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Date Posted: Aug. 22, 10:47am, 0 Comments

I've been a foul mood lately, I admit it.

 

No particular reason, if you can ignore tests for cancer, income reduction, everybody I care about under siege, the local news, the national news, the world news.
Old lady in Houston dies after air-conditioner is stolen.
Thief steals blind lady's pet bird in Orlando.
$60,000 damage done to church A/C unit as thieves make off with $400 worth of copper parts.
Michelle Bachmann leads pack of Republican presidential hopefuls.
Rick Perry?? OMG.
Black Friday merely nags. I figure I'll get my Full Tilt money back - hopefully - just about in time for the 2012 WSOP.
I try not to complain to my mother - just out of six months in the hospital following three surgeries - about all my aches and pains.
Complaining to Mom about getting old seems somewhat ludicrous, although I know for an absolute fact she would understand.
I know because she told me, oh, fifteen or twenty years ago,"there are days when if you didn't know how old you were and didn't look at your reflection, you would feel like you were in your thirties."
Those days often seem few and far between lately. To which I say... FUCK THAT.
I have been playing pot-limit Omaha on one of the few remaining USA-facing poker rooms. I have been relentlessly and ruthlessly aggressive.
Patience, self-discipline and tenacity come naturally to me at this age. Aggression not so much.
Last night I had a dream.
I arrived at the Department Of Motor Vehicles early because - as we all know - there is always a long wait.
I got there so early the doors weren't even open. I was the first in line.
Then the doors open and shadowy figures suddenly appear ahead of me. A large man attempts to push by me.
"Oh, no, you don't," I growl, as I spin him around, grabbing him by the front of his collar. This I do at astonishing speed.
He looks like a blonde version of Archie of the old comic books.
He reaches under his sportscoat and begins to pull out a pistol. I pin his gun hand with my left forearm and move my right forearm to his throat. He gargles hoarsely and his eyes bug out a little.
"Here's what gonna happen," I tell him. By now he has morphed into Phil Hellmuth, who has me on recliner-tilt after 12 straight Poker After Dark appearances.
"I am going to break your glasses, then I am going to break your Glock, then I am going to break your nose.
Hopefully, you will then be sufficiently motivated to move back to the end of the line. And take all your friends with you."
Gurgle was the only response.
"If you fail to do so, I will break your arm, then your other arm. Maybe your balls, too. Do I make myself clear?"
He nodded, but only with his frightened eyes.
Just as suddenly as the shadowy figures had appeared, they evaporated. I was again at the head of the line.
I felt very strong, very fierce, very tough.
Then I woke up.
To tell you the truth, I don't look in the mirror much. I am not going to start now.
I am, however, going to bet the pot on the flop every chance I get.
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