Archive for the ‘Poker’ Category

G-54…. Bingo! In The Game Of Life.

Thursday, February 22nd, 2018

So. It’s been a full year since our having left Santa Fe and relocating back to Texas and I have some observations to make, the first of which is that I might be a touch prejudiced. OK, maybe a touch more than a touch, and maybe again, my particular prejudice might be more like an open-handed slap to the face than a touch—you know, like when some nice lady misinterprets something you say or do and the sharp report resulting from palm-to-the-cheek closely mimics a starter’s gun over to the high school track meet. Having said all of that, I find myself wondering how the verb “touch” came into use as an adverb in the first place, and I’m thinking I did a fine job of finding a sound—the “crack” of a starter’s pistol—to best mimic a hard slap to the face. And that brings to mind that perhaps they don’t use starter’s guns anymore, a notion that is OK with me.

As I consider myself an expert on the fine art of having been slapped, I feel quite lucky that none of those slaps were right on my ear. Cream and Iron Butterfly and The 13th Floor Elevators did way plenty to rob me of my hearing, and grammatical curiosities aside, how ‘bout them Eagles!? I’m working hard to be a Dallas Cowboys fan while living here to Boys’ Cuntry, but I find myself admiring the smarts used by the Eagles to win a championship and comparing those smart methods to the management methodologies of America’s team, and finding Jer Jones and his bunch coming up considerably short, and here is another case of a word usage and run-on sentences in one circumstance causing a touch of ADD brain slippage that leads to a distraction. As Distractions is my middle name, and it felt like I should have said, “Distractions ARE my middle name,” as my distractions are many and varied as well, it turns out, in retrospective thinking, that either verbiage is responsibly correct, and neither is, likely, apropos considering the planned and imagined distractions intended, herein.

And now this: I was asked at the poker table about my ADD. Nice lady said her grandson had it and I don’t exhibit the same frustrations as does he, but that she understood ADD presents itself in several different ways. “How do you describe your symptoms?”

“While I’ve long believed that “symptoms” is a poor word for my malady,” I told her, I carefully explained, “The biggest of my problems is the distractions from multiple spinning thoughts. Think of my skull as the hopper filled with lettered-and-numbered balls over to the Bingo Hall, and my mouth is the little escape hatch that accepts one Bingo ball at a time as the Bingo caller works the game. All the letter “B” balls are the standard active thoughts that might pop into a person’s head as life moves along—such as isn’t it a beautiful day, or is that silly fuckhead in the black pick-up ever gonna move his ass over and let me pass? Letter “I” implements brightly-colored balls containing thoughts that come from sights around the environment, and letter “N” balls are thoughts instigated by sounds, and they look like round stereo speakers. “G” balls contain the thoughts you plan to have, like OK, how am I gonna play these pocket Kings, or maybe wondering how to ask you are you in a committed relationship and would you ever date a man who has been arrested and/or committed? “O” balls are the dark thoughts, and in my case not spoken and mostly not acted upon. “O” thoughts can be unsettling even for me, especially “O-73.”

“So. All those Bingo balls are floating around at the same time hoping to hit the slot there to my mouth so as to be chosen as the favored thought, and you can see and hear each and every one of them as they bounce away in their cage, and you are always aware that they are there and what they are. When a ball hits the slot and rattles home, without eliminating the other thoughts it becomes the predominate thought that controls your actions for some period of time—usually a quite short duration. Maybe I’ve mixed pronouns and tenses a bit, but does that make any sense?”

I had planned to go on with her response, but the nice lady became intensely interested in the hand going on at the table next to ours.

As the house we bought here to Denton, Texas was recently remodeled when we bought, we’ve done little in the way of modifications of our own. Except that we added a patio cover (which in Santa Fe was a “portal”), composted and fenced a patch of back yard to build a garden, changed the shower heads, put up window blinds, added shrubbery, and put gravel down to reduce the grass lawn square footage. Telling you about each of those home improvements is important because it was our discussion of said and same projects that spurred the thought that I’m prejudiced.

OK, and in the name of honesty once more again, this wasn’t a situation wherein I had a moment of self-reflected and intellectual insight that spurred knowledge. This insight was not a sign that I might have matured, but, rather, it was the keen insights of a ten-pound puppy whose sharper imaginings brought clarity of thought on a misty evening’s cogitations. I find it interesting that my most important self-reflective insights come through the lens of another’s observations. Interesting more that it be thoughts of my young charge with little world experience that allow me to clearly peer (pear? or pier? maybe, as my in-house thesaurus lacks the self-reflection to look deeply at itself to find hidden meanings) into the mirror.

“I think you’re prejudiced, asshole,” the Squirt said to me as we sat there to the back porch bundled under a blanket and discussing further home improvements. “You don’t get to claim you’re open minded when you assume that just because some shithead supports gun rights to the extreme that he beats his wife. That’s prejudiced.”

“Wait just a minute little lady, that’s not what I said. What I said was that……”

Actually, that was exactly what I had said. “OK, that’s what I said, but I wasn’t speaking literally, I meant it figuratively, like extremists on gun rights are bad guys all-around, but not necessarily wife abusers.”

Have you ever noticed how expressive dogs’ faces can be? The Squirt looked at me as if I’d just told her I liked to lick cat butts, and swallow.

“You are not that dense, Mooner. But I do think you’ve dumbed-down since moving back to Texas.”

“Maybe it’s the cancer sucking at my brain power, little lady. You ever think of that?”

Squirt smiled sweetly and tells me, she says, “Acknowledgement is the first step in recovery. You know you don’t deal well with problems, dumass, and you are not as sharp as back to New Mexico. The goat dog and I think it’s all about the air quality. Unless……. Have you been into the mushroom juice behind our backs?”

“I always share with you guys and I stopped sneaking around backs after that one time Police Sargent and ex-wife number five, Roshandra Washington-Johnson, caught me wearing her John Browne set-up as a surprise for Valentine’s Day. She didn’t find it romantic at all when she opened the front door to find me naked, save-and-except her gun belt, with my pecker loaded into the holster and my butt all dressed-up like a vase of red roses.”

Me, I still think that was quite the romantic gesture—hit all the highlights. Significant planning, made it personal, sexy as all giddy-up, and clever. Check, check, check and check. OK, the one thing I mis-planned was my choice for the vase. Maybe I should have held the roses in my teeth.

I guess the Squirt’s insights are pretty spot-on. While I’ve managed to mostly sanction myself against public displays of calling out assholes, my natural compunction, it seems that I’m becoming passive/aggressive in my thoughts. Rather than to call-out an asshole when they act like one, I think of all the other negative traits the asshole likely has resulting from his original shitty act, and imagine his name on my list. Like hearing some lamebrain wearing a MAGA ball cap go on-and-on-and-on about how the Second Amendment gives him the right to carry any kind of weapons anyplace in any state anytime he wants, and then thinking to myself, “This asshole looks like he abuses women and licks cats’ asses. And swallows.”

It isn’t that I have zero scientific information to use, what with the entire Cowboy Roy Moore scenario. I don’t like when others jump to conclusions about me, so I should try to stop. But isn’t a positive mental attitude actually jumping to conclusions? Isn’t the human decision-making process based on predetermined, conditional, theoretically-conclusive analysis? Would you rather have late-life hallucinations and ascribe them as flash-backs of earlier-life experiences, or blame your lunacies on herbal supplements interacting haphazardly with current prescribed medications?

G-54,” which in today’s game means: Fuck Walmart!


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A Welcome To New Readers; I’ll Have One Of Those Hot Dogs On A Pretzel Bun

Friday, July 14th, 2017

So. I’m again writing as both part of my commitment to spend thirty minutes each day writing and also my agreement to disclose those of my behaviors that are “call out” behaviors. For those of you new to the word jungle hereat mostly confined, please know the following: my psycho therapist is the first of my several ex-wives and mother of my kids (and, likewise, the arbiter-in-charge of the confessional call outs); my late-life children are two mixed breed mini dogs named Squirt and Yoda (aka the goat dog); my loony old mother is mostly confined to a memory loss home (the reason behind my recent move back to Texas) and; I seem to lack most of the thought filtering devices for socialization common in civilized persons; I’m an atheist and dislike most religions and all religious bullshit; I’m socialistic politically; I’m an ADD-addled fuckbrain, and as the Squirt has grown fond to say when she tells me, she’s been saying, “Mooner, you’re a hot fucking mess.”


Run-on sentences aside, using the above information as the colored shards to fill the round box out to the end of your kaleidoscopes, please spy through your lenses with guarded responses at whatever it is that follows. OK?


As it’s now full-blown summer and our lawns are lush and full, the Squirt has an unnatural fear of flies and the goat dog chases himself dizzy as he spins and jumps to snap the winged buzzers dead with his mouth, and having dogs who shit in the grass breeds fly colonies who, whom maybe, like to nest in grass, deep breath…we’ve got flies. Every kind of fly known to inhabit the habitats of similar habituaries to ours. Big horse flies, fruit flies, house flies and everything between. Having tried every possible fly catching or fly killing or even the scare-your-flies-away dealios, nothing actually worked as desired.


OK, let me break here to say that while we do have Dragon Flies, they are not subject to our rancor, nor of our ire, as instead of hunting them down with evil intents, we have planted some bushes in specific design to attract them for their beauty.


Also in the name of disclosure so as to not appear to be in conflict with my own beliefs, in response to a buddy’s question that if I hate flies so damned much, why do I have one tattooed on the tender patch of skin that lies between the thumb and forefinger of my left hand, an inking of extreme visibility in my everyday life. The answer to that is simple. As flies are the first visible evidence of pending death in the animal kingdom, I placed a Spanish bottle fly on that patch of skin as a reminder that I have cancer. And saying that requires the clarification that I actually have two cancers.


The first are the skin cancers that have visited my skull starting from when I was forty, cancers that have required scalding and freezing and scalpelling in successful efforts to fully remove them from my person. I’ve had dozens of those things removed over the last twenty-eight years, and as long as I keep them removed in a timely fashion, none will threaten my life. The second of my cancers lies inside the walls of my traitorous fucking prostate. No details here, but suffice it to say that it could not be removed to prevent releasing its cancerous cells into the rest of my body, so I got the treatments designed to shrink it so small as to make it a non-issue for my future health.


I put my Salvador Dali drawn Spanish bottle fly tattoo there to my hand  because I had started playing poker more seriously after my treatments by The Great Radiator, and I wanted a constant reminder that while I have no specificities thereof, the numbering of my days was in final countdown. Maybe most people don’t require so visible a reminder of pending mortality, but what with the ADD and all, and memory requiring at least a modicum of focus…


Anyhow, we were stymied as to our fly issues until my good buddy BJ from middle Tennessee told us about the “Bug-A-Salt” fly killing machine. As a complete hater of any sort of gun, it was difficult for me to buy-into the purchase of even an air rifle to make the life of my pets better. But after watching the company video and reading Beej’s description of his fly killing successes, I got one. Other than birth control, the single best purchase of my life.


OK, so what the Bug-A-Salt rifle is, is a plastic, pump action air rifle that looks like a mini assault gun, which uses ordinary table salt to kill flies. And it is quite the efficient fly killing machine.


When we were watching the company video depicting the operational effectiveness on the I-net, I asked the dogs what they thought, I asked them, “What do you guys think? Will that work for us?”


After some seemingly careful consideration, the Squirt looks up and tells me, “You’ll put our eyes out, dumbass. You’ll be hunting flies and start thinking about that car waitress at Sonic yesterday, and, well, you know how that goes.”


The small brown puppy who is my oldest late-life child was speaking of the quite comely woman—in and of itself an anomaly roller skating around at a Sonic—who had the quick wit of a comic and the long limbs with delicate hands I find so attractive.


What with my hating guns attitude, it took me awhile to learn how to effectively operate the damned thing, but I’ve now been proven to have killed 68 flies with a recent 72-shot whatchamacallit of table salt. OK, help me, you don’t load ammunition for a gun into a canister or a box, you load it into a_____. A something not called a cargo hold, and not the spare bullet detachable thingie kept in the pockets of those cargo pants that mass murderers seem to like, said detachments serving as a personal arsenal when some shithead decides to shoot up a nightclub. I’m talking about the internal ammo-storing container actually a part of the gun. In a revolver I think they call it the drum, right?


Anyone still with me? Anyway, you fill your whateverthefuckitis you call the thing that holds ammunition on the actual person of a gun with table salt. Ordinary table salt, and I get Kroger branded generic table salt that was on sale for $0.49 recently at the Kroger over to Loop 288, you know the big store. The regular price is $0.98 but I get the discount with my Kroger card. The manufacturer says you can fill the storage thingie in your Bug-A-Salt with an 80-shot load of miniature mini balls, but I can’t get 80 shots loaded without spilling another 80-shot load all over the place. So, my average load is 72 shots. Okay, perhaps my average is 71, but who really gives a shit? Whom either?


We three-that is to mean the dogs and I–say we’re going on safari when we make a trip to the outside to shoot flies. I’ve got a cammo safari hat to keep the skin cancer from re-infesting my head, and the dogs creep stealthily beside me as we hunt the pesky critters down. OK, should it be better said that we hunt down the pesky critters?


Which reminds me. Has anybody else noticed how many of the mega-church preachers have started cozying-up to the Trumpster? The Prez was in Dallas last weekend meeting at one of the local gigantic religious industrial giants, and the sound bite from the asshole pastor was, “Trump is the last hope to make America great again!”


How can a true Christian cozy up to Trump, a question the answer for which I just now realized in the simple act of writing the question. And should the previous sentence end with a question mark as it contains a question or end with the pointed declaratory period? Don’t know, don’t really give a shit to the punctuation question, and the other one seems simple.


Hypocrisy. Telling me that the man who wants to grab your wives and daughters by their pussies is America’s last hope is hypocritical bullshit, just as little Jimmy Baker fucking around on Tammy Fae while fleecing the minions of millions on a family values platform.


Dammit, it isn’t the chamber because that’s where the bullet goes to be fired, right? Anyway, got bugs? Wanna have some fun? Buy yourself a Bug-A-Salt rifle. Googlate it.


Fuck Walmart!

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Confessions Of Honor; What’s A Booger Among Friends?

Thursday, June 29th, 2017

So. As before stated to the pages, herein, I have been doing some study work and practice on my poker game while not spending time attending to said and same pages. That is about to change. As part of my newly-started poker schooling, I have been required to commit to something not poker related, and writing bloggie postings are it. “Is it”, I guess are better said there, and it is going to be a task as I’m required to do this—per said commitment—for thirty minutes every day. Thirty minutes every fucking day.
When I told the Squirt that she and the goat dog will be required to leave me alone for thirty minutes each of our days she said to me, she bitched, “Who do you think you’re kidding, shithead? You’re the one can’t stop bugging us for for even ten straight minutes. How about we strike a deal where you leave us alone for thirty minutes per entire day, and you have to give us extra dinner when you fail?”
Thinking on that, I realized that my now pair of ten-pound puppies would weigh out at half-a-hundie in a month. I likely realize that any new readers hereof will be perplexed in just 300 words.
Additional thoughts on the thirty minutes subject led to an agreement. “OK, I get that I’m the problem. How about I close the blinds in the office when I write? That way you guys won’t be barking at everything that moves and I’ll be able to keep my eyes off the neighbor’s college-age daughter. Deal?”
Done deal. The neighbor’s daughter is quite the looker, I hope she’s of college age, and the words I’m now typing are the first words of the agreement and the first of my commitment. Which begs the questions: “Will having a forced commitment to write effect—or maybe even affect—the mindless drivel contained on these pages? Will I somehow be smarter, more erudite, or clever more? Will I manage to control my ADD, maintain a logical flow of thoughts, and make sense? Can my readers discern between the commitment and the agreement after suffering through this?
Which reminds me. Are there no hero women or men in the national Republican Congress anymore? Is there not one among them who will stand proud and say that this new health care bill is an atrocity? Not one who will say it’s unfair to cut health care to the needy in order to give tax breaks to our wealthy, or not a soul among them to say that knocking 22 million Americans off health care coverage does not make America great again?
Where is the guy who can stand tall and say his party’s plan is terrible for our country? Where’s that one of them who will act like an actual fucking Christian and say taking care of our unfit is what Christ would ask us to do? Is there not one of those pro-life fuckwads who stand so tall for the unborn that is willing to stand for those already born in need of life support?
These proud and patriotic Americans can’t even get fully behind investigations into the entire Russia scandal yet they now want to run up a big expenditure to determine if the former AG hindered the Clinton email scandal. Look boys and girls, you already did it, you killed Hilrie’s political career. Spend the effort doing something useful, like proving Obama wasn’t an actual American citizen, or maybe that the CIA bombed the Twin Towers and the Pentagon on 9/11.
And that reminds me that I also have agreed to start talking about my fuck-ups, out loud. A confession/absolution sort of dealio. I’ve done it a couple times and it felt almost good. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson tells me that confession is good for the soul, should I were to have one, and that I need to do more of it. So here’s one. There’s this one guy over to the poker room that I really don’t like. He has BO, that tooth decay breathe kind of halitosis that incites your gag reflex, and he’s shitty and nasty to other players. I often address him when he’s out-of-line, but I know it does no real good.
So, I had a snotty nose the other day from some pollen or another, and blew my nose all the way to the casino, but I seemed to dry up in the conditioned air inside after sitting there to my seat. About an hour later, the aforementioned shithead took the seat on my right. When I was trying to get a read on this one young player who gives me problems, I was absent-mindedly trolling at my nose with the pinky finger to the asshole guy’s side of me, and I got a bite. Snagged a big one—one of those rascals I call a “comet” booger. You know, with a dried snot blob the size of a match head and a long sticky tail hanging off. The kind that—if, and when, you can manage to flick it off your finger it manages to land in precisely the wrong place—sticks to anything like rubber cement.
When I play poker I have this backpack with all sorts of shit inside, the contents too numerous to now mention, and I keep spare napkins in an open pouch in the back-bottom compartment. I reached around with the comet booger-laden pinky hand to grab a napkin for depository duty, and right at that moment the shithead reached down between us to grab his water bottle from the floor beside his, and my, chair.
I’m just glad he was wearing a long sleeve shirt.
I was distracted for a couple hours as my eyes tracked my deposit, the sticky comet tail drying to a crust on the arm of his shirt, likewise distracting was my internal dialog as to whether I was required to tell him, and should I apologize for the accident. It was an accident. Really. I haven’t intentionally planted a booger since maybe high school. I was lucky that those distractions didn’t cause me to blow through my chips, as distractions and lack of focus are my big leaks, a leak being otherwise described as a problem or weakness that causes a poker player to lose money dumbly.
While on a bathroom break, I finally concluded that mayhaps I ought to fess up for my actions, in itself an act of congruency with my confessions, and I committed to go straight back out and confess. I did decide to pretend I had just stuck my snot blob to his arm in an attempt to make the apology and my confession seem timelier, a lie, effectively, that I also would be disclosing herein, had it occurred. But, and alas, he was gone when I got back, and as it is the thought that counts, I figure I’m good.
OK, I’ve just spent three hours writing this silly shit and I’m good for the week! So:

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