

Don Rickles was in the middle of his routine, doing what he did best, insulting everyone. He turned to Johnny Carson and said, “Johnny, you’re so cleancut, so wholesome. I bet you don’t even know how to play poker. You probably play Goof Fish with Ed McMahon.” The audience roared. Johnny just smiled that famous smile.
“Want to find out, Don? What? You think you can beat me at poker, Carson? I grew up in New York playing cards with guys who’d take your tie as collateral.” Name the stakes, Johnny said calmly. I’ll play you right now on this stage in front of everyone. What Don Rickles didn’t know was that Johnny Carson had spent his teenage years in Nebraska playing poker with Navy sailors, gamblers, and card sharks.
By the time he was 16, Johnny could read a bluff from across the room. And in the next 45 minutes, Don Rickles would learn that insulting Johnny Carson’s poker skills was the biggest mistake of his career. It was November 17th, 1978 at NBC Studio 1 in Burbank, California. Don Rickles was a Tonight Show regular, always guaranteed to deliver laughs with his insult comedy.
Johnny loved having him on because Rickles was unpredictable, fearless, and genuinely funny. Their friendship was real, built on mutual respect and years of working together. But tonight, Don made a miscalculation. He assumed Johnny Carson’s wholesome image reflected his entire personality. He assumed the cleancut host from Nebraska had lived a cleancut life. He was wrong.
“So Johnny,” Rickle said, working the audience. “I hear you like to play cards. Probably old maid, right? Maybe Crazy Eights.” The audience laughed. Ed McMahon chuckled from his desk. Johnny smiled, but something in his eyes shifted. “I play poker, Don,” Johnny said evenly. Poker. Rickles acted shocked. Johnny Carson plays poker.
What? For nickels? For quarters? Come on. You probably folded the first bet. You’re too nice. Poker requires a killer instinct. You have to lie, bluff, take people’s money without guilt. That’s not you, Johnny. You’re America’s sweetheart. The audience was eating it up. This was classic Rickles. But Johnny’s smile had disappeared.
He leaned back in his chair, studying Dawn with an expression the audience had never seen before. cold, calculating, almost predatory. “Don, do you actually want to play poker with me?” Johnny asked quietly. Rickle sensed something, but couldn’t stop himself. “Sure, Johnny. I’ll play you, but we both know what’ll happen.
I’ll clean you out in 10 minutes, and you’ll go back to your nice little monologues.” “Ed,” Johnny said, not taking his eyes off Rickles. “Call down to Props. Tell them we need a poker table, chips, and two decks of cards right now.” Ed McMahon hesitated. Johnny, are you serious? Are you completely serious? Don wants to play poker, so we’re going to play poker on this stage right now.
The audience started buzzing. This wasn’t scripted. Don Rickles’s smile faltered. Johnny, I’m kidding around. This is comedy. No, Don, you insulted my poker skills on my show in front of 15 million people, so now we play. Unless you’re backing down. Rickles couldn’t back down. His entire persona was built on fearlessness. Fine, let’s play.
Texas Holdem, you ready to lose, Carson? Texas Holdem, Johnny agreed. Standard rules. We’ll play to $5,000 in chips. Whoever loses all their chips loses the game. And Don, when I win, you never make another joke about my poker skills ever on this show or anywhere else. Deal. Deal. Rickle said, his confidence returning.
And when I win, you have to let me host the Tonight Show for a week. Agreed, Johnny said. Within 15 minutes, a professional poker table had been set up on the Tonight Show stage. Ed McMahon volunteered to deal. The audience had been told they’d witnessed something unprecedented, a real poker game with real stakes between Johnny Carson and Don Rickles.
As they sat down at the table, Johnny did something that surprised everyone. He took off his jacket and loosened his tie. The audience had never seen Johnny so casual on camera. He looked different. Not the polished host. Something else. Something harder. “Before we start,” Johnny said, shuffling the cards with professional precision that made several audience members gasp.
“Let me tell you about Nebraska, specifically Norfolk, Nebraska, where I grew up. My uncle Eddie ran a bar called the Cedar Lounge. In the back room, there were poker games every Friday night. Illegal, of course, but this was Nebraska in the 1940s. Nobody cared. Don Rickles was watching Johnny shuffle. The cards were moving through Johnny’s hands like water.
Cuts and shuffles so smooth they looked like magic tricks. I started watching those games when I was 12, Johnny continued. By 14, I was playing. By 16, I was winning. And by the time I enlisted in the Navy at 18, I could read a poker tail from across a room. Do you know how I paid for my first year at the University of Nebraska? How? Rickles asked, his voice less confident now. Poker.
I won $4,000 in a single night from a traveling salesman who thought the college kid would be easy money. I used 2,000 for tuition and lived on the rest for a year. Ed McMahon was staring at Johnny like he was seeing his friend for the first time. Johnny, I’ve worked with you for 16 years. You never told me this.
Nobody asked,” Johnny said simply. “And I didn’t volunteer it because the wholesome image serves me better. But Don wanted to play poker. So now he gets to play with the real Johnny Carson, not the TV host, the card player.” The game began. Ed dealt two cards to each player. Johnny looked at his cards without expression.
Rickles checked his and couldn’t hide a small smile. They placed their bets. The flop came. King of hearts, seven of diamonds, king of spades. Rickles bet aggressively. Johnny called calmly. The turn card, Queen of Hearts. Rickles bet again, bigger this time. Johnny raised. Rickles hesitated, then called. The river card, three of clubs.
Rickles went all in on his first hand. A bold move that would either win him the game immediately or him. The audience gasped. Johnny didn’t even blink. Don, Johnny said conversationally. You’re bluffing. You’ve got pocket tens, maybe pocket jacks. You’re hoping I don’t have the king. But you’re also hoping I’m the nice guy from TV who will fold rather than risk everything on the first hand.
Johnny pushed his chips to the center. I call. Rickles’s face went pale. He flipped his cards. Pocket jacks. Two pair. Jacks and kings. Johnny flipped his cards. Pocket kings. Four of a kind. The studio erupted. Don Rickles had just lost half his chips on the first hand. And worse, Johnny had read his cards without breaking a sweat.
How did you? Rickle started. Your left eye twitches when you bluff, Johnny said. And you touch your wedding ring when you have a strong hand, but not a great hand. You’ve been doing it all night during your comedy bit. I was watching. The game continued. Hand after hand. Johnny dismantled Don Rickles. Not quickly, not brutally, methodically.
He’d win small pots, fold when appropriate, and then strike on key hands where Rickles had invested too much to fold. It was a masterclass in poker psychology. By the third commercial break, Rickles was down to $800 in chips. He was sweating. The comedy was gone. This had become real. He was being destroyed on television by a man he’d underestimated completely.
Johnny, Rickles said during the break. Where did you really learn to play like this? Johnny’s expression softened slightly. Don, I told you, Nebraska, but also the Navy. I spent two years on the USS Pennsylvania playing poker with sailors who’d been gambling since they were kids. Some of them were professional card mechanics.
I learned from the best. And I never forgot. Why didn’t you ever mention this? You could have played professionally. Because poker players aren’t America’s sweetheart, Johnny said. And I wanted to host a talk show more than I wanted to be known as a card shark. So, I buried that part of my life. But it’s still there. It never left.
They resumed playing. The audience was dead silent now, watching Johnny systematically take the last of Rickles chips. On the final hand, Rickles had $200 left. He went all in on a pair of aces. Strong hand, but Johnny had a straight. The game was over. Don Rickles sat back in his chair, stunned. “I can’t believe this.
Johnny Carson just destroyed me at poker. I warned you,” Johnny said, but his voice was gentle now. “Don, you’re one of the funniest men alive. You can insult anyone and make them laugh, but poker isn’t comedy. Poker is math, psychology, and patience. And I’ve been playing since before you were doing standup.
The audience gave them both a standing ovation. Even in Defeat, Rickles was entertaining. But everyone could see the respect in his eyes now. He’d challenged Johnny Carson and learned something important. The TV persona isn’t always the real person. After the show, in Johnny’s dressing room, Rickles apologized. “Johnny, I didn’t know.
I genuinely thought you were this cleancut guy who wouldn’t know a poker hand from a ham sandwich.” “Most people think that,” Johnny said, pouring them both a drink. “And I let them think it because it serves me.” “But Don, you of all people should know. Everyone has a past. Everyone has skills they don’t advertise.
You can’t judge a book by its cover.” “Can I ask you something?” Rickle said, “Would you have really made me host the show for a week if id won?” Johnny laughed. “Absolutely. I keep my promises, but I also knew I wasn’t going to lose. Not at poker. Not to you. No offense. None taken. You’re scary good, Johnny. Like professional level good.
I was offered a spot in the World Series of Poker once, Johnny admitted back in 71. Turned it down because it would have changed my image. Can you imagine? Johnny Carson, poker champion. America wouldn’t know what to do with that. Why keep it hidden? Rickles asked. You could be known for this.
Because I don’t need to be known for this, Johnny said. I’m known for the Tonight Show. That’s enough. The poker stuff is just for me. It’s the part of my life that’s mine, not America’s. Until tonight, when you forced my hand, Rickles shook his head. I’ll never make another poker joke about you.
That’s a promise and I don’t break promises any more than you do. True to his word, Don Rickles never insulted Johnny’s poker skills again. In fact, whenever he appeared on the Tonight Show after that night, he’d make a point of saying something like, “And Johnny, I’m not going to make any jokes about your poker skills because I learned my lesson.
” The audience would laugh because they knew the story. The poker game became legendary in Hollywood. Other comedians started sharing their own don’t challenge Johnny stories. Bob New Hart revealed that Johnny had once won $5,000 from him in a private game. Carl Reiner said Johnny taught him everything he knew about poker. Even Frank Sinatra, who fancied himself a serious card player, admitted Johnny had beaten him multiple times.
But Johnny never bragged about it. He never mentioned the game in interviews. When reporters asked about the Rickles poker match, he’d just smile and say, “Don learned not to underestimate people based on their TV persona.” Good lesson for everyone. Ed McMahon talked about it years later in his memoir. That night changed how I saw Johnny.
I’d worked with him for 16 years, and I didn’t know he was basically a professional level poker player. It made me realize how much Johnny kept private, how much of himself he never showed to the cameras. The poker skills were just one example. There was this whole other Johnny that most people never saw. Don Rickles talked about it for the rest of his life.
Whenever someone brought up the poker game, he’d say, “That was the night I learned respect. Johnny Carson taught me that you can’t judge someone by their image. The guy is a killer poker player.” And I mean killer. He read me like a book and took me apart piece by piece. Best lesson I ever got. The video of the poker game was requested constantly by fans, but NBC never released the full footage.
They aired a shortened version showing highlights, but the complete 45minute game stayed in the archives. Johnny preferred it that way. He didn’t want to be known as the guy who destroyed Don Rickles at poker. He wanted to be known as the guy who hosted the Tonight Show. But the people who were there that night never forgot. They’d witnessed something rare.
A moment when the mask came off. When wholesome, cleancut Johnny Carson revealed the card shark from Nebraska. The man who’d learned poker in illegal backroom games. The man who’d hustled his way through college. The man who could read your soul through your poker face. Don Rickles made one mistake. He assumed the image was the person.
He learned in the most public way possible that Johnny Carson was so much more than the suit and smile. There was steel underneath. There was skill. There was a past filled with smoke-f filled rooms and high stakes games and victories that nobody knew about. The insult comic had finally met someone he couldn’t insult.
Not because Johnny was thin skinned, but because when challenged, Johnny proved he was better. Not with words, with cards, with psychology, with the cold, calculated precision of someone who’d been winning poker games since before Don Rickles knew what a punchline was. The bet was simple. Prove you can play poker.
The result was definitive. Johnny Carson destroyed Don Rickles so completely that Rickles kept his promise and never made another poker joke about Johnny again. Not in 1979. Not in 1980. Not ever. Because some lessons are learned once and remembered forever. The wholesome TV host from Nebraska had a secret.
And that night, Don Rickles discovered it the hard way. Johnny Carson wasn’t just good at poker. He was exceptional. And the image America loved was just that, an image. Behind it was a man who could take your chips, read your soul, and smile while doing it. Rickles learned respect that night. Johnny earned it.
And America got a glimpse of the real Johnny Carson. The one who existed before the cameras, before the fame, before the carefully constructed persona. The one who grew up in illegal poker games in Nebraska and never forgot how to