Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Snacks Denied


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


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,

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


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.




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: i cant block a fart
moderator4 [Moderator]: Please call for serious chat issues only
PTERODONKTYL: im tilting bc of it

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?"



"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."


"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.


"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."


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."


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.


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.
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

'Captcha' Vents To Me Over Domestic Beer And/Or Our Outbound President

A Blog Is Born



One time in 2007 I was watching 'Survivorman' with Steve. During the episode, the hero was hunched over some tinder in the middle of a rainstorm doing his damndest to make fire. Finally, fire happened, and the hero declared, "We did it, we have fire. Cold, wet fire, but it is fire."

Steve and I stopped and stared at each other while that processed.

This blog is a tribute to that ever-elusive perfect storm of victory, humor, and failure that is best encapsulated by saying "Cold Wet Fire" with a straight face.


Michael J. Ricketts