The Bat is a crass individual, we know this. He is a steaming pile of anger, heartache, dysfunction, and Texas Holdem poker game genius. The Bat finds it aggravating that the rest of the world hasn’t recognized the complex, tortured soul that should be dominating poker at every level. Well… except for the min stakes and low stakes… and for that matter, the Bat doesn’t need to dominate the medium stakes either… well, the Bat should be dominating poker at its highest level. The nosebleeds. The rest of you can have the other levels.
Course, the Bat doesn’t have a bankroll to go all Isildur1 on the rest of the World. The Bat would like a bankroll to sit down with Phil Ivey and Tom Dwan and teach them the meaning on sitting on a pile of dynamite when the other guy is holding a lit match because that’s what it feels like when you are in a hand with the Poker Bat. You think poop goes through a pigeon quick? Try to look into the Bat’s soulless eyes as he triples barrels you to kingdom come in a Pot Limit Omaha game.
With that public safety message out of the way, the Bat is so looking forward to the Harrahs event in December. The structures are fabulous, the noted Nolan Dalla’s tournament reports are first class, and the event runs as smoothly as any does down here. The Bat thinks he could dominate the best of the rest that will populate the fields. The Bats says the best of the rest, because the rest of the best are headed elsewhere.
The World Series of Poker Satellite Circuit has seen fit to cannibalize itself and compete with itself. Why not throw a tournament in New Jersey at the exact same time, where anybody with a glimmer of hope to make the National Freeroll, will go there instead. Or Foxwoods with Darvin Moon or wherever that fellow bumpkin is hosting an event. Plus, Tunica had or is having something.
Seems like you can go most of the summer without a tournament but you can’t go a couple of weeks in the winter and spring without them overlapping. The Bat thinks these casinos should pay attention to what the rest of the world is doing. Each is too busy peeing on their piece of the snow to look over their shoulder to see where everybody else is peeing. Don’t pee into the wind or in front of others peeing. Tournament directors and casino managers must like getting wet when they go to the bathroom.
Speaking of peeing, the Bat recently played all night in a marathon high-low session and despite tossing back a few sixers didn’t pee for 12 hours. See, a half-hour into the game the Bat looked in on the bathroom and it made a truck-stop stall look like a dinner plate. Bat couldn’t tell what the different shades of gunk and funk were, so the Bat decided to pass up the ol’ WC. Then when the Bat got in his car, all at once there was a pressure like the Bat’s never felt from his kidneys clear to his firehose. Bat tried to get out of the car and get back inside or at least make it to a bush, but before he could get gone he went, if you know what the Bat means. Literally, the door was open only a second before the floodgates were.
The Bat will be cleaning his vintage car for days now. But it smells like the stairwell of the Harrahs parking garage which is oddly appropriate as that is where the Bat is headed next.
Anyway, the Bat destroyed the poker game but the poker game arguably destroyed the Bat’s car.