Kai Landry almost wins Ladies Tournament Almost Mugged

The PokerBat has been in the Poker Hospital all but retired from the insidious game that almost cost him his life. *That exhilarating story to come, keep reading dear reader, and to the Miley Cyrus fans that came to this site because of the Miley Cyrus Three Nipple Nude Pictures tag keep reading too you won’t be disappointed.

So, despite battling poverty, obesity, and a skin condition under his muffin top his doctor described as crease rickets, the Bat couldn’t resist a good tournament at the IP Casino in Biloxi, MS.  Thus the Bat got on his Vespa, to make the long trip south.  What?  Times are hard and the Bat has to travel as best he can.  Three miles into the trek the Bat called a cab.  Put a Powerwheels engine on a communist technology and what do you get?  A lawn ornament.

Sure enough after a long layover at the Shed, the Bat got to the WSOP-C event a little late, and the Bat spies only a ladies event running and some dude playing deep into the tournament.  Taking a pulse of the crowd the Bat learns it’s Kai Landry.  This guy used to blog on http://www.gulfcoastpoker.net, and reading his thoughts on that site, was a bit like taking an Ambien,slugging ten fingers of Jimmy Beam, and staring at a lava lamp until it spelled out spiritual advice… or in other words an average Tuesday for the Poker Bat.

So seeing a kindred spirit, the Bat railed Kai from a spot just behind the curtains, just behind the people hawking card protectors.  “No, the Bat doesn’t want to buy your table frisbees unless they come with Jessica Simpson from the Dukes of Hazard movie and I don’t have to keep the disc.”

From his poker blind, the Bat watched Kai magnificently wade through that minefield of Q10 loving princesses and get to heads up action.  Heads up action in a ladies tournament… creepy smile, creepy wink, creepy nudge (somebody needs to design that emoticon).  There the Bat hears some of the exiled ladies talking.  One of them a brutish looking tight end for an Canadian Football League team tells the others, if Kai wins he’s not getting out of the parking lot with the pendant.

This got the Bat picking his nose, actually, the Bat was already knuckle deep, this got the Bat thinking, about poor Kai getting jumped in the parking lot.  So taking stock of the future mob, the Bat envisioned the scene if he won:

Kai exits the elevator, with the Ted Nugent muzak fading away as he walks into the IP garage, a car skids out in the distance, but this floor of the garage is empty except for Kai’s car (a vintage Aston Matin)  parked by itself overlooking the beauty of the bay of biloxi.  As Kai, walks sipping from his shaken not stirred victory martini, the lone light above his car flickers rapidly and turns off, turning the garage to shadow. Dripping water echoes loudly and Kai can’t help but shake the idea he’s being watched.
As he nears his car, thumbing the pearly brilliance of his treasured pendant, thinking expectantly about digging into his dinner of fried chicken and wine in a bubble bath,
suddenly shadows drop silently from the ceiling.  He sees them spill to the floor as graceful as mash potatoes sliding off a spoon.  As they dust themselves off, he recognizes them as a group of big stacked poker ninjas, they stand between him and around his car.
One of them, Nancy “Right Eye” Lopez steps out the darkness.  Her visor, football coach shorts, and industrial strength tube socks means one of two things, she’s either late for an tee time or in short order Kai would be lunch meat.
Next to Right-Eye, another vanquished opponent emerged.  This one, “Babe” Zaharis, who busted standing up to his stealing by calling off with King 4 off suit.  Babe, wearing her shiny L.I.P.S poker tour jacket she wears to every poker event, a female version of Captain Tom speaks first, “Give us the pendant and we’ll let you walk.”
Kai, “Huh, what?  This, you want this…”  Kai looked at his precious.  Sure, the costume jewelry that didn’t exactly match his eyes but the value was in the significance of it.  Like Hercules defeating the Amazons, or his hero Abraham Korotki’s seminal Jackie Robinson moment in Atlantic City, the pendant symbolized a victory over woman kind.  Too many times, man had suffered at the poker table at the carefully manicured hands of women.  Their transgressions too many to count, but including Tiffany Michelle’s 5 seconds of relevancy where she slurped nacho cheese off her fingers after fondling chips, their uniquely female “passive aggressive” playing style (keep calling with the worst of it until you get there), the siren call of their low cut tops across the tables bludgeoning the logical portions of male brains into mush, or just one story too many about the brilliance of Vanessa Selbst.  Kai knew his victory was bigger then a pendant.
As he mustered up the courage to stand up to these woman, an even larger henchwoman stepped out from the shadows, he recognized her at once as body builder Paula “Poundstone” Creamer,  she hissed, “We can do this the easy way or the hard way breeder.”
Kai shrugged, “Usually when I wrestle with a gang of women there’s more of you and a pile of pillows.”  They ignored his wink.  He slugged the rest of his martini and gathered his nerve.  The odds were against him, but this was a man who had also broken into the female stranglehold on the jello wrestling industry, so he knew how to defend himself from their feminine wiles.  Afterall he wasn’t called the Violent Milkman for nothing, “Let’s do… this!” he yelled.
Despite his bravado, it’s one thing to battle a bikini model in green jello in a high school gym, it’s another thing to fight the bloodlust of a passel of angry female poker players.  Kai barely took a step, before the card protectors took flight and pounded him about the face like throwing stars.  As they clinked to the ground he saw the dolphins, hearts, and pink horseshoes that were de facto symbols of the gender he debased and he knew this was going to hurt.
At that moment, the light flickered back on, a cat shrieked in a stairwell, and he saw the hordes and hordes of angry estrogen warriors rushing him like he  was a dollar shoe rack at Jimmy Chu’s.  A flurry of purses, and knock off pink Beats headphones battered him across the head and brave Kai fell to a knee.  He thumbed a droplet of blood from his mouth, and looked at the ladies saying, “Is that all you got?”
As they stared him down, he saw a famous face, “Kathy… Liebert?”
She tucked her 2005 Shooting Stars bounty shirt back into her shorts and pulled out a flip phone from her fanny pack, “That’s right I got the call.”
Then out stepped, Jennifer Harman, Victoria Coren, Mimi Tran, and Jennifer Tilly to stand shoulder to shoulder with Liebert, “We all did.”
Harman pulled out a pineapple from her mom jeans, gently tossing it back and forth from hand to hand, “Ladies… who wants a Pina Colon-ado?”
The harpies screamed their approval.
A shrill voice from the group then cried out, “No, let’s give him the full Negreanu!”
Harman shook her head, “An…” but before she could finish, that craven cavalcade of women let out a  collective shriek, and just like that the onslaught began anew, a melee of bingo-winged women went airborne, their biggest, Condaleza Hippolite, landed first and Kai went to ground like a Rollo hitting an Almarillo sidewalk.  He hung on bravely clutching that pendant til all but his last moment of consciousness escaped him while they pulled at his hair and scratched at his clothes.  One of the last sights he saw, a sweaty tramp stamp bordered by roses , “Say, Yes When Nobody Asks.”  For a moment, he ignored the beating he was taking, to think to himself “What da fuck. Who Da Fuck.”
As finally he blacked out under a haze of musky scents straight out of bowling alley ladies room, they wrested the pendant from him.  The group now almost sated they turned and left.  Within moments, a dazed Kai woke up and  somehow pulled himself to his feet but his recovery didn’t go unnoticed.  The smallest, loudest, and least toughest of the bunch Kerri Simmons-Webb ran back for one more swift kick to the nuts.
Kai spun to the ground in agony.
“Next time take your balls and go home,” she taunted.
Fortunately for Kai, he came in second and this didn’t happen.
**The PokerBat promised you the tale of why he semi-retired and almost lost his life, but alas ,space was limited so he didn’t.  Next time.  Same Bat Channel.  As for you Miley Cyrus fans sorry to disappoint you, but there are no pictures of her nude with three nipples here either.  But get used to the disappointment, you are a Miley Cyrus fan, even at a young age your poor decision making prefaces a lifetime of worse ones, enjoy your facial tattoes, your bad salvia trips, and your grocery list of boyfriends that need saving but not marrying.

Bat Takes Offense–Self Absorbed Humans

 

The Bat recently rode an elevator and saw a similar note as above.  Why not just post that note?  Well, if the Bat had one of your fancy dancy fuckbook phones the Bat would have taken a picture of it.  Instead, the Bat is rocking a Matrix slider phone and proud of it.  Doesn’t matter if the 9 key has fallen off, the Bat has excised any friends with 9s in their number.  It’s a simple purge.  When the 5 or some relevant number falls off the Bat will get a new phone.  What about dialing 911 you ask?  Okay, you didn’t ask it but smarter people did.  It begs the question after all, dialing 11 doesn’t do much.   That’s fine because the Bat has his own emergency number it’s called Mr. Colt 45.  Not talking about Billy D. Williams either.   Won’t spell it out for you libs but don’t come knocking on my door after dark unless you want to get acquainted with the business end of Lando Calrissian.

Anybody that seen’s the Bat jog knows he should have an ambulance on speed dial.  That’s fair enough as there are other uses for 911.  That’s why the Bat wears one of those medical alert necklaces.  Yes, the Bat wears it like a watch because the Bat is thick but it’s still there under a fold of skin or two.

Anyway, while in Vegas for the World Series of pissing on the shoes of Eurotrash hipsters in the Rio bathroom, the Bat saw a sign like the one above in the apartment he rented out.  Probably written by that oompa loompa Matt Marafionetti.  Being about a crotch lice’s hair over five fiddy the Bat doesn’t take the stairs ever for no reason.  If there is option between one step and a handicap ramp that swirls around the building the Bat takes the ramp.  Now, on the face of this, these types of notes make a little sense.  Folks on the 20th floor can’t get to the 20th floor quick enough when all the fat and lazies insist on riding the elevator up one floor.

In a way, the note is everything the Bat stands for, anti-laziness and it’s anti self absorbed greediness.  Being a self loather, the Bat doesn’t even mind the obesesism, however it’s ill conceived.  Who is the self absorbed?  It’s got to be the assholes who insist on riding an elevator up one or two floors to the detriment of everybody else in the building or is the writer of the note?  Obviously, the assholes that live there pay to service the elevator so it’s their right to ride it however few floors they want.  The people with the views on the upper floors have to just suffer through it and it’s another cost of living.  Still, on the other hand those lazy biatches could use the exercise.  However, if the writer of that note were really concerned about efficiency, the Bat would ask if he gets off two floors early and walks up to his own floor.  After all, two floors is the arbitrary amount the writer has determined is the litmus test for fat and lazies, but it’s obvious nobody gets off two floors early to hump stairs.

In way that’s not realistic, but to make the example more pronounced what if the note-writer was the last person on a full elevator.  The floor two below his was punched and every floor above his was punched.  Would he immediately spare the rest of high livers by getting off two floors early?  Of course not because he’s a self-absorbed fat and lazy impatient fucker who doesn’t want to wait for anybody, he’d punch his own floor and get back to praying somebody favorited his tweet about daffodils and his girlfriend’s dingleberried ass.  Let the rest of the unwashed masses walk up two flights of steps, let us eat cake too, but no not the fucking lazy notewriter he won’t be walking any stairs.  The Bat says fuck you passive aggressive note writers.   Either grow a pair of balls and write a plain aggressive note, with your apartment number on it, or don’t write a note and hide behind anonymity.

Okay, the Bat’s been meaning to get that rant off his chest for a couple of days now.  Once the Bat gets rid of his man tits there will be nothing left to get off the chest, but for now, let’s talk some poker.

The World Series has been a brutal series of self-inflicted fistings that would make a porno convention squirm.  That enough poker talk for you?  The Bat couldn’t win a hand if he was holding half the fucking deck.  Poker has been like giving head to a piledriver for a solid month now.

The cards have been especially unkind to the Bat.  Not only that in one of the only tournaments the Bat has had any luck in,  the Bat finally went deep in a Rio deep stack event, agreed to a five way chop only to have the guy that signed for first take off with all his share and the other four of us staring at one another like the friggin’ Happy Days bunch when Fonzie’s wasn’t in a scene.  The Bat is ready to break some fricking heads over this.  Talk about a bad beat.

Meanwhile, over on Lock poker the Bat can’t stop snapping off tournaments.  All the Bat’s run-good is tied up in that site.  Which the Bat was happy with… then the Bat hears a couple of the poker kids Lucky Chewbacca and R2D2 Patel talking about the site not paying out again while the Bat was getting his head handed to him in PLO.  The Bat can’t win for losing.   Don’t even ask the Bat about the guy he bought a piece of for the one drop.

Talking about these brats, the Bat has heard enough of the lingo, three and four and five betting.  Everybody piles and is “piling” and snaps off and is “snapping off” and “ripping.”  They sound like they haven’t figured out how to light a bong yet.  They’ll learn.

Anyway, the Bat’s been through the slop before.  Only a matter of time before the world series of poker main event is his.

Lap Band Tightening the Bank Roll

It’s been sometime since the PokerBat has graced the blogosphere with the world’s greatest poker blog.  Since you last saw him the PokerBat has finally done something about his ever expanding waistband.  Don’t think the Bat didn’t hear every person that sat down at a table immediately ask if the table could be balanced only to look my way, see my purple sweat pants, and the folds of my body overhanging a solid quarter of the table and sigh in not so muted disgust.  No, the Bat heard it all.  You obese-ists out there should really settle down, and take a long, hard look at yourself in the mirror and maybe then you’ll take a shotgun to your own testes and dirtnap til eternity.

Nonetheless, The Poker Bat finally had to admit his weight had become too much to bear.  The Bat came to that recognition this last year.  Thankfully, the death of online poker may have saved the Bat’s life.  Now, with live poker becoming a dreary affair with few friends thanks to Bat’s heft making every table shorthanded, and forseeing a future of possibly being crane lifted from his upper Louisiana love shack, the Bat decided to do something about it.  He squeezed himself into his cherry Mazda Miata to drive to the clinic.  Before doing so he had a friend with a forklift help him get out of that same Miata.  A terrible day in the Bat’s life.  Any time you are wearing doors for pockets it’s time to step-back and reevaluate again.

Since then the Bat has sought real medical help and battled the silent addiction of sugar.  Used to be the Bat’s snack between snacks was a grip of pixie stix and a gallon of Kool-Aid.  No more.  After a lap band operation the Bat is looking svelte, sexy, and back in play.  The Bat traded grass and the munchies for wheat grass and scrunches.  The Bat used to have situations in every crevice of his body and now the body is looking like Jersey Shore icon the Situation.  It’s been a great eight months.  After surgery to move 49 and a half pounds of droopy flesh.  Already, the Bat has jumped to match.com after being stuck on Adultfriedster to find dates that mostly came to the Bat’s house and raided his fridge.  

The Bat can see his feet again, not to mention his other nether region appendage and there has been much joy in the Bat-house hold.  After sleeping on a mattress that wasn’t on the slab for the first time in decades and trusting the struts of the bed, the bat was embolden in other areas of life.  

The Bat’s most recent mail order bride from Belarusssia just came in and she’s a dandy.  The Bat has been softening her frosty marital response with offers to by her Ford Taurus and Levis jean jackets.  Still, the Bat knows it’s only a matter of time before her citizenship kicks in and the Bat gets another scrawled note like the last one, “I wont million Air.  You suffercate me in night when you rolls.  Thanks for USA passport, sams club card, and the lice.  I will try to forget you.   Always, Anis.”

Still, a fresh mail order wife is a bit like a couple of Red Baron’s pizzas fresh in the oven.  It’s going to get dirty and the Bat might regret but it’s going to be a lot of fun finishing it.  This new body and new wife Olga, the minx from mintz, has the Bat pissing swagger and perspiring red bull.  Must be time to get back to pokering.   

In fact, the Bat’s unballyhooed unheralded comeback to poker just happened.  The bat journeyed to that bedbug, flea and tick infested roach casino known as Hammond, IN.

Welcome to Bossier City, Welcome to the Bat’s Balls

Hello Gulf Coasters welcome to the Bat’s neck of the woods.  Kindly leave you money in the locals wallets and enjoy yourselves while you are here.

The Bat has all kinds of poker to talk about but first the Bat wants to talk about his balls.  Yes, if you do not like conversations that get teste, you might want to click away now.  If you have a sense of humor, preferable one that leans juvenile, pull up a chair.

The Bat’s balls are two giantic orbs that the Bat relies on to make bluffs and call down people, but that’s not all they are.  So let’s no longer give short shrift to their might or their heft, and they are mighty, they are hefty, and they are mighty hefty.

The Bat’s balls are fluent in Chinese and Esperanto.  If they could talk they could prove it.

What’s Esperanto? *Answer below, but let’s not make your eyes bleed any earlier than they need to and keep talking about the Bat’s balls, just know that Epseranto is a little used language.

The Bat’s balls are strong independent thinkers, in fact, on some of the grander issues that bedevil man they disagree.  One ball is a staunch radical monotheisist, the other an atheisist.  How does the Bat know this?  Quite simply, when making the bedsprings squeak the Bat says two things, and realize this is when the Bat’s brain has been seized by the balls, the first is… “Oh God, Oh God, Oh God.”  That’s the monotheisist ball doing the heavy  lifting.  When the squeaky-squeaky is guided by the atheisist nut the Bat is known to say “No. God.  No. God.  No. God.”   The atheisist ball for whatever reason seems to wrap things up a bit quicker than the monotheisist.

The Bat isn’t positive which ball is which afterall, the whole right brain controls you left side and left brain controls your right throws the Bat.  Do they balls work the same way?

Now, the Bat has asserted his balls speak a vague international language other than the International language of love.  How can the Bat know this?  When all five bills of the Bat aren’t crushing a bedmate, sometimes the Bat will talk to these ladies of the night.  One time he met the rarest of breeds.  Finding an American who speaks Esperanto is difficult, because we aren’t much into international unity and speaking anything other than English.  However, one flower that blossomed in the Bat’s Shreveport shanty spoke the language Esperanto.  And sure, for many ladies, paid and or drugged, the Bat’s balls speak to them, but that is in a more etheral sense.  This lady literally had a conversation with them.

Here the athesist ball and the monothesist ball were in concordance, on the day they spoke to this lady.  Here’s how…  She’s also a skilled morse code enthuisast and she realized the tip-tapping of the Bat’s balls was actually a riveting conversation about the deficit.  Now, the fact the Bat’s balls are also conversational in morse code should not be a surprise afterall they are attached the Bat.  What some men learn in a humble prisoner of war cell in desperate need of connection, the Bat’s balls just know innately.  It should be more surprising to you that this strumpet could follow along.  Realize when the Bat’s registering on the richter scale it seems unlikely that a bedmate should have their mind on anything but the Bat, but not this lady, she had the excellence of nerve sensitivity to follow along with the conversation of the Bat’s balls as well as endure a minute and half of a fat rippling good time.

In some ways, we should celebrate her, not the two conduits of molten man lava swinging with mighty heft between the Bat’s legs.  Course,  that wench also enjoys bathing in Ajax so in some ways she’s a genuis and in others a moron.  No, the Bat’s balls are 100% genuis so let’s shine the spotlight on their magnificence.  If they could write or hold a paintbrush, man could stop writing and could stop painting because the Bat’s balls would put an exlamation point on art, a level that could not be topped nor even compared to.  Indeed they would render all other works of art as intriguing as a toddler’s refridgerator picture and would rend the written word obsolete.  In some ways, it’s a blessing those balls are contained in such muted state because their prolific genuis would have us question our ineptitude.

Probably other balls would get jealous.  Robert DeNiro’s balls, saggy, wrinkly, and stretched to the knees as they are, would question the choices they made in Cape Fear or Taxi Driver.  Self-doubt would overcome them and render DeNiro a flacid Focker.   Yes, Dick Cheney’s balls would stop kick-starting his heart, Phil Ivey’s balls would shrink when he got near a craps table, and your balls would lose their way.  Mankind would fight a tragic battle with their balls trying to use the flap in the underwear as a means to suicide.  In such a world you could only pity your balls.  The Bat’s balls could channel Picaso while your average balls can barely figure out how to move closer to the body and further from it because of temperature and/or confinement.  Suddenly, the world’s balls would be depressed and depressed balls don’t produce offspring.

So, in some ways we should be grateful we don’t hear the clarion call of the Bat’s balls because to listen to them while beautiful the after-effects much like dabbling with crystal meth or looking on the glowing visage of an angel would be corrosive to society as a whole.

So in short, thank you for coming to  Bossier City.  Thank you for sitting at a table with the Bat, despite knowing how handicapped you are, because not only are you playing against the Bat you are also playing against his balls.

*It’s a contrived interanational language “”alexically predominantly Romantic, morphologically intensively agglutinative, and to a certain degree isolating in character”.[14] The phonology, grammar, vocabulary, and semantics are based on the western Indo-European languages. The phonemic inventory is essentially Slavic, as is much of the semantics, while the vocabulary derives primarily from the Romance languages, with a lesser contribution from the Germanic languages.”  That explains it right?

Nutria, Lions, and Gazelles

Bat and Nutria in skinnier daysFresh from a World Series of World Class ass stompings the Bat is going to answer some reader mail…  Don’t get you pasties in a tizzy, this is a legitimate request for a hand analysis…
 
Granted anything in a (xxx) are the Bat’s words not this reader…
“OK, so here is the hand I mentioned on your voice mail the other day (when I begged you to give me a morsel of that Bat knowledge because you, the Bat, are a poker legend, part myth, part reality, 100% genuis).

There’s a raise to 8 or 10 and a few callers. I’m in the SB and look down at KK. I raise to 36 and 2 people call. Flop comes 5,5,10 with 2 diamonds. I lead out for $75. First guy folds. Next guy, who is the only guy at the table who has me outchipped (I began the hand with about 600, he had about 900) makes a raise to $275 (so you got 500 left and he’s put half of that in.  He just pulled up to your driveway with some Bisquick, some Nutria, and a shotgun.  Time my friend to make some dumplings)
Backstory on the table and this guy. He was big stack when my table broke and I was moved to this table with 400, I took a nice pot from him when I flopped top set and turned a boat and let him lead three streets and then popped him on the river (Why do the pulling when the donkey does the pushing?  Back in the old days we used to call donkeys producers, sharks were wolves, and suckers were lambs.  You’d shear a lamb but never skin him.  These days its donkeys and fish.  Tomorrow they’ll be Lions and Gazelles.  They may run fast but they are still just dinner to the Bat, and you always have to pay the Lion). He was yapping at me then that he had the best hand and I came back at him and we hadn’t played a hand since (maybe a half hour or so). 
So with this bet, I think he has a hand (or he’s steaming and stealing like the sharps used to do on the riverboats) and I’m trying to figure out if he’s trying to get back at me, or as I suspect, he has hit the flop big and is banking on me calling/shoving (sorry dear reader he’s banking on you folding, even through the email the Bat can smell the larceny.  It’s  a gift the Bat has like a drug sniffing dog at an airport the Bat can smell 1 part B.S. per 1,000,000) . I can’t give him credit for AA since he would have reraised the $8 and certainly would have reraised the $36 (with a caller) preflop. So I tank and ask him if he has A10. After a bit he asks for a clock and says that I’m just going to fold (in my opinion trying to make me call) but the dealer won’t give it to him since he’s in the hand. The floor comes over and gives the clock to him (the Bat has a simple rule for people calling the clock… they get clocked for reals).
So I fold the KK, don’t show and he mucks facedown, which I take to be a real hand, I think there’s nothing he would have liked better than to show me a bluff or some kind of small hand (good point, but he likely had JJ). If I call the flop, I have to call the turn, which is almost certain to be an all in (yes, once you’ve called the flop you’ve made the correct decision he’s on garbage again, so let him shove the run and snap him like crisp bacon).
Thoughts?”
 
1.  The Bat has a lot of thoughts.  So many thoughts in fact, the ones he discards could fill a library of knowledge and advance mankind a 100 years.  Course the Bat doesn’t burden himself with man’s plight, solving the debt ceiling, the energy crisis, and answering the age-old question is Oprah really gay, because the Bat has better things to do… like getting all the answers on the Family Feud correct to a percentage point, and figuring out the best way to stores sock in a suitcase (the answer is line the perimeter, on their side, with them unfolded… you’re welcome).  As for thoughts on your question beyond the answers in green here they come brace yourself:
 
2.  Always go broke with KK on a paired board that is two to a flush.  Who cares if your very action announced that you have an overpair and some sucker is trying to stack you.  You show those gentlemen you aren’t folding Gold, when some rube has put you on AK and you collect the chips.  Plus he thinks you got none of it and all he has is a lousy flush draw.
 
3.  Some dude calls clock on you, retaliate, next time action is on him, call
clock.  Preflop, anytime literally anytime he pauses, and don’t say “Clock?”   and look to the dealer for permission, be the alpha male and say “Clock!” assertively as though it’s the only possible statement.   Always, act stunned, surprised, and confused when he gets upset.  When he keeps arguing and he will turn to the dealer and shrug saying  “This is why I called clock.” 
 
 He’ll really get incensed and say he’s only taking this long because you called clock, don’t let the perfect logic get in the way of needling this jackhole, point to watch and say “fold, already, this is ridiculous, I may have to call the floor.”  Surely, this will get the guy to stew longer, saying something like “Please call the floor.  I will call the floor.” 
 
 Turn and wink at the rest of the table whether they are on your side or most likely not.  For no  reason, at all other than the fact, winking can be fun.  When the floor gets there, simply say, “It’s been five minutes for this guy to act.  He probably doesn’t even have a hand.  How can he make a decision this long.” 
 
Ignore all questions about the insta-clock and keep insisting on focusing on the real time that has since transpired.  Then when cornered make the absolutely true statement “I called clock because I anticipated exactly this would happen.  This has taken forever can he please act.”
 
4.   Tell him he hoodwinked you but to be careful because you murdered your grandmother for less.

Black Friday, Thieves, Scumbags, and Poker Players

Black Friday, or as GCP puts it aPOKERlypse NOW, has come and gone and so has the Bat’s money. The Bat’s got cash sitting in an account that is frozen somewhere.  Not since a local congressman Crooked Jefferson, a bad 1-2 player at Harrahs btw, stored bribes in his freezer has so much Louisiana cash been on ice.  Apparently the DOJ and Homeland Security think going after online poker is good for business and good for the economy and good for our… safety?

As for business:  If it’s their business, yeah that make sense, been great for the business of the federal government.  Good for the people’s business? Don’t think so.  Cash strapped police departments just ran an illegal payment processor in concordance with the federal government to generate 500k in revenue.  Go to this local poker news site for more.  They’ve also frozen 100s of millions of dollars, which they will soon parse out to bloated federal programs any day in all likelihood.  Don’t be surprised if the IRS and state governments asked you for taxes (many of you already paid on Black Friday) on those funds you can kiss goodbye.  They’ll get you both ways.

As for the economy:  Hello, 50k of newly unemployed poker players.  Also, goodbye money that they spend freely, when that’s what the economy needs most people spending money like we aren’t in a recession.  So big airball on that one.

As for safety:  Not sure terrorists are the ones whose moneys been frozen.  See most of them live out of the United States and can still withdraw their money.  The ones that can’t are the average citizens that live here.  Not really helping matters at all.  Course that’s what we’ve come to expect from Homeland Security which makes their involvement all the more head-scratching.

The Poker Bat, has been on a bit of a sabbatical, but now that the Bat sees part time poster Kai Landry has gotten a blog out, which happens about as often as every other leap year, the Bat needs to dust off the cobwebs and blog.  This is the best he could come up with.  Moving on…

What else has been going on in the Bat’s life?  The Bat has been crushing games on the flooded side of the Mississippi.  Is it that hard to ask for our government to build levees that can handle better than a 1 in a 10o year flood?  The Bat hates to take monies of people suffering but that’s what usually happens in poker anyway.

The Bat has also been sighted at the World Series of Poker-Circuit event going deep in a tournament.  More than one tournament.  Any cashes to his name?  Uh, no.

The Bat won’t bore you with one outers or tales of runner-runners because the Bat don’t get badbeated out of a tournament he bluffs off his chips like a man.  These internet kids taught the Bat a thing or two about three or four betting just turns out when the Bat was polarizing his range with bluffs those kiddies had the goods.  The Bat is tired of polarizing, especially Full Tilt polarizing his online bankroll.

Swear it was like Halloween, every time the Bat made a move on a child in a tournament or a cash game, the little f’er had something in his goodie bag.  The Bat saw more pocket aces in somebody else’s hand then he’d care to see for a lifetime.

Vegas is calling the Bat, with that yearly siren

‘s song.  Come crash your boats on our shores while the other fools is holding quads–the Bat believes that is how the ditty goes.  Las Vegas, personified, would be like Katy Perry to the Bat.  She looks good from far, seems entertaining, and promises an ample bosom of pleasure, however up close, as Russell Brand is discovering Perry bears more than a passing resemblance to one of the cartoon step-sisters of Cinderella (google it, as close as Bieber is to a lesbian, alright the Bat googled it for you… you’re welcome), she’s probably spanx-ed and corsetted into appearing to have an awesome body, but without that elastic is likely all saggy tissue, muffintop, bingo wings, and mushiness, and that… voice, ugh.

Perry’s voice is like many singers interesting for one song, but then loses it’s bite with repetition.  It’s different so evokes a few listens, but far from the talent of other singers to become an iPod staple.  Can you imagine what Lothario and former womanizer Russell Brand is feeling now, that voice probably grates on his last nerve, and she’s probably comfortable enough to let it all hang out around him and pass gas.  You know being constricted all day must do a number on her bowels.  Sure does on the Bat, anytime he double t-shirts in to flattened his man-boobs.

Okay, that’s Katie Perry.  That’s also Vegas.  She’s fun for a night or two, she’s exciting enough to carry your interest, but don’t marry her, in fact, don’t stay too long with her, if she knows you aren’t in it for the long haul, try to wake up before she does and get our of town or else you’ll lose ALL your money.

The Bat wants to go the world series and may just do that, despite knowing behind the fake Katie Perry glam is an ugly step-sister.  But the Bat wants to ask Phil Gordon why he put a Bad Beat on the Bat’s Bankroll, and why he’s still asking for a piece of the players winnings to donate to charity.  You want a piece of my live bankroll too, now that you got all my online bankroll.  The Bat doesn’t think so Phil, your charity is all good, but the Bat has to question anything you do now, at least until the Full Tilt ship is righted.  And it takes a lot of gall to be front in center asking for money when your company is holding many players bankrolls.

Alright, poker players the Bat will be back with more… soon.

SuperBowl Thinkin’

The Bat watched the SuperBowl, one of 111 million people that did.  The Bat took a break from reading online poker news and playing poker online to do so.  Not worth it.  The superbowl in a word was:  Yawn…

*Big Ben gets another title and then goes down in history as a great quarterback?  That was the thrust of the pre-game hype even though the Wild Card team was justfiably favored.  Not interesting, but certainly reason to root against the Steelers as Rothlisberger is as charming as a coked up Disney Teen and as responsible. 

The real theme to this game?  Aaron Rodgers duplicates the success of his hero Steve Young by replacing a legend and winning a Super Bowl.  Slightly less non interesting but still boring.  Rodgers grew up in the Bay area and revered Montana and Young, but the 49ers passed on him because he seemed a little too confident. 

Confidence in a quarterback… no, you don’t need that… certainly don’t need somebody oozing in it to the point of being slightly obnoxious (Dan Marino, Jim Kelly, John Elway, Troy Aikman)…   how’s the non-confident Alex Smith working out?  One quality Rogers shares with his heroes?  Self-assuredness.  Then Rodgers goes to the Superbowl and puts up the kind of numbers only Montana and Young have matched.  Alright, that’s actually a nice plot line.  Shame the Bat in all the SuperBowl hype didn’t hear about most of it until after the Superbowl. 

In effect, the guy wasn’t playing against the ghost of Brett Farve in Green Bay, he was trying to match three legends.  Well done kid.  As for the aholes from Green Bay who went to the Super Bowl and wore Farve jerseys… get a clue.

*Next up, the National anthem.  Bat loved the over on 1 minute 54 for Christina Agulera.  Timed it, but started late and seemed like it was over two minutes.  Now the Bat hears because she botched it, a lot of weird payouts have happened at the books.  One paid out the under (wtf?), one paid out the over, and one couldn’t figure it out and paid both.  How hard is it to figure it out… heard of TiVo and a stopwatch.  The other easy prop bet was her holding the big note in the song.  Take the over with that drama-bomb every time.  Certainly don’t want to go anywhere near her under. 

*Michael Vick got a key to the city in Dallas.  WTF?  As far as the Bat knows the guy has no connection at all to Dallas, unless they are dog-fighting buffs.  Also, the Mayor is coming out and saying he knows nothing about the key in some reports.  In others he owns it but says:  “I will be open and more respectful and careful in how I move futuristically,” this makes sense only if he was a back up dancer for the halftime show.   This almost makes the Cowboys inept hosting of the Super Bowl look professional–who knew Dallas was so backasswards. 

What has Vick done to deserve a key?  Not killed or maimed or tortured any dogs since he got out of jail?  That gets you a key?  In the city of a rival?   Kate Gosselin hasn’t abused a husband  since her divorce maybe Disney World should have her leading a parade.  Gary Glitter hasn’t been a pedophile since he was put in jail, maybe he should be knighted.

*The Bat also is in the minority when it comes to the half-time show.  This chubby old coot almost wanted to get up and dance when he saw the curvaceous Fergie in a Tron outfit.  For a moment, the Bat felt like he was at a futuristic rave where everybody spoke in Auto-tune.  If only everybody electronically warbled when they talked, the world would be such a better place.  Who knew people would try to sing like Stephen Hawking. 

The Peas had Fergie sounded pitchy, but her shaking warmed the cockles of the Bat’s underbelly.  No idea who that Usher was that descended from the ceiling but he certainly got the Bat’s moobs jiggling too.  He’s probably a lot of fun at a picnic.  And shout-out to Slash playing a riff from twenty years ago when he was relevant.  Wonder if he thought then he’d be carted out by “important” bands like the Black Eyed Peas as merely an aside, a dusty, dinosaur relic to give them some sort of Rock cred, a literal live action footnote.   

All right, that’s it for the Poker Bat this week.