Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Lux Lisbon

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mike: Lux Lisbon.
silas: How am I supposed to respond to that?
mike: Trip Fontaine.
silas: Gilbert Gottfried?
mike: The Virgin Suicides.
silas: The Suicide Kings.
mike: King Ralph.
silas: Ralph Macchio.
silas: Boo-Ya.

mike: Mach Rider.
silas:
http://worldclassshitty.files.wordpress.com/2009/03/billy_ray_cyrus2.jpg

silas: Correct answer.
mike:
http://i.cdn.turner.com/v5cache/TNT/Images/timetokill_pg01.jpg

mike: (carl lee hailey).
silas:
http://www.bestweekever.tv/bwe/images/2009/02/TED%20DANSON%20PIC5.jpg

mike:
http://blogs.nashvillescene.com/nashvillecream/Kevin%20Costner%201z.jpg

silas: http://tinyurl.com/thehottestshitintheworld
mike: i just flinched.
silas: Finally!
mike: BUT WAIT!
mike:
http://www.paunchstevenson.com/photos/seagal-guitar-300x380.jpg
silas: NOOOOOO!
silas: Checkmate.




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Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Hawk vs Squirrel In My Front Yard

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video

.....

Accidental Compromise?

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Last weekend Brent and I drove to WI. We hit up the Arby's drive-thru. Then this happened.


Arbys: "Hello and welcome to Arby's, how may I help you?"
Brent: "Hi, can I get a number seventeen, please?"
Arbys: "I'm sorry, sir. Did you say number fifteen?"
Brent: "No, sixteen, one six."
Arbys: "OK, thank you, please pull ahead."
Mike: "You realize that you really tried to order a number seventeen, right?"
Brent: "What?"



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Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Robustness of Noise

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For as long as I have known Gllen, our methods of communication have been constantly evolving. The first time I met Gllen was St. Patrick’s Day 2001. He came from Wausau to a party in Minneapolis and said maybe four things. Our communication at this point relied on brief awkward stares. The case was the same when I visited Wausau that summer and was a guest at Gllen’s house for part of an evening. I observed aloud, “Gllen, there is not one thing on any wall in your house except for that tiny picture of Eminem over there in the back room.” He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. Later I noticed a pile of about 200 Mountain Dew cans in the kitchen sink and asked him if he liked Mountain Dew at all. He gave a sheepish grin and nodded very slowly. Even though he said less to me during this visit, he communicated more.

Later, Gllen moved to the Twin Cities and our communication blossomed into daily conversation, both in person and over instant messenger. For a brief while I lived with Gllen and that stretch represented the climax of our verbal interaction. Still, even amidst that flourish of banter, if you were to do a word count on one of our conversations in the garage, Mike would be responsible for over 2,000 words and Gllen would have about 23.

A few months after I moved out, Gllen got a phone. This was the first phone I’d ever known Gllen to have. It was a remarkable thing to be able to call Gllen, however we all soon realized that the phone would remain shut off 99% of the time. To this day, I think I have received less than 10 calls from Gllen. In rare cases I am out with someone who receives a call from Gllen, their reaction is ALWAYS, “What the fuck!? Gllen is calling me?” In recent years he has been more active in making and receiving calls, and text messages, however it doesn’t matter anymore because we have honed the most reliable and dynamic method of communication mankind will ever need: The Noise.

It started out as a sarcastic jeer of dismissal, a condescending reflex.

“Gllen, do you have any mustard?”
“Pssssht.”

“Mike, where is the DVD player remote?”
“Chaaa.”

“Gllen, did you have a jack that last hand?”
“Pffffft.”

This went on for many months. The Noise began to evolve, taking on new organic directions on a daily basis. The challenge became to create sounds that were as ridiculous as they were dismissive and unhelpful. Our instant message dialogues often involved no actual words, but I like to think something still got done.

“Mike, what time is grilling?”
“Ptshhhaka.”

“Gllen, can I get a ride?”
“Bzzzztrikaa.”

“Mike, did you win last night?”
“SssssssffffffppppTK.”

Presently, we’ve reached the asymptote line of absurdity. We’ve been traversing it for over a year or so now. Basically any time Gllen or I see each other, we emit The Noise. How do I describe The Noise in plain text? This is such a tall order. Hopefully Janelle (Mrs. Gllen) can coerce Gllen into letting her record a good sample to embed in her GllenBlog (she is posting this there as a guest blog and elaborating on it). But I’d say The Noise is like a bus with 50 ducks on it crashing headlong into a tanker full of alphabets.


It also possible to make The Noise quietly—just imagine the bus and tanker are peanut-sized.

The Noise is always in full force during poker nights. As more and more alcohol becomes involved, The Noise presses and mutates the boundaries of its relevance (please see figure 1). It gets laughs from some people, but it should be noted that Janelle absolutely hates The Noise. She hates on it real bad. On the surface, she harbors ill will toward me for being a co-conspirator on behalf of The Noise, but deep down I think Janelle knows that it is not my fault, and that it is here to stay regardless of what any of us do about it. Like the Seinfeld episode where he mocks his date’s growling stomach with a fun and jovial voice. Janelle can hate on The Noise, but that will only make it stronger, exactly like the evil goo that blankets New York in Ghostbusters 2.

Today, it remains my most effective channel of communication with Gllen—a product of years of linguistic evoIution.

I really am sorry, Janelle, but this is bigger than all of us.





figure 1.








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Thursday, June 25, 2009

Monday, June 15, 2009

Quick Update, And Some Feelings From Steve

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I have been slacking on blogging in a major way. I will pretend that a lack of motivation has nothing to do with this and blame it all on the move. Yes, Kate and I are alive and kicking out at the new house. It still hurts to say I live in Richfield/the suburbs, especially since we are only 7 blocks south of Minneapolis and other houses we looked at. However, we are both very excited and pleased with our new place. Some thoughts as a new homeowner:


- Knox Avenue South is quieter than Uptown.
- It is harder for Val to bother me all the way down here.
- A month ago was the first time I ever mowed a lawn, kind of sad.
- I like mowing the lawn. Don't tell Kate though, I need to keep it as chore status/bargaining chip.
- Kate may have some things to learn about gardening/planting.
- Our neighbors to the north will never cease to surprise us.
- So far, I feel nothing like Tom Hanks in 'The Burbs.'

- I never paid attention to rain unti I had a lawn.
- Houses make scary noises at scary times.
- There are more bugs in the suburbs.
- Brent moves in upstairs in a month.
- Considering demanding a $2k security deposit from Brent.



Now, Steve shares some feelings:


mike: brent has 6 fish tanks in his room
steve: mike has 6 fish tanks in his house in july
mike: seaworld up in here
mike: brents fave movie will be finding nemo soon
steve: it is
steve: brett favres fave movie too
mike: really?
steve: who cares... he's dead to me
mike: i would have guessed Backdraft
steve: talk about going to the darkside
steve: he deserves to be spit on by 10 million packer fans for this bs
mike: what % chance you think he plays in MN
steve: 100
steve: all those viking bitchs better boo the shit out of favre everytime he throws the ball
steve: i'd puke if a legend from the vikes came to green bay
steve: would never happen in GB
steve: I hope he breaks his legs in preseason
mike: lol
steve: but u know they gonna all get the jerseys and pray he wins games for them cause they all losers
steve: i'd like to think favre is gonna do his best and then purposely blow a game so they don't have a chance in hell to make the playoffs... and then say... gotcha
steve: "go pack go"
steve: story book ending
mike: lol
steve: he rips off the vikings jersey at the end of the game and there is a packer shirt... and all he says is go pack go as the viks lose the game to the packers
mike: then he dunks ball over goalpost and tears it down
mike: like shaq
steve: and then he strips down naked and humps erin andrews
steve: 2 weeks later he dies of a cheese overdose
steve: i like it
mike: lololol
mike: at heath ledgers NYC apartment
steve: lol




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Thursday, March 12, 2009

A Blog In Three Chapters

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I haven’t blogged in three weeks. My excuse for the last three days is illness. Halfway through Monday I began shivering and sweating and swearing uncontrollably. I didn’t fully recover until last night. During that stretch there was a lot of working from home, a lot of movies, a lot of apple juice, some moping, some lurking, a fair amount of whining and a decent amount of lying in bed awake at night trying to not float toward the light. Also, I could probably write an entire blog about the things that happened in the bathroom on Tuesday. Nothing classy, I can tell you that much.
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Nate and Val became displeased with the lack of blogging, and have since struck blog deals with me. Meaning that I promised to blog if they each sent me ten (10) prospective topics to choose from. Kinda sad really, all that schooling to learn how to write good and today I’m reduced to conning inspiration from friends. Here is the table of contents for the things I would like to explore today, courtesy of Nate and Val:
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I. Kangaroos
II. Squash (Not The Sport)
III. A Great Sandwich
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CHAPTER ONE
Kangaroos: What Are They Trying To Hide?
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Like most Australians, Kangaroos are actually violent criminals exiled from England in 1632. The very first kangaroo, Bart Jacobs, was discovered and arrested in Manchester on July 12th, 1631. That rainy afternoon, Jacobs decided to go see a movie, however he did not have any money because he was a kangaroo. Jacobs darted past the ticket taker pointing and hollering, “Look at that!” effectively distracting the employee and allowing Jacobs entry into the theatre. That afternoon’s matinée was a remake of “Terms of Endearment.” Halfway through the movie, the police arrived and shone a flashlight in Jacobs’s face.

“May we see your ticket, please?” asked an officer.

“I can’t find it,” Bart replied without looking for it.

“Then you must pay for a new one!” blurted the manager.

Jacobs gave the manager a really dirty look.

“I’m a fuckin’ kangaroo, I don’t have any money.”

And with that, he leapt from his seat and fatally kicked every officer in the face, sparing only the theatre manager. Jacobs then took the manager’s pocket knife. In one fell swoop, he used the knife to carve a pouch into his own belly and tossed all of the officers’ pistols into the pouch. Jacobs hopped outside only to find the street flooded with police, their pistols trained on him. He threw his soft drink on the sidewalk and put his arms in the air.

Jacobs spent several months in the Manchester City Jail, befriending cellmate Chuck Darwin and mastering “Contra.” Darwin would ramble all night, relating stupid stories about Galapagos while Jacobs plugged away at the challenging game. Finally, the night before he was to be transferred to a dirty prison in Australia, Bart beat the game with his eyes closed.

Two weeks later, Jacobs arrived in Canberra on a prison barge with dozens of other nefarious rabble-rousers. He had spent the entire voyage sitting in a folding chair with his eyes closed. No one fucked with him. While the barge neared the dock, a gaggle of officers and aborigines assembled to buy and sell the cargo. The moment the doors opened, Jacobs pulled the pistols out of his pouch and blew away everyone at the docks that day, including everyone else on the barge, in a matter of seconds without opening his eyes.

He then stole all of their cigarettes and money and hopped off into the blazing Australian sunset. To this day, Bart Jacobs remains a folk legend in both Australia and England. Today he resides in Roxby Downs and is credited as the father of all kangaroos. The next time you see a kangaroo and wonder what he is hiding in his pouch, just remember, it could be a gun.
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CHAPTER TWO
Squash: Who Needs It?
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One summer evening circa 1985 my family was eating dinner at our house in Lake Geneva, WI. My brother Chris and I were all atwitter, for the next day the family was heading to Six Flags Great America. The level of excitement this created in me at age five is practically immeasurable. Chris was ten years old at this point, and therefore twice as mature as me, but still unable to wipe the smile off his face.

I don’t remember what was for dinner that night, I only remember the squash.

Even back then, I had a low tolerance for vegetables. There are a few here and there I don’t mind, and incidental vegetables that occur in soups and tacos and whatnot are fine. But in general I have always hated eating a side of plain old vegetables. Especially squash. I am a pretty staunch opponent of all things squash, largely because of the events of that summer night.

On the far side of each of our plates a pile of digusting neon-yellow cooked squash stared back at us. Chris and I avoided it for the duration of the meal, and our mother’s patience finally wore out.

“You have to eat the squash.”

“We’re not gonna eat it.”

“Oh. Yes you are.”

This went back and forth for a few minutes while mom cleared the rest of the table and dad went outside. I figured he was spitting out the squash in the yard. Finally, she escalated things to the ultimate ultimatum.

“If you guys don’t eat that squash, we’re not going to Six Flags tomorrow.”

Pure terror. That’s pretty much what came over me. Not only due to the thought of NOT going to Six Flags, but also because to get there I would have to eat squash. Basically Sophie’s Choice, posed to a five and ten year old. Mom finished up in the kitchen and left us to choose our fate. We sat there in the kitchen for what felt like hours, staring in silence at the stinky offender on our plates. The sun went down. Finally, my brother goes, “That’s it.”

Terror froze me again while I watched my brother pick up his fork and move it toward the squash. He scooped up a bite of the now room temperature kiddie-kryptonite. He brought the fork to his lips, paused and stared at me for second, then back at the fork. Then he shoved it in very quickly.

His face immediately contorted with agony and disgust. He jerked back from the table and braced himself. The squash was in his mouth for all of three seconds before it came back out, jettisoned ahead of the rest of his dinner that night. Yes, Christopher puked all over the table. It was both a fantastic and horrible display. My mom came running around the corner from the living room and froze before the gruesome squash aftermath. Chris and I stared back at her as if to say, “You did this, lady. You chose this.”

“Oh Jesus, just clean it up and go to bed. Throw away the squash.” She was not proud of us that night.

The next day we got to go to Six Flags. It was awesome. To this day I wonder if our mother would have still taken us had Chris not tried the squash. It was the most courageous thing I’ve ever seen anyone do.
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CHAPTER THREE
A Great Sandwich
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Finally on Wednesday morning, I felt well enough to drive two blocks to Lund’s to buy some groceries. I didn’t eat much on Monday or Tuesday. While perusing the aisles I followed my heart and invented this sandwich. I think it is responsible for my recovery.
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• Sourdough Bread
• Boar’s Head Pit Ham
• Smoked Gruyère Cheese
• Raspberry Chipotle Mayo
• Nueske’s Bacon
• Red Onion
• Lettuce
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You can also toast the bread first, with or without with cheese on it. I would add a slice of tomato if I served it at a deli, but personally I think tomatoes are stupid. And I do realize that this sandwich has two (2) kinds of pork on it but sometimes that’s what it takes to beat the flu.





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Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Snacks Denied

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From: privatetournaments@fulltiltpoker.com
Sent: Friday, Jan 23, 2009 11:38 AM
To: Pterodonktyl
Subject: Re: Snacks



Hello,

Thank you for your e-mail and hosting your tournaments on FTP. I sincerely apologize for the delay replying to your e-mail.

Unfortunately at this time, we at private tournaments do not have the authority to add promotional prizes to private tournament prize pools, including snacks. Apologies for any inconvenience that this may cause.

If you have any questions, do not hesitate to reply to this e-mail.

Thank you,

John
Team Full Tilt





---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Pterodonktyl
Sent: Sunday, Jan 18, 2009 3:12 PM
To: privatetournaments@fulltiltpoker.com

Subject: Fwd: Snacks



Kinda worried I have not seen a response to the inquiry below yet.

Are you guys OK? Let me know if I should call the police or something.






------------ Original message -----------
From: Pterodonktyl
Sent: Friday, January 16, 2009 12:49 PM
To: privatetournaments@fulltiltpoker.com
Subject: Snacks



Hello,

I recently had 2 weekly private tournaments created on Full Tilt Poker, the DONKAMENT GUARANTEED and the DONKAMENT DELIGHT. Thank you very much for your help setting these up--my friends and I are thoroughly enjoying them!

We were wondering if it would be possible for FT to also include some snacks for players registered in these private tournies. Often in live home tournaments, an entry fee goes toward pizza and beer for the players. As you may already know, a poker tournament is a mentally and physically draining endeavor, often making players hungry for a refreshing snack.

In 2007, the MAYO Clinic reported that some 390 players died due to lack of nutrition during tournament play in North America alone.

We are not seeking anything lavish, but how about some pretzels? Beer nuts? Pringles? We will let you surprise us. Personally I am a fan of anything sour cream 'n onion flavored.

If you send the snacks in .zip format I think that would work best.


Thanks!

PTERODONKTYL




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Monday, January 19, 2009

Fuck Grapefruit


I Am 28 Years Old




PTERODONKTYL: gllen just farted
gllen: not true, i'm reporting you
PTERODONKTYL: im calling a moderator
moderator4 [Moderator]: Hello players
PTERODONKTYL: moderator, gllen farted super bad
moderator4 [Moderator]: PokerStars is an adult site and some table banter is permitted. However, we have a handy little feature that allows anyone to block another's chat. Simply right click on their name and check off block. :)
moderator4 [Moderator]: Good luck now all :)
PTERODONKTYL: what?
PTERODONKTYL: i cant block a fart
moderator4 [Moderator]: Please call for serious chat issues only
PTERODONKTYL: i am
PTERODONKTYL: it reeks
PTERODONKTYL: im tilting bc of it
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Rarified Atmosphere






"You're born, you take shit. You get out in the world, you take more shit. Climb a little higher, take less shit. Until one day you're up in the rarefied atmosphere and you've forgotten what shit even looks like. Welcome to the layer cake, son."

Nonsensical Dream #226

I am walking through a high school that I have never been to and for some reason I know that it is 1992. However I am not 12 years old, I am present age. The halls are completely empty save for a couple sheets of wide-ruled paper fluttering around. I am strolling up and down the hallways, making lefts and rights with a wayward sense of detachment. I am there, but I am not there. For a moment I imagine I am the ghost of a kid who drowned at the school 20 years ago. I decide that should the bell ring and the halls flood with teenagers, they won't be able to see me. And if they do see me, I would probably appear dripping wet and pale in swim trunks, possibly with X's in place of eyeballs. I pass my reflection in a trophy case and am both disappointed and relieved to see that I am really just wearing khaki shorts and a dry white t-shirt. Still reasonably pale though.



The bell rings and the halls flood with teenagers. Three young boys run past me, laughing wildly. Their voices haven't changed yet. An older girl wearing a way-too-short-for-school skirt walks slowly from one classroom to another directly across the hall. I think, "I bet she wishes she had to walk further." An awkward boy with the scraggly beginnings of a chinstrap beard bumps into a teacher and his trapper keeper explodes. I consider stopping to help him gather up all the papers and pencils, but I don't. I realize that thus far, no one has looked at me. Either I really am a ghost, or I am dreaming. The traffic begins to dissipate and after a couple minutes I am walking alone again through quiet corridors. I think, "I really don't miss high school."



I keep walking until DeVotchka's "How It Ends" begins playing over the PA system. I am not certain why this is in my dream, but possibly because I have seen that "Gears of War 2" video game commercial about 900 times this month on ESPN. I enjoy the ESPN family of networks, and DeVotchka, but I do not play video games. Just as the song begins, I notice a man standing about 100 yards down the hallway. I know he sees me because he begins walking briskly toward me. I remain standing in the middle of the hallway, jamming out to DeVotchka, waiting for this teacher to come kick me out of the school. For some reason I feel certain that is what is about to happen.



As he approaches me, I think that he looks an awful lot like Alec Baldwin's character in the film "Beetlejuice," complete with glasses and a black and white checkered flannel shirt (tucked into jeans). He stops three feet away from me, cocks his head, and squints over the rims of his glasses. In fact, it just might be Alec Baldwin from "Beetlejuice" because when he starts to speak he sounds just like him.



"What are you doing here?" he demands, arms akimbo.

"Hi. To be honest I really don't know," arms at my sides, palms open.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I'm pretty sure I'm dreaming. If I'm not, I am a ghost, possibly one that drowned here in the 70's."

"Oh and what would you know about that?"

"About what?"

"About ghosts," he snaps.

"Maybe not as much as you…were you in Beetlejuice?"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Don't say that word again."

He removes his glasses and slides them into his breast pocket. Warily looking me over he leans back and taps his chin with his finger.

"What's your name?"

"Michael Ricketts. Or Mike."

"That's a stupid last name."

"I know."

"Good. How did you get here?"

"I don't know that either. It's all pretty silly. I'm pretty sure I'm dreaming. So you can't really be mad at me. None of this is happening."

"Yes it is. You have someplace to be you idiot."

"I do?"

"Yes. You do."

"Where?"

"Binion's," he snaps, becoming increasingly irritated with me.

"Binion's Horseshoe Casino? In Vegas?"

Turning away from me, he closes his eyes and rubs his temples slowly. He explains that I am supposed to be at the final table of the 1992 World Series of Poker 'Main Event.' I try to assure him that he is mistaken but he persists. I remind him that I do not know where I am, or how I got there, and that I have no memory of playing through the Main Event up to the final table. I also note that unless I am dreaming, I would not have had an extra ten thousand dollars to buy into the tournament.

"I BOUGHT YOU IN, YOU IDIOT!"

"Hold up, just a minute ago you didn't even know who I was. Now you're telling me that you staked me ten grand to win the WSOP Main Event?"

"There's no time. You have to go. They started playing 20 minutes ago."

He takes me by the arm and ushers me to the stairwell.

"Go. Now. We split the winnings. Don't fuck up."

"Whatever, bra. Say hello to Geena Davis for me."



"Shut up!" he shrieks as I begin down the staircase, not quite sure what I am supposed to do now. I do not think I am anywhere near Las Vegas, as when I look out the windows of the stairwell I see giant oak and maple trees looming. I continue down the stairs trying to make sense of the conversation and also trying to decide if that really was a young Alec Baldwin circa 1988. At the bottom of the stairwell I reach a set of double doors and proceed through.



I am taken aback by what I find on the other side. Instead of seeing bike racks and teenagers, I have stumbled into what looks like the lobby of a magnificent hotel. It is definitely not Binion's. Ornate chandeliers hover over a wide expanse of bellboys and tourists. They are hustling in every direction, bumping into each other and off of pillars like some giant-sized fantastic pinball game. I can see on the horizon that the lobby opens up into some sort of open air pavillion where daylight is pouring into the hotel. I begin to stroll in that direction, pausing at a bank of big screens broadcasting the 1992 Olympic "Dream Team" dominating some poor crew of gangly Europeans. As I get closer to the pavillion I can see that there is a fairly large crowd gathered around a huge circular railing. I make my way to the railing, and once my eyes adjust to what must be the oppressive Vegas sun I can see that the railing encircles an opening in the ground where you can see down to the casino floor below. It feels like a zoo enclosure that should be filled with rocks and polar bears, but it is not. Centered on the floor below is a poker table with six players and a dealer. Nearby there is a table with stacks of cash on it, flanked by guards with shotguns. "Holy shit," I think, "this really is the 1992 Main Event." I notice that there is one empty seat at the table and a flood of memories hit my brain all at once. I suddenly realize that I was, in fact, playing this tournament for the last three days, and I am, in fact, supposed to be in that seat.



"OMG," I gasp.



Without pausing to rationalize all this I start sprinting around the enclosure looking for a staircase, an escalator, a firemen's pole, anything. There is nothing. I know that if I have to enter the hotel again and search for a staircase and find my way to the table that way I will miss at least a couple more hands. "Dammit!" On the opposite side of the enclosure I see a spot where the crowd is not as thick around the rail and I begin running for it. I feel like Ferris Bueller sprinting from Sloane's house to beat his parents home, leaping over fences and darting through backyards. As I approach the exposed length of rail, without slowing down, I lean forward, grip it with both hands, springboard myself over, do two somersaults in the air and land directly in the open seat at the final table one floor below.

Then for some reason I look over the other players and declare, "Now you guys are fucked."

This provokes a couple chuckles as well as some dirty looks, and the dealer says, "Welcome, sir. Glad you could make it. You are in the big blind for 6000."

I look down at my chips and am pleased to see that I have an average stack. I look over the rest of the table, and despite having allegedly played the through the field up to this point, I only recognize Hamid Dastmalchi. Possibly because he is the only player from that table that I would recognize outside of the dream world. In addition to Hamid, I am seated with Tom Jacobs, Hans Lund, Mike Alsaadi, Dave Crunkleton, and Clyde Coleman. Play resumes and I fold for the next half hour. Hamid and Clyde control most of the action, picking up many pots on the flop. I finally get AQ offsuit a couple times and take some chips off of Crunkleton. I tell him that I love his name, but he ignores me.



After about four hours of play we are down to just four players: myself, Hamid, Crunkleton, and Hans. The sun has drifted past the roof of the hotel forty stories above and things have cooled off quite a bit in this pit within a pavillion within a hotel. I am in the small blind and 3rd in chips when I look down and see QQ. The action has folded around to me and I have Hamid on my left in the big blind. I raise it up to 70,000. He thinks for a minute and reraises to 200,000. I insta-call, hoping to appear weak. The flop comes out 57Q, rainbow. Jackpot. I check it to Hamid, who immediately shoves all in. I can not call quickly enough and shove my chips into the middle as I leap from my seat and flip the queens over all in one motion. I back up a few feet from the table, pumping my fist, ecstatic at the fact that I am about to become the chip leader at the WSOP Main Event final table. One million dollars and the bacelet are oh so close. Hamid chuckles at my excitement and dejectedly tosses KK face up into the middle. The dealer arranges the pot and gets ready to deal the turn.

Five of diamonds.

Hamid says, "Nice hand, man," and reaches to shake my hand but I jump backwards, waving him off.

"Not yet, my friend!" as I still have two outs to dodge.

The dealer knocks the table and rolls off the river card. Sure as shit, it is the king of spades and I am eliminated from the Main Event in 4th place, netting $101,000.



Hamid jumps up from the table shaking his fists in the air, and I can not help but feel excited for him. His friends and family up on the rail are going nuts. I think that in real life I would go crawl into a hole and die if that happened, however I still feel barely aware that this must be a dream, and I am wrapped up in the energy of the moment. Hamid now has a giant chip lead over Hans and Crunkleton, and right then I realize that in real life I know that Hamid wins the bracelet and the million dollars. We shake hands, I wave to the rail of spectators above, and make my way over to Hans and Crunkleton.

"Good game, Dave, good luck."

"Thanks, " he replies. "Beetlejuice."

"What?"

Before he can reply, Hans gets up from the table and shakes my hand.

"Was fun, Mike. Good game."

"Thanks, good luck to you."

"Thanks, Mike. Beetlejuice."

As soon as the word leaves his lips, I wake up.






Rifle Available

"Sometimes I go about in pity for myself, and all the while, a great wind carries me across the sky."

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Jesus Shufflesworth AKA ’72 Dolphins




Jesse and I made Herkimer shuffleboard history this summer by posting a perfect 20-0 regular season, and then winning through the playoffs for the championship.

There is a pretty slim chance we get over ourselves anytime soon, sorry.

We will be appearing on The Today Show talking with Ann Curry this Friday, as well as hosting the season premiere of SNL. We've also been given our own float in the Rose Bowl Parade. I got a shoe deal with Nike.

The fall season will be much tougher, but like the perfect 1972 Miami Dolphins we are not scurrd.





Thank You, Kiet







-----Original Message-----
From: PokerStarsSupport
Sent: Friday, June 06, 2008 7:29 PM
To: Michael R
Subject: Your question: Why do I suck so bad?



Hello Michael,

Thank you for your email.


To be honest, I don't know the answer to your question. You are better off asking your opponents or analysing your own plays to see where you went wrong. Alternatively you can post your plays on poker forums and request other players' opinion on them.

While we are not in a position to make such comments on your plays, we can provide you with every single real money hand you have played on our site so others may. If you would like to request your hand history, please let me know and I will send them along.

Regards,

Kiet
PokerStars Support Team



----- Original Message -----
From: michael r
Sent: 2008/06/06 18:13:00
To: support@pokerstars.com
Subject: RE: Results for PokerStars Tournament 91117951




Just one question.

Why do I suck so bad ?




-----Original Message-----
From: PokerStars Support
Sent: Friday, June 06, 2008 5:07 PM
To: Michael R
Subject: Results for PokerStars Tournament 91117951



PokerStars Tournament 91117951, No Limit Hold'em
Buy-In: $25.00/$2.00
9 players
Total Prize Pool: $225.50
Tournament started - 2008/06/06 - 17:34:57 (ET)


Dear EliCash_62,

You finished the tournament in 5th place.

You have won an admission ticket to 'WSOP Step 1'. This ticket allows you to participate only in a tournament of this type. Tickets are not redeemable for cash or Tournament Dollars (T$); if you register and then unregister from the tournament, your ticket will be returned.

To view your available tournament tickets, go to Requests > Tournament Tickets in the main lobby.

Please contact
support@pokerstars.com if you have any questions.




"I Will Cut You, John"


All Time Fave Photo


Dust To Dust

.

The older we got, the less our dad liked us. It was simply a fact about him that he loved babies and children, but struggled to enjoy the presence of a teenager. It was something I was never fully conscious of as I grew up, but it became clear years later. You can't see a crop circle while walking the field. My parents lost their first born, Jason, to leukemia when he was just seven years old—I don't think my dad ever really recovered from that.


Towards the end of our lives as a family, praise or involvement from him was increasingly a rarity. It didn't bother me much at that point, as like many high school kids my thoughts were bent on going to college and getting up and away already. When my parents dropped me off at college in the Fall of 1998, my dad shook my hand and said the most direct and honest thing he'd said to me in months, "Good luck, even though luck has nothing to do with it." I think it might have pissed me off for a brief moment, because I was a teenager and beyond tired of hearing shit like that, but it was true. I did enter college unsure of how I would fare, curious of what was ahead and scared that it could be some world so foreign and uncomfortable that I would find no other path than failure. After all, I spent about twenty minutes (total) doing homework in high school and somehow eked out a 3.1 GPA. But I did get good ACT and SAT scores. I knew I was smart, I just didn't know if I'd be one of those guys that makes it a year or less and finds a reason to quit, and I think my parents had that concern as well.


In June of 1999 I was back in Madison for what would be my last summer there, proud and triumphant after earning about a 3.5 or so in my first year at a Big Ten school. It was surely a year of accelerated growth and learning beyond the classroom, and I had proven that I could do it, I could succeed and go forth responsibly. I had not fully realized this for myself until one day that June my dad and I got in the car to go meet my mom somewhere for dinner. As he put the car in gear and backed out of our driveway, he said, "I just wanna tell ya mom and I are real proud of you. A lotta guys don't make it past year one. You did really well. You're gonna be OK." I think it was the nicest thing he ever said to me. I realize the event was not the most personal or touching, but his relationship with us wasn't either. By that point he was already in a long term extra-marital relationship, and was just going through the motions with our family. The discovery and divorce and so on was months away, but he had pretty much already checked out.


That day, I know he made a point to say that to me before he said it. I know that he had thought about it and realized it was probably something I needed to hear, something I would need to remember years later, something someone did or didn't say to him when he was nineteen.

.

The Royal Floppenbaums


An Occurrence At Owl Creek Bridge




I had a dream the other night.

I am at Herkimer with all my friends on a summer night, playing shuffleboard and downing drinks. I look over and see Tate getting drunk with a girl on each arm. Right away this should have tipped me off that I'm dreaming. Instead, I'm thinking, "Get after it, Tate."

Suddenly the music stops and people cease playing shuffleboard to watch an ominous, dark green egg descend from the ceiling. It hits the floor and starts to crack open. While that one is hatching, a couple more drop. The first newborn emerges and starts unfolding and rapidly growing until it's around eight feet tall, and sure as shit, it's one of the long-skulled black lizard bastards from the "Aliens" films. Pretty much the worst thing to have to deal with without a gun. Basically UnFukWitAble. So this creepy asshole stands up and lets out a deafening shriek, then whips his tail across the bar and sticks JoeTime right through the shoulder. As JoeTime is always armed, he pulls out a knife and starts stabbing the tail, obviously. The infamous neon green acid blood starts flying, melting JoeTime's knife and arm while he feverishly continues his defense.

I could not make this up.

By this point we have total pandemonium in Herkimer. Everyone is booking it in all directions, waving their arms above their heads, throwing chairs out windows to escape and whatnot. I think the lights were probably flashing, too (for no reason). I am cornered by the shuffleboard table, nowhere near a door or window, so I bolt for the bathroom. Tate and one of the chicks (the one that was less hot) are right behind me. We get in, slam the door, and I put all my weight against it (which has no lock, not that the lock would last 3 seconds). I yell, "TATE GET OVER HERE AND HELP ME KEEP THIS SHIT SHUT!" just in case one of the aliens saw us go in here, or needs to take a dump. I crane my neck and see Tate standing by the sinks, making out with the chick. "TATE GOD DAMMIT WHERE IS YOUR BRAIN, GET THE FUCK OVER HERE AND HELP ME!" however he continues to make out with the chick. The awesome part is that the chick sees and hears me, and makes eye contact with me, but then just keeps making out—she literally chooses making out with Tate over preventing her imminent slaughter. I'm thinking, "How can you not be worried about the vicious space aliens outside this flimsy wooden door." I do a double take to verify she is not Sigourney Weaver, and she is not.

One of the aliens starts ramming the door, and I glance in Tate's direction again and start to say, "Nice knowin' ya, ya dumb son of a," but all I see is their shoes as they wriggle into an air duct near the ceiling. "DAMMIT!" I prop the garbage can against the door and leap for the open air duct thinking, "Oh god watch me be too fat to get through this thing and an alien bites my face off because of it."

I get in the duct and wriggle through what seems like a hundred yards of twists and turns. I am pretty sure the alien is behind me (I can hear echoes of hissing and drooling) but I don't even have room to turn around and check. I finally make it to an opening and I drop from the ceiling into a giant ballroom where it looks like some company is having a holiday party with a couple hundred guests. I start running through the ballroom screaming, "GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE, THERE ARE SOME ALIEN MOTHERFUCKERS HACTCHING IN HERKIMER RIGHT NOW!" Out of the corner of my eye I see Tate and the chick standing by the buffet table, somehow all dressed up and filling cups at the punch bowl. "TATE, CHICK, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!? WHERE DID YOU GET THESE CLOTHES!? HOW DID YOU BOTH CHANGE SO FAST!? WHY AREN'T YOU RUNNING!?" Tate sets his cup down and runs his hands down his jacket lapels, telling me, "A player looks sharp, doesn't he?" I stare at him in disbelief for three seconds, "TATE THAT ALIEN IS NOT GOING TO GIVE A FUCK WHAT YOU'RE WEARING WHEN IT COMES IN HERE TO RIP YOUR FACES OFF!" He picks up his cup of punch and tells me, "We'll see," with a shit-eating grin. I look at the chick, stare at Tate for two more seconds, and then continue to bolt for the ballroom entrance faster than I've run since high school.

I jump kick the doors open (for no reason), turn the corner and tear down the sidewalk toward Lake Street. I glance over my shoulder and see about a half dozen aliens crawling all over the outside of Herkimer. One of them sees me, jumps off the roof, and takes off after me. However, I am so thoroughly terrified by these acid-blooded, steel-teethed, spiked-tailed, film-franchised assholes that I am able to outrun him. I would estimate that I was running about thirty-five miles per hour, feet barely touching the pavement. As I am running down the middle of Lyndale Avenue at two in the morning, a now serene, carless stretch of street lights hidden by tree branches, I wake up.

I was pissed off at Tate for all of the next day.







Shit Hawks

SCHIAKU: A Collaboration Of Terri Schiavo Haikus Imagined With Nate And Kolby Circa 2005

.


terri was in track
but she always lost races
cuz she could not move

your jump serve was rad
you really got air that time
too bad your spine snapped

pile of drooling love
now a homey in tha sky
leaving me yearning

saw you in a dream
with brand new air schiavos on
please let me tap it

we made out one time
i got to second and third
you seemed to like it

your dog killed itself
i would too if you named me
"ba gab kerk jab haf"

my feet are scratched up
the sand can tax a balla
is your drool a balm?

i passed it to you
you just let it hit the ground
i wish you could move

playoffs are on FOX
terri, turn your boombox down?
nevermind, i will

are you a gymnast?
i doubt you are any good
because you are dead

terri, over here
schiavs, I'm open, hit me up
oh snap, you cant move


i'll never forget
you invited me to dance
then you just laid there






Bat Facts

.

gllen: face the facts: CHKC CHKCH CH KCH KC CHKCHKC CHK.
mike: bat facts.
mike: bats can detect movement up to 500 yards away via sonar.
mike: they cannot detect dolphins though, bc their sonars cancel each other out.

gllen: bat factn tchkchkn
mike: contrary to popular belief, not all bats can transform into vampires.
mike: in fact, only 23% of bats are vampires.
of that 23%, roughly 95% live in europe.
gllen:
Bats live on just about anyplace imaginable in the universe, including on the moon.
mike: however because of the low gravity environment on the moon, bats dont get as much of a kick out of hanging upside down from things.
gllen: It is estimated that in the year 2010, all wooden bats will be extinct.
mike: much like in NCAA baseball, aluminum bats seem to be the wave of the future.
mike: according to box office numbers from July 2008, some 900 million bats saw The Dark Knight during its premiere weekend.
mike: the previous record for bats at a film premiere was 36.

.

Top 6 Favorite Kevin Costner Photos

kevin 4 ever ldo