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Poker Blog established in 2003 as the first stop for poker news, poker stories, and bad poker advice.

December 2, 2005

The Beginner

by G-Rob

I saw "DN0024" push his chips to the middle on at least two dozen hands and I called him 3 times. Aggression wins tournaments and this guy was Hitler on meth. In a way, everyone loves a player like him, I'd seen him get all-in preflop with hands like T3o, K5o, and every single naked ace. The strange things is, he actually won most of them, like some strange all-knowing poker savant. Still, he doubled me up... 3 times in a single tournament.

But ol' DN got me thinking about just who these morons are, what brings them to the table and what they're thinking when they GET there. Today, my friends, I publish the results of several minutes of thought... distracted only by the TV and a new tournament I just entered.

I know... Indulge me.

"TIT_Monger41" on Stars is a MANIAC

Just 12 more hours until Melinda's birthday, and her father has no gift. Andrew Douglas was short, balding and extremely pissed off. The aisles as Toys-B-Good are like the levels of hell with the slutty tart dolls called "Cindy" and "Barbie," each a small plastic temptation to sin. Andrew hated the children here for being spoiled, for looking so damn happy, and for knowing what they wanted. Shopping for Melinda sucks.

After 40 minutes of "Rescue Hero" walkie talkies and "Power Ranger" modeling clay, Andrew finally found an aisle that felt like these stupid stores should. From floor to cieling were the Parker Bothers greatest hits, and the Milton Bradely classics that children were SUPPOSED to enjoy. But Melina HAD all these games. The ungrateful bitch took every box of dice and plastic markers with her when her mother moved out.

Andrew needed something more obscure and the answer, even by the standards of the zit faced teens who stock this revolting ensemble, was worth an entire floor display. The "Texas Hold-em Started Set" in a metal tin with real plastic chips and two sets of cards. Melinda would appreciate this gift because all the kids like to gamble. Besides, Andrew stood a fair chance of learning the game himself and winning back his alimony one hand at a time.

At the party, Melinda stood in her newest jumper, walking now on a toddler's unsteady legs. Her blonde-in-a-bottle bitch of a mom waited by the door unwilling to let Andrew pass. "You know you can't be here," she said with a scowl. Andrew liked that he could "read" her tough expression as thinly veiled fear.

"This is my daughter's birthday," he said with a patently evil smile, "and I've brought her a present." And he threw down the unwrapped tin to the wide brick porch. The lid, still wrapped in a tin ring of plastic popped open with the loose chips inside now scattered on the brown untended shrubs.

But Andrew knew he couldn't stay. He stomped back to the car and headed to the brand-new apartment. Once inside he logged on to the Tandy Color computer he'd found on discount and souped up for online use.

Andrew found Poker Stars and used his adult chatroom name.

He turned the last $500 from his checking account into online chips, and resolved to make these arrogant assholes PAY. He's all in on every flop. Each bet is suicide and murder.

"M_TOENAILS" is tight and PASSIVE

He sat in the downstairs employee bathroom with his pants and designer boxers holding his ankles together and his heart was beating fast. Mark thought this would be the perfect time to purge the bowels, loosened by the Rice Chex and Coffee, but there was always some other bastard in here. When he'd walked in, one of the two stalls on the wall was already occupied and the urinal in use. Mark really needed to crap, but couldn't let Jerome, the IT guy, see him enter the stall.

Mark went straight to the sink and removed the $40 cufflinks emblazoned with the company seal (which at SuckTite plastics WAS actually a seal with smile) and rolled up his sleeves. He could hear Jerome flush and zip before walking past the basin and right back to work. Mark resolved to get to the breakroom food long before Jerome, and his germ-filth hands from now on. And when the door swung shut our hero made his move.

Once inside the unoccupied stall Mark dropped his pants to cover his distinctive shoes, and pulled his boxers over the exposed part of his pants, so noone could recognize his clothes. In his mind, he knew he should wipe the seat, but he wanted to sit down fast before the next door stall got chatty.

When he finally got his ass in the position he wanted, he couldn't contain the crap. Luckily, the first long extended drop was as silent as a copperhead to the pool. A noisy emission could have triggered a disgusting commentary from the unknown entity next door. Plus it would draw attention to his own presence. The stall is for shitting, but Mark didn't want people to know HE did such things. Even better, the single emission was the last of the business he had. With luck, he could wipe... flush... zip... and wash before his neighbor (what is with that guy?) grew wise.

Then it happened.

Just as he stood to rake a huge wad of cheap paper, somone new wandered in. The shame of his crouch, did others sit and scrape?, was too much to bear. He tried to stand motionless so as to appear invisible. His eyes scanned the sliding latch to be sure it was locked, his legs strained to bear his crouched weight, his cheeks burned with shame.

Moments later, the newcomer was gone. The neighbor was still silently sitting, (Mexican food we presume), when Mark cleaned up and rushed for the door, running straight past his cube, and out to the car.

Driving hope, wiping tears this time, he vowed to conquer his fears online. As long as noone noticed. He'd wait for the perfect hand, and PUUUSH.


He wakes each morning to the Northern Lights over his Copenhagen home. Most men his age eschew the Northern camouflage of a solid white tunic and slacks, but Bjorn Fehljiglop was a man who liked to blend in.

At the age of 6, Bjorn developed his first true love, a hairless puppy he named, with American irony, Bradley. He didn't actually love the dog, he loved making another living creature bow to his every whim. When he barked "sit", or the Nordic equivilant of the same, the dog would dutifully comply. The animal, a possesion, would eat, sleep, and shit only when Bjorn allowed. That's what drew him to poker.

By the age of 12, Bjorn could exert a Zen like control over his own emotions, and a Houdini mastery of escape. He could wiggle through the difficult hands, and calculate the probablity on any hand. He could read opponents minds, knew them better than they themselves, and was always a favorite to crush... and then he found Poker Stars.

Winning there was easy. First the cheap single table SNGs, then the large buy-in rings. But, again, Bjorn Fehljiglop doesn't play for the money. He plays to make an American bark to his command. This time his pet is Otis.

Each night, playing under his own last name Fehljiglop crushes the big tournament games. There is big money to be won, but even more important, there's always a blog post from Otis. Otis spent years honing the craft of the written word and now his words were all devoted to one series of Copenhagen cards. Felhjiglop is the only muse.

Tonight, last night, and tomorrow, there's a grumpy balding American hunched over a keyboard, with one eye on his own big tournament and another dutifully following his master.

"Hand #189451232, Fehjiglop re-raises pre-flop and everyone folds," writes Otis, "Another masterfull Nordic move!"

Fehljiglop always wins.


Thanks for indulging this stupidity.

| G-Rob's Thoughts