Getting Better. Even if it means reading a book.
Posts tagged jerk
Free Online Poker — a safe way to be on full tilt
Jan 30th
I am not a fan of free poker. It’s an oxymoron. Poker by its very definition needs to be played for money. If it doesn’t hurt to lose, it’s not poker.
That said, I have come to realize there is a time and place for the free online game.
In order to win in poker, you have to be controlled, disciplined, smart and lucky. As we all know, you can be at the top of your game, do everything right, and still lose. That’s one of the most frustrating things about poker. Do everything right, but still lose.
After a week’s worth of losing, either due to bad playing (probably) or bad beats (unlikely) I really want to say “fuck it” to good play. This discipline, control and smart play hasn’t gotten me anywhere, so I think.
Enter FREE ONLINE POKER.
Talk about going all in with impunity. This is the place. 9–2 off UTG, sure. All in. Flop is A-A-K and I have pocket deuces. Fuck it. ALL IN!
This is where I go when I just can’t take it anymore. I can act like a jack ass. Push with junk. Call with junk. Act like a donkey. I get all of this out of my system. Welcome to the donkey farm.
Truthfully, I’m not happy until until at least six people are wishing cancer on me in the chat window. “What? You want to play real poker? Get two nickels to rub together, assholes!” I’m here for a purpose. This is free poker and I’m going all in every hand until I damn well feel and or play better.
Besides, I don’t feel as bad making a bunch of jerks hate me as I do after kicking the dog or punching a wall. Ouch. For the record, I never punched my dog. I did call him a douchebag once.
After 15 minutes of being this poker maniac, I feel better. The best part is I worked out some frustration and my bankroll is still intact.
I occasionally play free on-line poker to shake off the shit and stress from my real game.
Why do you play? Let me know at stories@whydoiplaypoker.net
Poker Therapy
Jan 27th
In elementary school I got beat up everyday by Jarett Moore. We were about the same size, but for some reason when he picked on me, I wouldn’t fight back.
Thirty years later the sense of shame for never fighting back is still palpable. Actually, it’s embarrassing and haunting. The only comfort I have in these memories is that by not fighting back I probably avoided living my life with a limp. Had I somehow managed to level Jarett, his brother or one of his 57 cousins would have removed my head and shat down my throat. R.I.P.
After thirty years on the shrink’s couch, I have finally learned to stand up for myself, though sometimes my timing is bad. Whenever there is a bully at the poker table, I always have the same knee jerk reaction: you’re not going to push me around. This is great when I have the nuts, but when I am on a stone cold bluff and Joe Bully re-raises, this reaction is a recipe for disaster.
Problem is, I never believe people’s bets. My rational brain thinks there is a chance I am beat, but my alligator brain says, EAT THAT FISH. You see, I have this gift. With 99% accuracy, I can mistakenly think someone is bullying me when they are not.
I realize that the poker table is a very expensive and completely unsympathetic place to work out my childhood turmoils. When I am feeling strong, I look for and attack the poor suckers who have the tell tale signs of being in poker therapy. And yet some nights my childhood gets the better of me. I am the sucker and have a very expensive poker therapy session.
You’d think by now I would pick a new place to work this out, but I have come to terms with the fact that from time to time I will find sadistic comfort in being picked on. I guess I am addicted to the rush of confrontation and the challenge of standing up to the bully. Even if the only person I am fighting with is myself.
Why do you play? Let me know at stories@whydoiplaypoker.net
Fucking Stanley
Jan 11th
“C’mon Stanley, show your hand! You bet, I called, you show.” There’s a big sigh. A shrug. Another sigh. A very long pause. “C’mon is my straight good?” I ask impatiently. Stanley gives yet another sigh and turns over the nuts.
He’s slow rolling again.
“Oh, that’s slowrolling?” He asks coyly. “I’m sorry, Dude.” Yeah, right. He knows he has my number. He’s just one of those guys that’s gets under my skin.
Why do I choose to spend my Monday nights with this guy? The rest of the week I’m surrounded, mostly, by people that want my life to be better. Not this guy. He wants me guessing whether I’m coming or going. He wants me on the verge of getting up and leaving the table. Nothing would make him happier than to hear “Fuck you , Stanley” and wait for the door to slam.
You know what?
I love it. I even love him. He’s a living, breathing, slow rolling workout for my patience and anger management. You know what else? I’m getting in better shape. What used to send me into a murderous rage now only barely irks me. I know what’s coming and I roll with it. I wish I could say I have a zen-like amusement about it all, but I don’t.
So here we are again. Stanley bet. I called. I wait. He’s really Hollywooding. “I’m vulnerable” He says. “Just show it.” I say. Reluctantly, he turns over a full house. “I have the small one.” He says with a smirk. “That’s good…” I say. Then I wait. And proceed “…because I have the big one. Oh, is that slowrolling? My bad, dude.”
I play poker to say “Push those chips a little closer to me, bitch.” Okay, so I still hold a little resentment.
Why do you play? Let me know at stories@whydoiplaypoker.net
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