Had a reasonably profitable weekend due to 5/5. Another fight broke out the other day between players near the slots, this time ending in handcuffs. The world's on fire and people are acting like it, too, I guess.

Interesting situation arose at 5/5. Mediocre reg loses a pot: flopped wheel and nfd to bottom set and K-high fd - on both runouts. He bemoans his misfortune, "he had nothing!" as he rebuys. "I feel a bomb pot coming on," he predicts. The next down, he says "$50," as he throw out two lilly pads. Two people at the other end of the table hesitate, and one asks if the table can do a $25 bomb pot instead. No one, including the steaming player, answers. They both pay their time and sit out the hand. "Two people said no, that should be the end of the discussion," one of the objectors says to the other.

The next dealer change, the same thing happens, except this time, the other objectors asks again if they can do a $25 bomb pot instead. Again, silence. Hearing no signs of compromise, this objector says: "I'm not going to pay time and sit out another hand."

"You don't play any hands anyway, what is one more hand to you?" says the tilted player.

"I know you're upset because you're losing --"

"I'm not upset," he replies angrily, "and everyone else wants to do it, what's your problem?"

"No, two people objected last dealer change and asked to do it for $25 and you insisted on $50 anyway. You're the problem."

"Fine, let's pay our own time then," as he flicks in $7. "No, forget that, I'm just going to leave," and he racks up.

The tilted player wants to gamble because he's losing, but is it fair to the two people who did not want to do the $50 bomb pot to force them to sit out these hands? Also, is it worth the risk the tilted player does what he did - rack up - by objecting? Finally, what about table image, worth the fuss to get into it with this reg who will be playing again some day? All good questions.

Random aside: someone was up around $15k at the 5/5 the other night and complained - yes, complained! - that I folded to his raise in my straddle, saying I should just go home. No one has any perspective! Avarice does bad things to human nature.

If you are talking about who I think you are from Friday night, the player in question is imo a friendly guy who is very good for the game.

Whether that was who you were referring to or not...if someone is upset about you folding your straddle, then you probably weren't giving enough action or playing enough hands prior to that and you need to loosen up a little to ensure you are keeping the action players happy.

Just my two cents fwiw, my first time chiming in but I really enjoy following your thread. Good luck.

Hey, thanks for chiming in and for following. I had some garbage A-high disconnected hand that was quadruple suited in that straddle I folded; just thought it was a little asinine for him to complain about losing perhaps $80 in value when he was up over 150x that. I am not folding anything decently playable against a recreational player. Still, I hear what you are saying - I know where it's coming from, and your intentions are not bad - but I gotta play the cards my man, that's just how I roll. In all likelihood I was just unusually card dead that session and it comes off as not giving action when I was just being dealt utter garbage with a capital G.

“You had a psychotic episode,” explained the young medical student completing her residency.
John Prescott sat up motionlessly on his hospital bed and stared blankly at the wall across the room. The diagnosis barely registered on his consciousness. He blinked twice, the turned to look at the young trainee.
“How long had I been here?” asked John.
“You arrived last night by ambulance. You were transferred from the other hospital. You’ve been knocked out since . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Then he remembered. His last minutes of consciousness the previous night had involved four muscular Dominican guards pinning him down to a gurney as the tranquilizer took effect. He had tried to escape, but they quickly overpowered him.

Prisons, hospitals, or death, he thought. At least I’m alive. But I need to leave before they find me. The group had been tracking him down since his revelation.
“When can I leave?” he asked.
“We can’t hold you longer than 24 hours without a court order,” she replied.
“Are you going to get one?”
“We almost never do, so it’s likely you’ll be able to leave tomorrow morning at the latest.”
“Good,” he said, his gaze returning to the wall.
“Before you can leave, I need to ask you a standard question. Are you having any thoughts of people trying to hurt you?” she inquired.
“None,” he lied. John Prescott knew the group was likely trying to hunt him down at that very moment. It was only a matter of time before they got what they wanted. But to tell the truth meant to have to sit in the hospital longer, giving the group more time to locate him.
“That’s a good sign. It was probably a brief episode induced by acute stress and sleep deprivation. You should be out of here by tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” he responded. If he was lucky, he could make it to a homeless shelter and hide out there for a whole. Anywhere else would be too risky. He couldn’t contact his sister; they’d go after her, too.
-
“You can make the coffee from now on,” said the tall figure in a black leather jacket. It was the end of John’s first group meeting. Coffee making was the most important responsibility of the group. It was widely assumed that the free coffee was the reason most newcomers returned after their first meeting at all.
“You put the coffee up top, pour the water in here, then let it do its job. Right pot for decaf, left for caffeinated. Got it?” Tom grumbled.
“Yes,” replied John. Coffee making was a step down from his old job as a tax attorney, but at least it gave him a purpose, something he desperately needed.
“Do you have a copy of the book yet?” asked big Tom.
“No, not yet.”
“Here, take mine. I have another copy at home,” said Tom as he reached into his back pocket and revealed an oxblood red colored book that measured no larger than John’s right hand.
“Start reading it when you’re ready to make a positive change in your life,” said Tom.

John was ready for anything at that point. Traditional therapy had failed him. He even tried A.A. on the advice of his therapist. (He suggested that the religious component might appeal to John. He was wrong.) He read online about a group promising a happier life. The website promised the group as a solution to his problems. No matter what he had tried up to that point, he had always felt empty and alone, even as a child. He lacked fulfillment in life. This feeling was compounded by the fact that, as a gay man, John was in a sexual minority. The group promised something better.

“See you next time,” said Tom.

The first meeting had been remarkably uneventful. About twelve people sat in a circle facing each other uncomfortably in plastic chairs. A middle-aged woman leading the group talked about her life problems (she’d lost a child several years before and was never able to overcome her depression “until she found the group,” she explained) and encouraged the rest of them to stick with the program. Tom spoke about how he’d once been a nasty drunk who often found himself in a bar fight by the middle of the week.

Once everyone but John had spoken, John felt pressured to join the ritual, but ultimately decided to keep quiet. He was too shy to share his life story to a group of complete strangers. The meeting ended with a group chant: We place our fate in the hands of others because living on our own terms failed us. By sharing our pain we discover our full potential.

He arrived home that evening and sat down on the couch. He flipped through the channels trying to find a distraction from reality. He’d just lost his job due to across-the-board layoffs. As his supervisor explained, it was a difficult business decision, but it was a matter of numbers and John was in the bottom ten percent of production, so they had to let him go. In truth, John knew he had been slacking off the past year; he had been with the same firm for five years and had become tired of the routine.

Animals of the World appeared on the television screen. A chimpanzee mangled an unripe banana as the primate hung from a tree. John reflected that it had been months since he’d handled anyone’s banana but his own, another sad truth that increased his feelings of loneliness. Pushing 35, John had lost interest in the gay bar scene, so finding potential soul mates had become more difficult.
He eyed the dark red book on the coffee table in front of him and turned to page one.
The Group Program.

Prisons, hospitals, or death. These are the fates of anyone who cannot commit themselves to this simple program. Many who have tried halfheartedly have failed, and the result was always the same. People who once believe they were unhappy found themselves in even direr straits. Those of us who have completed the program and succeeded have also witnessed many fall to the wayside, unfortunates who, by virtue of their constitution, were utterly incapable of discovering their full potential. Those seeking help must be willing to follow these steps if they are to reap the benefits of the Group Program.

1. Admit that your efforts to live on your own terms have failed.
2. Agree to place your fate in the hands of others.
3. Write down your pains in life.
4. Share your pains in life with another member of the Group.
5. Continue to write down what bothers you and continue to share this with another member of the Group.

Only through this cathartic process have any of us been able to reap the benefits of the program.
It seemed like a simple enough program to John. At least it didn’t require a belief in God, something he, as an agnostic-atheist, was loathe to accept. Yet nothing about the program stood out to him as particularly unique, certainly not the part about sharing his pains. He frequently vented to his therapist about what troubled him. (Though not about everything. John believed that some things in life are simply better kept to one’s self.)

He put down the book and decided to hop in the shower before bed. He stared at his naked body in the bathroom mirror. His once sporty physique, the result of hours spent daily at the gym, had faded with time and lethargy into an unremarkable mixture of love handles and belly fat. His pedestrian, thinning—possibly balding—brown hair taunted him, a cruel reminder of life’s finiteness and his dimming prospects of finding someone to love him. He got into bed and dreamed he was falling out of an airplane.
-
“Breakfast!” shouted the nurse. The staff of the psychiatric ward of the hospital where John had been committed always kept on schedule. “Line up for vitals!”

John stood behind several other patients and waited for the nurse to place the blood pressure cuff around his arm.

“97 over 50. You’re pretty low. Must be the meds. I hope those doctors know what they’re doing,” said the nurse.

Another staff member handed John his food tray. A tall man with a short afro, he looked at John for a moment. John stood out because he was one of the few white patients in the ward, and he captured the staffer's attention. “What do you do?” “I'm a lawyer,” said John. “A good-looking young man like you, a lawyer. You had everything in life.” Had, John felt the sting of the past tense in his sentence.

John walked over to a nearby table where no one else was sitting. He was not in the mood for small talk with anyone at the moment, let alone a group of mentally ill people.

A morbidly obese patient sat next to him, her tray filled with pizza and fried chicken. “I’m DaQuita,” she said in a friendly tone, her dark brown cheeks puffy like a squirrel’s. John suspected she was attracted to him. Receiving sexual attention from woman was always awkward for him. “Hi, I’m John,” he muttered as he shifted uneasily in his chair. “What are you here for?” she asked. “I thought everyone in my therapy group was trying to kill me,” John said. He hesitated. “What about you?”

“I am depressed and have eating issues,” she replied.

A thin young man in a wheelchair pulled up to them. John would later learn he had tried to kill himself because he was in too much pain from his diabetes, which had required one foot to be amputated. He sat quietly and ate his scrambled eggs.

It was time for group session. “Do you think any of you can ever own a gun now?” asked the attending nurse, a stocky middle-aged woman. She had repeated the same line to countless patients who came into the ward through civil commitment. John reflected that he never seriously considered gun ownership anyway, but something about this revelation nevertheless disappointed him. Not exactly a champion of the Second Amendment, John still felt like he was being punished for something entirely out of his control. He figured if war did break out he could find one somewhere anyway.

Hours went by and John listened to music on the old headphones attached to the even older box computer. Eventually, medication time came again. This time the nurse gave John an instant-dissolving capsule that he could not hold in his gums before throwing it out. (He admitted he’d done that the last time. He was honest, sometimes devastatingly so.)

John slept across from a very tall man, one of the only other white men in the ward. He must have been in his 60s, perhaps an indefinite civil committee who had murdered someone decades ago with no living family left who cared enough about him to advocate for his release. The man woke up throughout the night to use the restroom. John could not get a wink of sleep.

A commotion came from the other hallway the next morning. John witnessed it from afar. Two doctors were standing over one of the patients, a 40-year-old woman who was a recovering drug addict. John remembered she loved talking about how her children needed her and she missed them dearly. She was on the cold, hard floor bleeding from the head. “She fell,” one of the doctors said to the other as they shooed away the onlookers. A bureaucratic-looking individual in a suit and tie soon joined them as they figured out what to do. Eventually they brought her to her room where John saw them try to resuscitate her with pungent aromas. The group made her a card to feel better soon. John never found out what happened to her.
--
“Please don’t go!” John’s dad begged. A doctor who did his residency in a psychiatric hospital, he knew what was at stake. John was insisting on going to a Group meeting to confront his would-be murderers. “I’ll go with him,” said his mom. They drove to the session building in the cold winter night. John brought his dog along with them for comfort. They slowly walked up the stairs and entered the room. John saw in the meeting everyone smiling that devilish grin everyone had lately, a sinister, murderous look as they seemed to stare at him relentlessly. The meeting ended, John heard someone say “let’s kill him,” during the usual closing chant.

In the hallway, big Tom walked up to John. “How are you doing?” he asked. “Are you going to strangle me with your leather gloves on?” John replied as his mom accompanied him back to the car, his loyal dog still by his side. John hardly slept that night.
--
“I guess it’s up to me,” John’s mom said as she filled a bowl with bean soup the next day. I guess it’s up to her to kill me, John thought, his paranoid delusion at full force. John did not want to draw any suspicions so he ate a couple bites of the soup and realized he may have been poisoned. He had been staying with his parents the last two days after a massive panic attack that he was having a heart attack while reading the group Book. John hurried downstairs to the basement where he looked for something to induce vomiting. He considered the bleach next to the washing machine, then settled on drinking a lot of water. He returned upstairs, fearful for his life.

“Let’s go for a walk,” suggested his mom. John walked ahead and picked up a stick and tried to get himself to vomit with it. His mom approached and he threw the stick aside. "I’m poisoned,” John said. John’s mother had been struggling to understand what was going thought her son’s head for the past 48 hours. They already brought him to a shrink (who, by the way, was wearing a bright red sweater and John thought looked like Stephen King himself). She finally exclaimed, “You’re making me go crazy!” John ran away and into a bookstore where a bystander was on her phone. He asked if he could borrow it because he was sick. He called 911 and forgot to give the phone back. Outside, the ambulance arrived (a staff member from the store took the phone back) and the EMT gruffly said “you’re going to psych.” “No, I need poison control!” John protested. That’s where they want me so they can get me, in a psych ward, John thought. John was already stuck in the truck as it pulled away from the onlookers.

The ambulance arrived at the hospital but John had no intentions of being stuck anywhere isolated. As soon as they disembarked, John fled, jumping over the bushes on his way to the sidewalk. “The police are gonna get you!” shouted the EMT as John ran.

John made it two blocks down, had taken off his coat in an attempt to disguise himself (which he had already done the night before by shaving his beard into a goatee), when the police cruiser pulled up. Two armed officers walked up to John, who remained still. One asked for I.D., which John provided. The other frisked John and gently placed the back side of his hand against his crotch and cuffed him as they drove him back to the hospital.
--

Yeah thats fk stupid. So if I have JJJ2 no suits and I straddled I am now obligated to call the whales raise because what? To appease him? That's ridiculous. I would show the whale my hand face up and tell him to shove these cards up his ass.

Always nice to call out your opponent’s hand and be right (they were nice enough to show). AQdd folds river on Kd5d7c4s8d for 2/3 pot after flop and turn donks from sb in srp (V had 77). Dumbo dodging bullets!

You folded the nuts on the river? Am I reading this wrong


Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

Lol, of course not. The river brought in the front door flush but also paired the board. Oops! It was K-7-5-8-8, I mistyped the runout.

Any resemblance to real people in the above story, including names, is simply a coincidence by the way.

Re-posting with formatting corrected.

“You had a psychotic episode,” explained the young medical student completing her residency.

John Prescott sat up motionlessly on his hospital bed and stared blankly at the wall across the room. The diagnosis barely registered on his consciousness. He blinked twice, the turned to look at the young trainee.

“How long had I been here?” asked John.

“You arrived last night by ambulance. You were transferred from the other hospital. You’ve been knocked out since . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Then he remembered. His last minutes of consciousness the previous night had involved four muscular Dominican guards pinning him down to a gurney as the tranquilizer took effect. He had tried to escape, but they quickly overpowered him.

Prisons, hospitals, or death, he thought. At least I’m alive. But I need to leave before they find me. The group is still tracking me down.

“When can I leave?” he asked.

“We can’t hold you longer than 24 hours without a court order,” she replied.

“Are you going to get one?”

“We almost never do, so it’s likely you’ll be able to leave tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“Good,” he said, his gaze returning to the wall.

“Before you can leave, I need to ask you a standard question. Are you having any thoughts of people trying to hurt you?” she inquired.

“None,” he lied. John Prescott thought the group was likely trying to hunt him down at that very moment. It was only a matter of time before they got what they wanted. But to tell the truth meant to have to sit in the hospital longer, giving the group more time to locate him.

“That’s a good sign. It was probably a brief episode induced by acute stress and sleep deprivation. You should be out of here by tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” he responded. If he was lucky, he could make it to a homeless shelter and hide out there for a while. Anywhere else would be too risky. He couldn’t contact his sister; they’d go after her, too.

-

“You can make the coffee from now on,” said the tall figure in a black leather jacket. It was the end of John’s first group meeting. Coffee making was the most important responsibility of the group. It was widely assumed that the free coffee was the reason most newcomers returned after their first meeting at all.

“You put the coffee up top, pour the water in here, then let it do its job. Right pot for decaf, left for caffeinated. Got it?” Tom grumbled.

“Yes,” replied John. Coffee making was a step down from his old job as a tax attorney, but at least it gave him a purpose, something he desperately needed.

“Do you have a copy of the book yet?” asked big Tom.

“No, not yet.”

“Here, take mine. I have another copy at home,” said Tom as he reached into his back pocket and revealed an oxblood red colored book that measured no larger than John’s right hand.

“Start reading it when you’re ready to make a positive change in your life,” said Tom.

John was ready for anything at that point. Traditional therapy had failed him. He even tried A.A. on the advice of his therapist. (He suggested that the religious component might appeal to John. He was wrong.) He read online about a group promising a happier life. The website promised the group as a solution to his problems. No matter what he had tried up to that point, he had always felt empty and alone, even as a child. He lacked fulfillment in life. This feeling was compounded by the fact that, as a gay man, John was in a sexual minority. The group promised something better.

“See you next time,” said Tom.

The first meeting had been remarkably uneventful. About twelve people sat in a circle facing each other uncomfortably in plastic chairs. A middle-aged woman leading the group talked about her life problems (she’d lost a child several years before and was never able to overcome her depression “until she found the group,” she explained) and encouraged the rest of them to stick with the program. Tom spoke about how he’d once been a nasty drunk who often found himself in a bar fight by the middle of the week.

Once everyone but John had spoken, John felt pressured to join the ritual, but ultimately decided to keep quiet. He was too shy to share his life story to a group of complete strangers. The meeting ended with a group chant: We place our fate in the hands of others because living on our own terms failed us. By sharing our pain we discover our full potential.

He arrived home that evening and sat down on the couch. He flipped through the channels trying to find a distraction from reality. He’d just lost his job due to across-the-board layoffs. As his supervisor explained, it was a difficult business decision, but it was a matter of numbers and John was in the bottom ten percent of production, so they had to let him go. In truth, John knew he had been slacking off the past year; he had been with the same firm for five years and had become tired of the routine.

Animals of the World appeared on the television screen. A chimpanzee mangled an unripe banana as the primate hung from a tree. John reflected that it had been months since he’d handled anyone’s banana but his own, another sad truth that increased his feelings of loneliness. Pushing 35, John had lost interest in the gay bar scene, so finding potential soul mates had become more difficult.

He eyed the dark red book on the coffee table in front of him and turned to page one.

The Group Program.

Prisons, hospitals, or death. These are the fates of anyone who cannot commit themselves to this simple program. Many who have tried halfheartedly have failed, and the result was always the same. People who once believe they were unhappy found themselves in even direr straits. Those of us who have completed the program and succeeded have also witnessed many fall to the wayside, unfortunates who, by virtue of their constitution, were utterly incapable of discovering their full potential. Those seeking help must be willing to follow these steps if they are to reap the benefits of the Group Program.

1. Admit that your efforts to live on your own terms have failed.
2. Agree to place your fate in the hands of others.
3. Write down your pains in life.
4. Share your pains in life with another member of the Group.
5. Continue to write down what bothers you and continue to share this with another member of the Group.

Only through this cathartic process have any of us been able to reap the benefits of the program.

It seemed like a simple enough program to John. At least it didn’t require a belief in God, something he, as an agnostic-atheist, was loathe to accept. Yet nothing about the program stood out to him as particularly unique, certainly not the part about sharing his pains. He frequently vented to his therapist about what troubled him. (Though not about everything. John believed that some things in life are simply better kept to one’s self.)

He put down the book and decided to hop in the shower before bed. He stared at his naked body in the bathroom mirror. His once sporty physique, the result of hours spent daily at the gym, had faded with time and lethargy into an unremarkable mixture of love handles and belly fat. His pedestrian, thinning—possibly balding—brown hair taunted him, a cruel reminder of life’s finiteness and his dimming prospects of finding someone to love him. He got into bed and dreamed he was falling out of an airplane.

-

“Breakfast!” shouted the nurse. The staff of the psychiatric ward of the hospital where John had been committed always kept on schedule. “Line up for vitals!”

John stood behind several other patients and waited for the nurse to place the blood pressure cuff around his arm.

“97 over 50. You’re pretty low. Must be the meds. I hope those doctors know what they’re doing,” said the nurse.

Another staff member handed John his food tray. A tall man with a short afro, he looked at John for a moment. John stood out because he was one of the few white patients in the ward, and he captured the staffer's attention. “What do you do?” “I'm a lawyer,” said John. “A good-looking young man like you, a lawyer. You had everything in life.” Had, John felt the sting of the past tense in his sentence.

John walked over to a nearby table where no one else was sitting. He was not in the mood for small talk with anyone at the moment, let alone a group of mentally ill people.

A morbidly obese patient sat next to him, her tray filled with pizza and fried chicken. “I’m DaQuita,” she said in a friendly tone, her dark brown cheeks puffy like a squirrel’s. John suspected she was attracted to him. Receiving sexual attention from woman was always awkward for him.

“Hi, I’m John,” he muttered as he shifted uneasily in his chair.

“What are you here for?” she asked.

"Psychosis,” John said. He hesitated. “What about you?”

“I am depressed and have eating issues,” she replied.

A thin young man in a wheelchair pulled up to them. John would later learn he had tried to kill himself because he was in too much pain from his diabetes, which had required one foot to be amputated. He sat quietly and ate his scrambled eggs.

It was time for group session. “Do you think any of you can ever own a gun now?” asked the attending nurse, a stocky middle-aged woman. She had repeated the same line to countless patients who came into the ward through civil commitment. John reflected that he never seriously considered gun ownership anyway, but something about this revelation nevertheless disappointed him. Not exactly a champion of the Second Amendment, John still felt like he was being punished for something entirely out of his control. He figured if war did break out he could find one somewhere.

Hours went by and John listened to music on the old headphones attached to the even older box computer. Eventually, medication time came again. This time the nurse gave John an instant-dissolving capsule that he could not hold in his gums before throwing it out. (He admitted he’d done that the last time. He was honest, sometimes devastatingly so.)

John slept across from a very tall man, one of the only other white men in the ward. He must have been in his 60s, perhaps an indefinite civil committee who had murdered someone decades ago with no living family left who cared enough about him to advocate for his release. The man woke up throughout the night to use the restroom. John could not get a wink of sleep.

A commotion came from the other hallway the next morning. John witnessed it from afar. Two doctors were standing over one of the patients, a middle-aged woman who was a recovering drug addict. John remembered she loved talking about how her children needed her and she missed them dearly. She was on the cold, hard floor bleeding from the head. “She fell,” one of the doctors said to the other as they shooed away the onlookers. A bureaucratic-looking individual in a suit and tie soon joined them as they figured out what to do. Eventually they brought her to her room where John saw them try to resuscitate her with pungent aromas. The group made her a card to feel better soon. John never found out what happened to her.

-

“Please don’t go!” John’s dad begged. A doctor who did his residency in a psychiatric hospital, he knew what was at stake. John was insisting on going to a Group meeting to confront his would-be murderers. “I’ll go with him,” said his mom. They drove to the session building in the cold winter night. John brought his dog along with them for comfort. They slowly walked up the stairs and entered the room. John saw in the meeting everyone smiling that devilish grin everyone had lately, a sinister, murderous look as they seemed to stare at him relentlessly. The meeting ended, John heard someone say “let’s kill him,” during the usual closing chant.

In the hallway, big Tom walked up to John. “How are you doing?” he asked. “Are you going to strangle me with your leather gloves on?” John replied as his mom accompanied him back to the car, his loyal dog still by his side. John hardly slept that night.

-

“I guess it’s up to me,” John’s mom said as she filled a bowl with bean soup the next day. I guess it’s up to her to kill me, John thought, his paranoid delusion at full force. John did not want to draw any suspicions so he ate a couple bites of the soup and realized he may have been poisoned. He had been staying with his parents the last two days after a massive panic attack that he was having a heart attack while reading about prisons, hospitals, and death in the group Book. John hurried downstairs to the basement where he looked for something to induce vomiting. He considered the bleach next to the washing machine, then settled on drinking a lot of water. He returned upstairs, fearful for his life.

“Let’s go for a walk,” suggested his mom. John walked ahead and picked up a stick and tried to get himself to vomit with it. His mom approached and he threw the stick aside. "I’m poisoned,” John said. John’s mother had been struggling to understand what was going thought her son’s head for the past 48 hours. They already brought him to a shrink (who was wearing a bright red sweater and John thought looked like Stephen King himself). She finally exclaimed, “You’re making me go crazy!” John ran away and into a bookstore where a bystander was on her phone. He asked if he could borrow it because he was sick. He called 911 and forgot to give the phone back. Outside, the ambulance arrived (a staff member from the store took the phone back) and the EMT gruffly said “you’re going to psych.” “No, I need poison control!” John protested. That’s where they want me so they can get me, in a psych ward, John thought. John was already stuck in the truck as it pulled away from the onlookers.

The ambulance arrived at the hospital but John had no intentions of being stuck anywhere isolated. As soon as they disembarked, John fled, jumping over the bushes on his way to the sidewalk. “The police are gonna get you!” shouted the EMT as John ran.

John made it two blocks down, had taken off his coat in an attempt to disguise himself (which he had already done the night before by shaving his beard into a goatee), when the police cruiser pulled up. Two armed officers walked up to John, who remained still. One asked for I.D., which John provided. The other frisked John and gently placed the back side of his hand against his crotch and cuffed him as they drove him back to the hospital where four Dominican guards awaited him.

Seems very autobiographical.

I wish you well.....

Thank you. There is a mixture of reality and fantasy. The extent of each I’d rather not go into (leave something to the imagination).

Mental illness is no cakewalk but with treatment, which our protagonist thankfully found, it is more manageable. I hope other people don’t take their health for granted and can understand mental illness a little better now.

Played good 2/2 and 5/5/25 sessions, got stacked twice in the early going by a whale, first with his inside wrap against my top set (AI otf at spr ...30? - yes that's thirty), then with my ds AA against his pretty but non-AA holding. I was quite upset to lose both in this fashion as a sizeable favorite and let my emotions out a little, silly me, but helped me cool off to let it out. Better out of my mouth than through my play. Finally got him back after winning a few pots, this time with top set+nfd AI ott and held for a $4.5k pot. Just then, the 5/5 was called (must move this time...no waiting until late for the private main game...yippie!). We both left for the 5/5/25 button straddle.

At 5/5, got stacked almost immediately with ds AA AI pre against a nit's ss AA (I had a few percent edge somehow), losing most of my profit for the evening. Bought in deep with the whale (someone commented he loved my confidence) and won a good pot with AA in 4! pot, then stacked the whale (he was much shallower by now) with top set against his sd/nfd, turned quads. Solid $4.2k profit on the evening, sadly something that I no longer get excited about. (Not that I play for the excitement.) As one keeps moving up, poker does that after a while...it takes bigger wins to get the same feeling. Certainly pleased with the result, and I am really happy with how I played this session, started very tough both at 2/2 and 5/5 but was not shaken. That's pretty much it.

Edit: whale said his company was in trouble because he couldn’t pay his employees due to his gambling problem. Would you keep playing against this guy, even if he stacked you twice? SMH.

Was he being serious and how could you tell?

Doesn’t seem like the sort of thing to lie publicly about. In the law we call that sort of thing a “statement against interest” that carries probative weight.

Probably just a joke is what I assume, but I wasn't there.

Played 20/40 limit mix for the first time, had a great time learning new poker variants. Had read up a little in advance and did another google skim in game too, and finally had a chance to apply what I read about. Worked out pretty well! Hoping to get better to move up and have more higher stakes games to play / in my arsenal. I like to be a well-rounded poker player, and as you keep learning, more and more becomes transferable, making the transition easier. (Can't say the same thing about Spanish-->French...!) Played in a bad 10/25 HE, lost some there with AA, my fault for playing - although in my defense I put my name on a different game quite quickly after sitting down. I am up a lot this month anyway, meh.

As for the mixed game, I really enjoyed badacey, disliked 2-7 triple draw (drew lots of bananas), and got owned in big-o, getting rivered for the scoop against a low that made a wheel.

I broke a pat 9 in 2-7 triple draw on the last draw multiway, thinking I needed to improve, which in retrospect was a mistake. Got rivered with a made T-badugi pre and just called an EP raise/3! 5-handed, probably should have played it faster (3!-ttor rivered a 9 badugi). All in all a good session.

Some regular old bread-and-butter 1/2 5-card yesterday, started off GII TT744ds as a short stack, ran into dsAA that just called pre (thought had good enough equity and overlay from some dead money). Built it back up over the next few hours, bled down some, then won a big one with ds AA, flopping nfd in 3! pot and holding against what I imagine was Qx or KKx +sd with the same flush draw on Q-9-3cc with spr 2.

Played a couple rounds of 20/40 limit mix again and forgot what game we were playing - played as if were were on badacey when we were on 2-7 triple draw . . .! Thankfully I was called for 5/5 and only lost $150 on the hand. Very sweet, the winner offered me my river bet back when she realized my mistake, but I politely declined.

5/5 went better, won with AAnfd in 3! pot, won with top two and oesd against action player, lost an AA pre, pretty standard fair. Ended up booking a good win, but down from my peak due to the AA pre hand. Sometimes I wonder whether it's worth it to gamble pre with such small edges in 5c.

But as someone once posted in the omaha subforum, you were a 55/45 favorite in PLO?



It's hard to argue with a Homer Simpson gif.

Action played got steamed to lose another pot to me and as he tanked on the river (someone had mentioned he'd slowrolled before), I asked if he had a straight - he'd also been drinking and I was trying to speed up the game. He got offended and thought I was accusing him of slowrolling and called me a nitty player. What's new.

An unexpected snowfall followed an unexpected early cherry blossom bloom and the results are quite beautiful:

. (Credit: Davine Ker.)

Some rungood at 5/T and 5/5 towards the end of the night, unfortunately the latter game was called quite late so I could only play for an hour, especially with daylight savings time and all. The game was very juicy when I quit, as it was the other night too. Can't be messing with my schedule though with the day job. Oh well.

Beautiful pic.

Sold another plo5 strat guide today to a good poker friend who up until now has played hold 'em. I don't need the extra competition but I am happy to share the intel with the right people, especially if it means the game becomes more popular. I look forward to seeing him crush the five card streets soon.

Already up plenty this early in the month, probably going to take a night to relax and play very little if at all. Workout then dinner date. Been putting in good volume and I am posting a nice hourly (over a small sample). Sweet!

My date was exposed to covid so we canceled. :/

Played a half-hearted session at a good table where I was largely card dead and got rivered one hand (made the fold), for a $176 loss. At least I found a merino wool sweater for $9.99 today during my lunch break. Got my dad a couple too. Add to that a Ukraine aid brownie (100% of sales go to Ukraine aid orgs) and call it a good day.

Maxed out my IRA for last year and most of this year, gonna slowly venture back into the market little by little too as things keep falling (I pulled out a few months ago).

Two years ago, I reached out to an old romance from my college days the only method I knew how - email - and he just checked that email account after years of not doing so and got back to me! Looks like he went into medicine/psychiatry. Hope he's not taken.

My college romance and I chatted last night! Can't tell if he's single yet, sounds like the might be - unless this is the biggest tease ever. Super stoked to finally be in touch after over a decade.

He's in psychiatry! Which is totally cool on multiple levels, not the least of which is my passion for criminal reform for people with mental illness (a problem he acknowledges too).

Very yawn short session, card dead mostly. Posted a very small loss again, mostly from 1/3 where I didn't win any 65/35s.(Variance in hold 'em exists ya'll.)

Sitting in a tough 5/5 game calls for a tough poker face: mask and sunglasses on today!

Nitting it up here for sure! Super card dead, not much happening.