Archive for the ‘Poker Players Alliance’ Category

WSOP News; Pope Francis Bushwhacks Little Jebbie

Friday, July 3rd, 2015

So.  I’m back from a visit to the World Series of Poker (WSOP) out to Las Vegas.  I played in the Super Seniors event, my plan to achieve some sort of notoriety in the poker world.  I planned to be among the youngest in the tournament in an effort to have more stamina than most others, I planned to play my best, focused game, and I planned to make it to the money.  What I did not plan was to have Mr. Dan Harrington placed to my immediate right at the three-hour twelve-minute mark.

For those of you unfamiliar with Dan, he won the Main Event in 1995, won a World Poker Tour event, is in the Poker Hall of Fame, and has written seven of the best books on poker ever written.  In fact, in preparation for playing in the WSOP, I ordered his latest book on playing tournaments such as the one I played.  Due to a snafu in Amazon’s delivery systems, the book arrived only two days before I left for Vegas.

“I bought your latest book to study for this event,” I told Dan soon after he was seated, and I added, “it came late and I only finished something over half of it.”

Dan, he and I were on a first name basis by then, said to me, he said with a grin, “Missing that last half is going to be a problem for you.”

I went card dead about then, and Dan Harrington demonstrated the power of his written words for the next six-and-a-half hours as he brutalized my dwindling stack of chips.  In a final move of desperation, with a quite small remaining stack of chips, I moved all-in with a suited King-Ten, just behind Dan’s minimum raise.  They were suited Spades, and possibly the suit influenced my move.

“Bad timing, Mooner,” he said somewhat sadly, and he flipped over the two red Aces.

That’s the best of my poker stories as I was knocked out by Dan Harrington at about number 390 of the original 1,533 entrants.  I played pretty well and only made one known mistake over ten hours of play.  And I made my final stand against a world class player, and very classy man.

Oh, and the other interesting thing that happened was at a cash game there to the Rio Casino where the WSOP is played.  I’m sitting in the five seat—that’s immediately facing the dealer across the table in a nine-handed cash game—and a new dealer sat down.  Tables are ten-handed for tournaments yet nine players sit to play cash.  They change dealers every thirty minutes as a rule, and this new dealer was a trim woman of Asian heritage.  After a couple of hands, she began pitching cards at me as if she were attempting to cut carrots—like those card tricksters do.  All the while this woman has the look of a feral dog in her eyes, piercing looks focused on me that made everyone at the table uncomfortable.

My cards are bouncing off my chips, the side of the table, and she would fire them at my hands, mostly at my left hand—the one with the fly tattoo.  As I had said nothing and not entered any pots since she sat down, I was perplexed.  I usually can quickly determine why a woman is pissed at me, but not this time.

“Have I said or done anything to upset you?” I inquired.

Getting no answer except the continued stare and card tossings, I said, I said, “Either tell me what I did and maybe I’ll apologize and you’ll quit being a bitch to me, or call the Floor Manager and we’ll let him arbitrate our issue.”

She dealt another hand, and when she threw the sharp-edged cards at my chest she said, “You Devil!”

“You Devil!” as the first hit my belly, and “You Devil!” when the second hit my shirt pocket and bounced back onto the table face up.  It was the King of Spades, the self and same card that helped end my tournament run.

“Must be that silly tattoo on your hand, sir,” one of the other players said.

“Some Asian cultures have quirky superstitions,” from another.

Me, I simply folded the hand and grabbed my chips and moved on—actions by me which I think might show some modicum of personal growth.  Historically, that would have been a time whereat I’d likely ended tasered and jailed, or at least banned from the casino.  I don’t cotton to rudeness or bigotry either one, and I’m quick to take a stand.

Maybe it was the calming karma of the Spanish Bottle Fly tattoo that helped me find the capacity to walk away rather than involve myself in an exercise to insure that rude behavior be punished.  I felt good about walking away for maybe a half-hour, and then I got pissed at myself.  I got to thinking that the woman’s superstition was religious-based and if I’m to stand against religious prejudice as a matter of principle, then Consistency must be my middle name.

Then again, maybe it was the simple fact that the King of Spades landed face up and that was an affecting aspect effecting my actions, and that reminds me. My Gram left Santa Fe with her young college boy early the day before I headed to Vegas.  We shipped her wrecked Italian sports car to Austin on a flatbed truck, and I dropped off the sex partners at the airport.

“I luv ya, ya little shitbird,” Gram told me with a sloppy kiss and a bony hug.  “An’ go see yer crazy fuckin’ mother, Mooner.  She ain’t well.”

Mother isn’t well.  She fell several times and then caught pneumonia while I was gone.  I’m planning a trip to San Antonio to be with Mother while Sister and Anna the Amazon take a little time off from Mother’s care.  It’ll be the first time I see her since the wedding, and the first time Sister and her wife will be a legitimate married couple wherever they choose to vacation.

And that reminds me of something else.  Jeb Bush responded to the Pope’s positions on the environment and income inequality by saying this:  “…I don’t go to mass for economic information or political policy…”

Oh, really?  You don’t go to mass for political policies?  What about taking a religious stand on abortion because your precious Popie says so?  Same-sex marriage?  Birth control?  Why do you segregate the Pope’s positions on economics and pollution from those he takes on birth control and personal sex partnering?

The Religious Right might have finally been boxed into the corner they have been painting for centuries.  Might Pope Francis be the one to shine Devine light, and a final gallon of bright pink paint, on their hypocrisies?

Fuck Walmart!

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Cooking With Albert Einstein; Life Lessons Lost

Saturday, October 27th, 2012


So. I’m thinking that I’ll have reconstructions here to La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe to a stage wherein the cooking of a Thanksgiving dinner for a crowd will be possible. As I drifted off to sleep last night, I was thinking about a probable turkey menu with potential attendees, and also about the urine-soaked Texas Absentee Ballot we mailed off to Austin yesterday.

Thoughts of the ballot stewing in our juices in its plastic sleeve until opened sometime Monday brought thoughts of how to brine and bake a turkey at 7,199 feet of elevation. Those thoughts brought dreams of me doing a cooking show with Albert Einstein. Some guy wrote a book about kitchen science wherein he used my middle namesake as the scientist explaining the mysteries of cooking to his personal cook, and me, I’ve always wanted to read the book but never have.

In this TV show, I was Albert’s cook and Albert was my advisor on mind altering substances. I’m known to have spent decades perfecting recipes utilizing naturally-occurring chemical compounds—Mr. Einstein took great length demonstrating that each of the treats I prepared were not simple moleculed ingredients but were quite complex in structure—and the menu on this dream show included several of my personal favorites.

We started with an arugula salad with pickled celery and onions, truffle-shaved fire roasted Peyote buttons and a raspberry vinaigrette. Big Al Jones (the famous scientist asked me to call him Big Al Jones) told the audience that fire roasting Peyote helped release the bitter drug from its cellulose casing.

“The drug in Peyote—a spineless cacti closely related to the colorless succulent named Mittless Romneyi—is a native to the Chihuahua region of Mexico and America’s desert Southwest. The psychoactive drug in Peyote is a bitter alkaloid that can bring a bout of nausea as a precursor to the high. While it is usually cut in strips and chewed or brewed in tea, Mr. Johnson’s method of searing and then shaving the small buttons can reduce the timing of hallucinogenic effects from something approaching 45 minuted to just under a half hour and, likewise, reduce the incidence of nausea.”

“Thanks Big Al Jones,” I said in response, “Now, how about you explain all about the Bufo alvarius and the dangers of over-ingesting toad sweat.”

Which reminds me. Gram, the P-cubed, Honor the fucking cat and Ralph the limo driver are still missing. They disappeared Tuesday afternoon when the long stretched Hummer pulled away from the curb at La Casita Johnson de Santa Fe and headed, as Gram told me when she said, “We’re a headed inta tha mountains, Mooner. Penelope wants her a mountain man an we’re gonna git her one.”

When I reminded my randy old grandmother that New Mexico has eighty-nine named mountain ranges than range all over the fucking place, she said to me, she said, “Oh, who gives a shit which-a-one, Mooner. The P-cubed wants her a coonskin hottie an’ that’s fuckin’ that!”

What, inthefuck, is a coonskin hottie even look like in the year 2012? Except for reruns of the old Davy Crockett TV show, I haven’t seen a coonskin anything in forty years.

Regardless, I told Gram to be home Friday night if she wanted to be a part of the first full meal I cook in the new kitchen. “Don’t simmer no vittles fer us, sonny boy, mountain men kin be tricky to catch. We might need ta set us up some trot lines.”

Trot lines to catch a mountain man? “What’s the bait?” I asked absently to the flat back end of the departing Hummer limo. “What will you use for bait?”

And what size hooks?

Anyway, dinner last night was a nifty tuna steak, baked potatoes with mushroom-infused butter, and steamed broccoli. Gram brought me some fresh mushrooms from her cellar and they proved to be quite illuminating. And that reminds me that when I last spoke to Mother she told me several interesting things. “You need to watch out for those homo-sex-u-als there in Santa Fe, son. I hear that the thin mountain air weakens your resistance to their brainwashing techniques. Oxygen deprivation they call it.”

I tried to have an intelligent conversation with her about how if I was ever going to be a homosexual it would have been after my only homosexual-type sex act. “You know, Mother, when that asshole Baptist Boy Scout Leader raped me. That was my big chance to become gay.”

“I never believed you were molested, Mooner. Mr. Spenser was a good Baptist family man. You made that story up to cover for your bad grades in school and for spending so much time by yourself. You should wash your mouth out with soap for telling such a lie.”

I was stunned. “Fuck you, Mother,” I said to a dead phone. I guess she had hung up when I was stunned by her not unexpected callousness to me. I try hard to not tell my mother to fuck off, but sometimes it needs to be said. At least now I don’t have to be in the same room when she punishes me for ruining her life. And that, dear friends, is heartening.

Anyway, again, my favorite casino has a last Saturday poker tournament and today is October’s last Saturday. So it’s manana, y’all.

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Dealies And Thingies, Volume 2 (Vol. II)

Monday, February 7th, 2011


So. The Squirt and I just returned from four hours of kitty cat vetting. I realize that I have more observations to share with you. I’ll start my numbering anew because I’ve been getting complaints for my numerical methods, used on prior occasions, the smartness of said methodologies aside. I hereafter give you today’s observations, Volume Two (maybe that should be Vol. II):

  1. Texas governor and head Republican fuckwad, Rick “Little Ricky” Perry, has recently spent state taxpayer money to calculate just how many legal abortions have been performed in the US of A in the time since Roe Vs Wade. Answer, +/- 50 million. I’m sure Little Ricky will have another emergency bill sponsored to remedy that situation, and whatever it is the bill will do will be accomplished with “NO NEW TAXES”. But this requires me to wonder something. T-cat had a nifty posting over to her bloggie this morning about women’s periods– that time each month when billions of women from all over the globe abort their near-fetus/almost baby eggs. Women abort these almost grown children (disguised as unfertilized eggs) without any remorse, zero religious counseling and never the first visit from Catholic Anti-Abortion Protest lady. I demand we have a bill placed before our state legislature for emergency passage. My emergency bill will make it illegal and unlawful for any woman to abort her unborn eggs without first undergoing an ultrasound, religious counseling, Bible study, and scolding by someone’s father. I, for one, am sick and tired of women killing all of these potential near-humans and instead of feeling/showing remorse for the rampant death-squad murders, what do women do? THEY BITCH ABOUT IT!!! Women must be stopped. When will we end the carnage?
  2. When we left to go kitty cat vetting, I was wondering how I would tell if a particular cat was choosing me/us. Actually, I was wondering how to get the cat to choose Dr. Sam I. Am. So, we went downtown to the very popular Town Lake Greenbelt, which is actually the Lady Bird Lake Greenbelt, and we spread three blankets on the grass. Squirt picked a good spot– between a wooded area near the trail, but away from the street. We set out our photos and opened the cans of kitty foodstuffs, and I took some of the catnip and sprinkled it on the panties, footwear and the sheets…………………. Holy fucking shit! How many stray cats live down to Lady Bird Lake Greenbelt anyway? They swamped us. It was like one of those National Geographic dealies where this one cheetah catches a wildebeest and then a pride of lions decides to take it away. I wish I hadn’t brought Sam’s undies. My blankets are ruined– full of mangy cat hair and slashes from when the cats gained purchase to tug at the foodstuffs. Squirt tried to talk to them, but they just ignored her. Dixie told us it might be that way. Cats can be aloof. Need a new game plan.
  3. I was playing poker on the I-net last night and I got knocked out just before the money in this tournament when I finally got pocket aces. Asshole calls me with Queen-4 off-suit, and rivered the straight 3-to-7. Ugh. Three hours of grinding away and, poof.
  4. I keep forgetting to thank everyone for reading my silly shit. Thanks.
  5. If my Gram doesn’t get herself laid soon, I will slit my own throat. Anybody know of any college-age boys with a strong constitution and a love for fast cars? I don’t care where they live. I’ll ship them here from Kalamazoo to get her some nookie. Her Ferrari is in the shop to repair all of the damage she did driving on the icy roads last week, and I won’t get insurance for her to drive any of our other cars. Last night she says to me, she says, “Aw come on Mooner, ya little shit. Alls I’m askin is fer you ta take tha P-cubed an me down to Aggieland fer a few hours. We’ll catch us a ride back.” I could only answer her with, “Gram, no way will I do it. Every time I take you to drop you off for some sexing I end up in jail. No thank you.”
  6. Still no call from Carta Blanca beer headquarters. Manana, y’all. (this time for certain”
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The Cockroach Solution; First Amendment Yin Yang

Saturday, August 21st, 2010


So. I’m cruising over to the Sprouts there to the Arboretum, and I’m clicking through radio stations because Howard Stern is reruns on Friday and I heard all his shows this week. I punch AM 590 and get Rush Limbaugh’s voice saying, “And aren’t we glad we have the Internet so we can get the real news!”

Are you fucking kidding me?

Wasn’t it not so long ago when Old Hog Jowls was bitching about I-net news? He was complaining about how Internet reporters have no moral compass, nor are they accountable for the truth. Am I crazy?

OK, of course I’m crazy. Let me rephrase, “Am I imagining that Rushie has taken both sides of another fence?”

I find it repugnant that many of these so-called pundits consistently twist every story and circumstance to suit their ideologies for starters. But the real American Tragedy to me is that their followers seem ignorant of the ruse. And it isn’t just the right-wing religious fuckballs doing all the ruse’ing. We’ve got ourselves some rusers of the liberal bent as well, also fuckballs, and listed on the Mooner Johnson Fuckball Roll Call.

It isn’t what you believe that buggerates the ever-loving-shit out of me. It’s how you conduct yourself.

After I switched around some more, I heard some other numb-nuts talking about how our President is a Muslim and a foreign-born Muslim at that. Again, are you fucking kidding me? Get yourself a grip to reality for shitsakes.

Before the Presidential election, anti-Obama forces spent very significant economic and research assets to dig that dirt, and plant their seeds of anger. All of this, “He’s a Muslim and not American born nonsense,” is just that. Turns out to be sterile dirt and sterile seeds both.

But when do these guys ever let a little truth get in the way of their ruses? Maybe that should be rusi, or possibly russess.

Americans’ right to free speech, maybe our most important right, is a huge benefit that carries an opposite, and equally large negative. That balance is ignorance and blind faith. When the followers of a free speaker are too dumb to see lies, or so devoted as to ignore them, Rush Limbaugh is born.

Yin, and yang- a terrible thing to waste.

Which reminds me. I spotted a cockroach in a cardboard box when I went to my office this morning. We don’t have many bugs out to Mooners Compost Plant because of all the bats. Seeing the roach, thinking about the bats and thinking about this poker player named Jerry Yang reminded me that Colleen Lindsay is having trouble with palmetto bugs. You know- tree roaches, the big suckers. She needs to get some of our Mexican Free-tail bats from down to the Congress Avenue Bridge. Those guys will snatch the air clean of any insect. And they’re real cuties.

Anyway, I need to prepare for going incommunicado again, so this will be my last posting for a few days.

Manana de la manana de la manana de la manana and so forth until next weekend, y’all.

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I Think Mike Matusow Has ADHD Too

Friday, June 18th, 2010

Nobody is talking to me so that means that something is brewing in the form of a surprise. Since it’s Fathers Day on Sunday, I’m guessing that would be the surprise. I’ve decided to mess with everyone’s head because I am the only father in my immediate group.

Exclusivity has its benefits.

I’ve been telling everyone that I am going up to Durant, Oklahoma to the Indian Casino there to play some live poker this weekend. I have been doing lousy playing on the I-net because I can’t stay focused. Just last night I, stupidly, tried to run a three-bet bluff in a $24.00 tournament on Full Tilt. A three-bet bluff is a bet on the flop, turn and river when your cards can’t carry a tune.

I know better than that, but I pulled a Mike Matusow anyway. I firmly believe that Mikey suffers from ADHD just like me. I keep trying to convince Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson to develop a specialized focusing therapy for gifted poker players who have ADHD but she says the market is too small.

“OK, Mooner. Besides you and Mike Matusow, name me another gifted player with your affliction.” This from my ex-wife but still psycho therapist.

She’s right, I guess, but if she could just understand the frustration that Mike and I suffer at the hands of ADHD, it might penetrate her cold dark heart to our advantage. Really, think about it.

You pay $10,000 to enter a big championship tournament- one of several thousand players to join. You play perfect poker hour-after-hour for three days on end. You build a big chip stack by playing solid cards, executing crafty bluffs and without ever having your entire stack at risk. Creative and crafty play from a gifted poker player.

And then you are sitting three places from the money, your chip stack is 200% of the average and you hit trip nines on the turn to a board of Ace, Jack, and Seven. The Internet whiz kid who is your heads-up opponent in this hand bets half of the pot on that nine, you raise the pot, and after tanking for three minutes, whizzer boy re-raises you all-in.

So, you fold right?

Nope. You think about when you played with this kid on Poker Stars a few months ago and he ran a bluff with the Ace-King, just like this one. Since you will be close to the chip lead when you bust this little shitball plus get three minutes of TV time on ESPN, you spend a few minutes in the tank pretending to agonize over your already made decision.

You wipe your hand over your grimaced face one last time and say, “OK, I call.”

Whiz kid shrugs and flips over the Eight and Ten of clubs for the straight. “Please don’t tell me you played the Queen-Ten like that Mooner. You never play rags like that.”

You look but don’t see the straight and proudly display your three nines. “Nope, Kiddo,” you proudly say. “I only play premium hands.”

It is about the time the word “premium” floats out of your mouth that you count the five cards in a row that make his straight. “Fuck me,” you think to yourself.

You must have thought it out loud because you catch a ten minute penalty for inappropriate language. At the blind and ante structure this late in the tournament, the $10,000 in chips you have left after the whizzer doubles through you has become one pitiful $500 chip in those ten minutes. You sit down, put the chip in the pot to almost cover your $5,000 big blind.

Your cards come- Jack and Six, one black and one red. You stand up and start the walk of shame before the flop even hits the table.

But that was a major league digression.

Fathers Day is a tough one for me for two reasons. First, I am a father and don’t feel that I have been that great at it. I have always tried to do the right thing by my kids but I’m so crazy that what I try has often times been very wrong. I’m way smarter now than when my kids were in true need of good fathering, but they now could care less about any lessons I might impart to help them live better lives. I know that is not a unique fatherly view, but it is mine.

The other thing is that my own father and grandfathers are long gone. Men that I admired and ignored as best I could. As a typical child, I didn’t listen or learn most of the important wisdom I should have from them. I figure that my kids ignoring me is payback.

What I’m trying to say is that I think I have been a good enough father to deserve an “Honorable Mention” on Fathers Day, but I don’t deserve sappy cards and presents or a party. Those trophies that say, “World’s Best Father” that so many kids give their dads needs a companion for sale this time of year. It would be inscribed, “An OK but not so great dad, we don’t get to choose.”

My Fathers Day card should read: “Roses are red, violets are pretty; Other kids have great dads, Ours is sometimes shitty.”

Look, I am not getting all maudlin and morose on you, I’m just attempting to tell it like I see it. I could have done a great job fathering my kids but I am so crazy with the ADHD and my other maladies that I often got in my own way.

Maybe what I am attempting to say is this. Because I don’t feel that I am such a great dad, the celebration of Fathers Day does not stir me to want a party.

Now- start celebrating Ex-husband Day and I am definitely your man. I am the best ex-husband ever! Ask any of the ten women who would get that vote. I think the best day for Ex-husbands Day would be like April 15th, you know do it the same day as tax day.

On Tuesday, March 25th, I posted an article I wrote years ago that I would like you to read. In fact, let’s get a cold Carta Blanca beer and read it together. It will make you feel better about yourself.

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Juli, I’m Sorry; Don’t Drink Beer At Barnes and Nobles; Psycho Therapy Is Frustrating

Monday, June 7th, 2010

I just got finished with my morning psycho therapy session and the topic of discussion reminded me that I still haven’t told you guys about what happened when I went to the Barnes and Nobles Bookstore over to the Arboretum.

I was doing some research for Dixie because she wants to write a children’s book and needs formatting advice. I guess she wants me to do it for her because I’m already a successful author and I have kids.

Anyway, I was in therapy this morning and Dr. Sam I. Am asks me, she says, “OK, Mooner, let’s talk about your latest fuck-up. It’s been more than a week and you haven’t spoken a word about it.”

I just sort of stared at her like she was the moron because I truly didn’t know what she was talking about. Then I remembered and I said, “Oh yea. I was up to the Sprouts yesterday to get some organic lettuce. It’s been so hot that all the lettuce burned out and the big ranch garden has only summer crops. Sprouts has the best price on a three-pack of organic romaine anywhere to town.”

The good doctor is just staring at me so I continued. “I got my lettuce, some apple cider vinegar for salad dressing, and a big bag of turbinado sugar. Then I saw that they were selling berries for $.99 per half pint and I loaded up on those. When I checked out, Juli, one of my favorites, was my register person and she was sort of pissed at me.
Doctor pain in the ass is still just staring at me so I say, “OK, look Sammy. I know I told Juli I wouldn’t name her by her real name to the bloggie in that posting last week but I forgot. She was hurt that I mentioned her name and was obviously embarrassed by what I had written.”

Now the bitch doctor’s steely gaze is getting under my skin. “Oh for shit sakes Sammy, I told her I was sorry and would never do it again.”

I decided to return the cold shoulder and not talk to her so I started looking around the office with my lips zipped tightly shut. I grew tired of counting the little holes in the ceiling tiles when I got to 13,188 and glanced at my watch to see how much more silence I had to endure until my time expired.

“Fuckballs!” I said. “My watch has stopped.”

And after I spoke, “Oh fuckballs twice. I was gonna make you talk first.”

“You will never learn Mooner.” said Dr. Am-Johnson. “I am strong of heart and will and you Mooner are, simply put, still you.”

I keep telling you guys she’s a bitch.

“I need to call Scotty and get him scheduled to fix my watch,” I said with manly concern.

“Stop whining about your watch Mooner. You’ve got bigger problems than knowing the time to the exact second. Now, tell me about the incident at the bookstore.”

Have I told you guys about my buddy Scott? He retired from the TCEQ awhile back and now he does a little consulting but mostly he does retiring and watch/clock repairs. He is one of the few good men I know from my entanglements with government officialdom and he has become a friend. Maybe he does retirementing.

Anyway, he is a watch and clock collector/seller and a terrific repairer of timepieces. He can fix anything and he is honest and trustworthy. He has a large collection of military watches and he is quite active in that market, I understand. If you need a repair or you want to buy an interesting timepiece, contact him at . He might not get right back to you because he is after all, retired. But you will be glad you waited.

Have I ever told you guys that I like my watch to provide me with the exact time? I don’t know why and I can’t place a single event in my life that was crucial in a to-the-second sort of way. Except for a few fireworks dealies and maybe the one time Streaker Jones and I decided to see who could hold his breath the longest.

But I should have known that Streaker Jones could beat me in a breath-holding contest. He beats me at everything except wifing and the whole ex-wifing thing. Maybe that might need to be wivesing and ex-wivesing thing. And it would be things, plural.

Oh for shit sakes. They would be things.

“Mooner!” Dr. Sam I. Am yelled at me. “De-glaze your eyes and look at me.”

I snapped out of my watch thoughts and looked at her. “What, Sammy? What, what, what?

“Lower your voice buster, and tell me about your problem at the bookstore. Tell me now or I’m calling for the ambulance to haul you to Shoal Creek Mental Hospital where I’ll book you a three-week engagement.”

And then she added, “Maybe that will improve your focus.”

“OK, fine. First of all, it wasn’t my fault. I just want to get that straight from the start,” I began. “Well you know that Dixie wanted me to do some research for her and it was Friday a week ago. Not last Friday three days past, but the one before that. It was the Friday before Memorial Day, whatever day that was, maybe the 28th of May, I think.

“So, since I was going to Sprouts anyway I decided to stop at the B&N books to look around since it’s so close and they have a big kids section.” Now I took a big breath and continued, “It was early and I didn’t shave and I had dressed myself so my outfit wasn’t fully coordinated, and I was wearing a greasy auto parts cap because I forgot to take it off.”

Maybe I was providing too much detail because Sammy says to me, she said, “Mooner, get to the point.

“OK, the point was this. I walk into the store and spy the kiddies section straight to the back of the store. I was headed back and remembered that Jeff Hwang has a new book out on Pot Limit Omaha and I’m trying to learn to play that game better to broaden my poker horizons. I walk over and they don’t have it on the shelf. There’s this guy standing beside me at the Poker Section and he’s holding the last copy.

He says to me, he says, “Look here,” and he shows me the inside of the book. “You can order right from Jeff at .”

“Thanks, man,” I told him. “But I wanted to get started right away. I’ll just see if another store has one.”

“So. I go to the information desk and have to wait in line behind this shitwad who’s asking about do they have the new inspirational book by that TV evangelist Tupac Shamir or whateverthefuck his name is. You know, the Indian guy from India except that he sounds like a Harvard law graduate and dresses like a TV talk show host.”

Maybe that guy’s name is Shupok Darfur.

I took another big breath and continued to Sam. “I had my portable tomato kitchen with me and since this was looking like an endurance kinda conversation ahead of me, I sliced off a couple slabs of Early Girl and passed them to the folks now crowded in line behind me. I didn’t give one to the guy in front so’s to not disturb his already trackless train of thought.”

Now I’m getting into my story when Sam interrupts me. “Get to the point before I kill myself, Mooner. You are driving me to distraction!”

“The point is, you can’t drink alcoholic beverages at the bookstore. When I popped the lid off the frosty Carta Blanca beer from my little kitchen and passed that around, the information lady working with the brain dead questioner ahead of me got snippy.”

“ ‘Put that beer away, sir.’ This was loud whispered like a teacher telling you to stop pulling on Susie Ashburn’s pigtails back to first grade. The teacher is whispering because you are supposed to be taking the spelling test that all the other students seem to be managing without distraction.”

“Anyway,” I continued, “I just downed the rest of the beer myself, stashed the bottle back in my hemp tote bag, and headed to the children’s section to begin my research. When I got back there…”

“Oops, sorry Mooner,” Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson interrupted again. “Your time’s up. We’ll continue in this afternoon’s session.”

I really think psycho therapy helps. I really think psycho therapy helps. I really think psycho therapy helps.

Gram says that if you can say something three times in a row real fast it will become true.

I love my life. I love my life. I love my life.


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Poker Players Alliance; Republicans Stomp On Individual Rights

Thursday, April 15th, 2010

I was going to wait on this one, but Poker Bonus posted a comment and spurred me to do it now. As I hope I have made clear to everyone, I do not like my government officials ruling my life while they are under the influence of their personal religious convictions. This nonsense seems like the norm here to Texas and maybe worse that most of elsewhere.

I am a member of the Poker Players Alliance, which is the amazingly professional trade organization for supporting the right all American People have to play poker. The PPA is working to fight much of the silliness and misinformation and politics that inhibit/prevent adults from enjoying poker. Poker as either a recreation or as a career.

You will notice that I use “American People” often in this post and you will see why later.

The rights of adult American People to play poker is under attack by right-wing Christian-backed, mostly Republican, legislators at the National and State levels. Based upon their personal religious thinkings, these lawmakers are trying to force the American People to live by the supposedly-Christian standards as preached by said lawmakers.

I say “supposedly-Christian” because in a search of the Bible, you will find not a single mention of poker. I happen to think that Jesus and the band of twelve played some ancient form of poker on those lonely nights they spent on the road.

But, of course, you might say, “Wake up, Mooner, poker is gambling and the Bible prohibits gambling.”

OK. First, the Bible does not prohibit gambling- maybe it says gambling is foolish, but prohibit it absolutely not. And second- if you think poker is gambling and has its results based strictly on “Lady Luck”, let me gather a few of my professional poker player buddies out to the card room to the ranch. Bring your paycheck and let’s just see what luck has to do with it.

Last fall the PPA sponsored a letter-writing effort to demonstrate poker players support for favorable poker legislation in the US Congress. I always participate, so I sent letters to my Representative, Lamar Smith, and my two Senators, Hutchinson and Cornyn, each of whom is a Republican. My letter explained to them the good sense it makes to support the legislative actions I recommended, and likewise the silliness in not supporting a particular law Bushie Boy pushed through.

To a one, I received the same basic response containing the same infected strain of infectious, diseased logic. I will discuss said responses in context of the letter, dated September 2009, that I received from Congressman Smith. In this letter, he tells me why he supports existing legislation that was designed to prohibit Internet poker playing. And remember that this is some kind of party line concocted by the Republicans to respond to the hundreds of thousands of PPA letters.

He says that the Internet has illegal gambling operations, which I am sure is true. As a matter of fact, that is precisely why the PPA is working to get smart laws enacted to provide known, legal poker sites where the American People can play responsibly. Safe, legal sites and with taxable sales and reporting.

If you are worried that adult American People are in some kind of danger playing at unregulated poker sites, providing regulated sites only makes sense. Right?

I guess not, at least according to my federal elected officials.

Let me quote the most telling of his remarks. You know we poker players love our “tells”. When he justifies his position to attempt to prohibit poker playing, Representative Smith says:

“I supported the enactment of H.R. 4411, the Internet Gambling Prohibition and Enforcement Act, in 2006. It has been estimated that this law reduced the weekly use of the the Internet for gambling from 5.8 percent of college-aged youth in 2006 to 1.5 percent in 2007.”

Huh? Are you fucking kidding me?

If I understand you correctly, Sir, all the justification you need to deny adult American People their rights is to have a perceived reduction in the “youth” population? Really, are you fucking kidding me?

OK, look. Let’s forget about the fact that he doesn’t provide the source for the statistics that his silly law produced a 75% reduction. And forget about the fact that he had to find that specific narrowly-focused statistic to drive his point. Notice he didn’t quote anything about under-18 youth, or mentally-challenged adults, that kind of almost-meaningful statistic.

Let’s also forget that he is talking of a reduction in college-aged youth. Let me think that one out- college-aged is what 18-22 years of age. Or 32-years old in the case of this one nephew of P-cubed who attends Texas State down to San Marcos.

Rep Smith classifies American People who can vote, drive and serve in the military as youths, but not as young adults.

Republican asswipe.

But in the interest of fairness, let us assume that this man got it right. That when the Legislature denies adult American People the right to do something, it will cause significant (75%) drops in under-age use/consumption of same. Where I come from, 75% is significant. And let’s assume that this reduction in itself is all of the justification we need to enact stupid, rights-restricting laws.

If I follow this line of Republican thinking, we need to enact any law to prevent adults from doing things if it significantly reduces abuse by our youth.

So, since 70% of all nineteen-year-olds have reported that they have been heavy drinkers, if we prohibit and enforce adult consumption of booze, we can reduce the percentage of heavy drinking youth by 75%, or down to 17%.

Holy shit folks, let’s have us a Prohibition. What a great idea!

And let’s move on to teenage driving. Teenage drivers aged 16-19 get 52.7% of all speeding tickets and have 61 accidents per 1,000 drivers annually. So, therefore, let us ban adults from driving and and then teens will only have 13% of the speeding tickets and 15 accidents per 1,000 drivers.

Hoo-yaa! Side benefit- fewer policemen on public payrolls. Hippity-hoo-yaa!

Wait, what about smoking? An incredible 34% of all high school students (actual youth) admit that they smoked last month. Outlaw adult smoking and what do we get- an amazing reduction down to only 5.7%.

Sign me up because I already think smoking should be outlawed. Why doesn’t the Bible prohibit smoking? If God really wanted to have these boys legislate for the betterment of the American People, he’d of said, “Commandment Number 11- Thou shalt not smoke tobacco.”

OK, childhood obesity. The US CDC says that 60% of American People who are children are obese. The main reason- improper diets. I say let us outlaw adults eating fast food, pre-packaged meals, soft drinks, candy, Twinkies, and any of that stuff. That will automatically reduce the obesity rate our American People who are children down to an even, very cool 15%.

Easy prohibition to enact, easy law to enforce.

Wait. Let’s not ban Twinkies, OK?

But here is the scariest. If we follow the Republican logic to the most important Christian issue, we get ourselves quite a conundrum. Of all American People under the age of 18 years, 74% of the females and 82% of the males admit to having been had in a sexual encounter. And an amazing 33% of the females had at least one pregnancy.

Soooooooooooooooooo. If Representative Lamar Smith will please sponsor a bill to prohibit and enforce adult abstinence from sexual activities, our teenage sex participants will average not 78% but rather a paltry 18.7%. And most important- under 18 pregnancies will plunge to but 8%!

Just think guys. All we have to do is give up our right to have sex and our kids will gain huge benefits.

Oh wait- what fucking kids? I can hear Governor Rick Perry’s public interest ad now, “Save a child’s life- don’t have children.”

I just love logical thinking.

But actually I can see one real benefit from banning sex. That means we would have a 75% reduction in shithead radical Christian terrorists killing and intimidating medical professionals and others who support a woman’s right to choose.

In his October 3, 2009 News Release, quoted here as posted to the website of the Right Reverend Representative Smith of the Texas 21st District, this fine American Person says,

“The role of government should be to loosen the bonds of restrictive regulations and punishing taxes, which lead to decreased economic growth, which leads to fewer jobs, lower wages and higher consumer prices. Policies should encourage job creation in our communities, not in Washington D.C. Decisions about our own lives should be left to the American People.”

Rep. Smith goes on to say that, “The Democratic Party is built on the sand of envy and jealousy and lack of trust in the American People. Republican principles stand on the rock of freedom and opportunity with faith in the American People.”

Really? If you stand so rock solid on my rights, then show a little faith in me and stop stomping on my freedoms.

My Jesus thinks this particular Republican is an hypocritical shitball. My Jesus thinks the American People should be free from the actual perspective rather than this crazy Republican’s imaginary “rock of freedom” bullshit.

Rocks in his head are the only thing Smitty is rockin’.

I hate government intervention in any area of my life. But I know that in order to have a “civilized” society, we need laws and regulations. But our government needs to stop burying us ever deeper into religious-defined moralities.

Leave poker alone! And join the Poker Players Alliance at as soon as you can.

And by the way. If you can find a faulty thread in my logic I would like to hear from you.

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