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January 05, 2009
Filed Under (Blog) by admin on 05-01-2009
In all the time I’ve been playing poker seriously (well, as ‘serious’ as I ever get about anything anyway) I’ve never really been much into deep analysis of past hands. Certainly I’ve pondered briefly after a big hand to considered ways I might have made more money, and have often reflected on key tourney exit hands to see if I could have avoided some self-inflicted donkey death, but that’s about it. Similarly, I’ve never really been tempted to post hands on forums and get into the tedious process of having twenty know-it-alls tell you what you should have done with your life (if I wanted some 2p/4p wannabe pro to run my hand through an odds calculator and bark numbers at me I’d ask for it specifically).
I appreciate this rambling might seem particularly hypocritical considering one of my main jobs is standing on telly picking other people’s hands apart, but ultimately that’s what I’m being paid to do, so I have a good excuse. Also, these shows offer more of a skim-the-surface observation than a cut-you-open-and-remove-your-spleen examination so I don’t think it counts as serious analysis anyway.
And why am I telling you all this? Well because I’ve had a change of heart after reading Gus Hansen’s book, ‘Every Hand Revealed’. I was surprised by just how much I enjoyed this book, and I think it’s mostly down to the fact that Hansen is not only accurate enough to let you see how he plays (with the facts and details of the hands) but also articulate enough to help you understand how he thinks (via his hand analysis and reasoning laid before you in black and white).
Thought I’ve always been a player who takes notes at the table (and endured much ridicule as I produce my ‘little gay book’) these notes have primarily been to assist my writing. Pouring back through my notes there are clearly far more entries the likes of: “fat bloke to my left has a head like a parsnip and a tattoo on his arm that appears to say the word ‘COCK’ in gothic text” rather than any mention of pre-flop raising, betting tendencies or hand ranges.
Hansen’s book has, however, spurred me on to take more time dissecting my notes after games to be sure that I’ve made the most of each hand delivered to my grubby paws. It’s turning out to be a process that’s well worth doing - either validating the decisions I’ve made, or uncovering some ‘iffy’ moves made in the heat of the moment - and I’d seriously advise you consider having a go. Perhaps even start a blog that no one will ever read; picking your own plays apart to see if they buckle under interrogation. Remember, it’s easy to kid other people regarding your poker prowess - because you can always find a way to make your play sound more legit than it really was - but you can’t fool yourself.
It’s the same deal regarding keeping accurate records of your results. You can chose to record the wins but ‘kinda forget’ the odd loss because ‘it was only a muck-about game’ but ultimately you MUST acknowledge the truth if you want to move forward with your game. It’s also worth remembering that a quick tickle of pokershark or some such site will soon reveal the truth anyway, so you may as well come clean. There’s nothing I like more than to copy and paste my chum’s results to them on a fortnightly basis to stop them lying to me about how well they’re doing. Needless to say I never let them know my own user name (I’m not stupid you know).
And for my last wild tangent: I once had an email from a viewer of the now-defunct Poker Night Live show who said he had taken to delivering live commentary over his own online play as he found it helped crystallise his understanding of the situation. For him, calling out the action a la: “seat two limps, seat three folds, the rock in seat four raises double the blind (as he did with kings earlier in the game), seat five folds, etc…” kept him focused on the game and less likely to drift off and miss key nuggets of information.
I guess what I am saying is, be prepared to take an interest in your games rather than just your results. Next time round I’m considering sharing some hands with you that I’ve begun analysing under the new regime. To ensure you don’t lose interest I’ll also be attacking some of the more ‘hilarious’ players that have made their way into my little gay book. My hope is that it will 1) help you understand the process of analysis, 2) make me feel better about some of the moves I’ve made, 3) make us all chuckle as I attack men with heads like parsnips.
Oh, and I promise an absolute minimum of bad beats. No, really…
December 02, 2008
Filed Under (Blog) by admin on 02-12-2008
This is a strange entry, but I was recently handed a piece of paper that I didn’t know what to do with, so thought this was the best place to dump its contents. To set the scene: I went to the Maidstone studios for a stint of commentary with Jessie May, and had two heats of the 888.com Open to work on. The morning heat was full of the usual Matchroom players: Marc Goodwin, Rolan De Wolfe, Dixie Dean, etc. and the second one was interesting in that it had Eddie Hearn himself playing in the tourney. Now if you’ve never seen Eddie and Roland teasing each other, you’ve never seen man-boys recreating the playgournd while in their ‘mid-thirties’. Eddie basically ribs Roland about being a ‘failed gambler who forever needs bailing out’ while Roland likes to suggest that Eddie ‘would be nothing if his rich daddy hadn’t given him a job’. Sometimes this row can go on for hours at a time. I once left a dispute, did commentary on a four-hour game, and came back to find it still going on. (I sh*t you not). Oh, they also spend a lot of time calling each other ‘fat’. So this one particular day Roland was particularly unhappy to not be asked to do the commentary as he was relishing the thought of being able to attack Eddie constantly while Eddie was helpless to do anything about it. Needless to say Eddie asked me to work the heat rather than Roland which left him gutted. However, Roland didn’t waste the opportunity; scurrying away with paper and pen, and later presenting me with his ‘helpful notes’. He was keen that I try to use as many of them as possible during the broadcast. Needless to say, I didn’t. Ladies and gentleman, may I present to you (word for word I hasten to add) the brain spillage of Mr Roland De Wolfe: 1. Eddie is nicknamed Darren after Darren Furguson, because he got his chance because of his dad but he’s nowhere as good. 2. Barry wanted Eddie to take over his whole business affairs, but rather like Fredo he is the useless limp son, so he gave him the poker department. 3. Eddie dated Jodie Marsh at the posh private school they went to. 4. Eddie was put on the board of Leyton Orient by his father. He has overseen a slump from top to bottom of the league and an Orient fans spokesman said "It’s like being lumbered with Barry Evans from Eastenders" 5. Also, Eddie is terrible at poker. Lost to Barry in 888 heads-up. Also, he is fat and orange like Tangoman. So, hopefully you can see what I’m talking about here; some genuinely useful notes. Not. Oh, and Ian Frazer didn’t get away scott free either. We continue… 1. TV specialist Frazer tried to move in on level 3 at the WSOP main event coz he thought that’s what you were meant to do. 2. Ian was asking for Marty Wilson to make a ruling at the Vic believeing he was the TD. 3. Frazer’s the richest man in Europe, owns half of Kent, and has four Ferraries. 4. Grabs people’s bollocks when drunk. 5. Relegated from Premier League for ‘abysmal performance’. 6. Couldn’t beat a £5 NL cash game or a £100 tournament that was open to all-comers. 7. Actually paid £50k to Matchroom to get in Premier League. 8. Old and washed up. Now it’s important for me to make it clear I neither put these forward as serious opinions from Roland, nor do I agree with many (sorry - I meant ANY) of them. Roland is a wasted writer in my opinion. His most recent Facebook status said: Roland is in Poland. It’s freezing and it appears to be 1992 here. Genius? Discuss.
November 07, 2008
Filed Under (Blog) by admin on 07-11-2008
Though I like to almost entirely ignore poker in my writing (perhaps just including the word “poker” itself as a token gesture in the first paragraph) I thought I’d break the mould and respond to a question I faced recently about an apparently massive over-bet I made that came back to bite me in the arse.
The hand in question occurred during the now legendary Virgin Poker Festival at the Loose Cannon (doing a dazzling impression of a sauna thanks to a ‘heating malfunction’). Initially I was put on the dullest of tables (no offense if you were next to me!) stuck out the back, dripping sweat onto my cards and enjoying the exploits of a player a few spots to my left who simply couldn’t grasp the fact that saying “raise 300” when there was already 150 on the table didn’t just double the bet to A TOTAL OF 300, but added 300, creating a 450 pot. Add to this constant over-building of the pot the fact that he was a serial calling station and, well… you can imagine the ‘fun’ we were all having with him. I pride myself on being polite and non-abusive at the table, but on a board of AQ994 I bluffed out a pot-sized post-river bet and got called because he had a ‘4’ in his hand, I couldn’t resist asking “is there anything you WON’T call with?” as the collective table slapped their foreheads for the nth time. Anyway, enough whinging…
I held my own through the first few levels; mostly just playing ABC poker against ABC opposition (and may I just remind you that if you ever find yourself up again a more ‘enthusiast’ than ‘professional’ field, continuation bets are the absolute bread and butter of building your stack). Finally our table was broken down and I was moved to a new spot in the centre of the room. I was immediately more comfortable as this was a chattier table, featuring some juicy stacks and a few ‘characters’ (i.e. plonkers). Oh, and Ramchip was there too.
The first thing I like to do when I arrive at a new table is spend a few minutes making entirely unfair, unfounded and - frankly - cruel assumptions about my opponents. Anyone who asks “how much is it?” every round or waits five minutes before looking at their cards (and a further five minutes before folding so as not to give away any ‘tells’) is immediately labelled ‘numptie’. The numptometer also swings to “11” if I see anyone carefully laying out their chips a foot from the rail in neat, sequential piles; never mixing colours or amounts in case the universe implodes. I also like to imagine that anyone fat is also stupid. Don’t hate me; it’s just the way I am.
I had a cracking time at the new table; starting with decent hands, connecting with flops, and then continuation betting or re-raising to victory without having to show any cards. To the untrained eye I appeared to be the ‘table captain’ they’d all read about somewhere in a magazine. Actually I was just a lucky fish being hit round the head by the deck (don’t tell anyone – tee hee!)
I’d grown my stack to a comfortable 11k with the blinds still at only 200/400 when ‘The Hand’ happened, as one of the numpties previously designated ‘Neat Stacks’ made an early min-raise to 800. Now we all know this is meant to indicate one of two things; either a monster hand or a tricky hand that players feel they should raise with but deep down don’t really fancy (i.e. pocket tens in early position). A hairy player two to my right called, and I looked down at KK. I had a think (which we’ll come back to later) and then pushed all-in. That’s right – 11,000 into about 2,000. Bonkers eh?
‘Neat stacks’ called for his 5,000 and I knew he had aces. Bollocks. The fun wasn’t over yet however, as ‘Hairy’ had a real quick think and then also called for his total 7,000. Now the question I imagine is running through your heads is ‘just what can hairy have other than aces that warrants a call here?’ Well I can tell you that ‘Hairy’ had AK. Yes – all his chips with nothing more than ace-high and only 800 previously invested. And THAT, my friends, is why I pushed with KK in the first place. Consider this: if ‘Hairy’ is happy calling all his chips off against TWO opponents all-in with AK, imagine how wide his calling range is if I hadn’t run into aces!
If I’d chosen to re-raise pre-flop from 800 to 2,400 I think my opponents are bad enough to still just call with lesser ‘premium’ hands, and then I run the risk of being outdrawn and losing a big chunk of chips finding out if I’m still ahead with KK post-flop. By making the massive over-bet I either take down 2,000 (which is fine by me thank you) or I force a numptie to make a massive pre-flop mistake with the likes of JJ, QQ, AK and possibly even AQ if they are particularly bad. On rare occasions I have run into another KK making this move, but generally speaking there is only one of the 1,326 distinct starting hands you don’t want to run into, and that is aces (I guess I just got lucky this time!)
No one improved on the board, so I gave 5k to ‘Neat stacks’ but took 2k off ‘Hairy’ in a side pot and was more than fine with 8k considering the blinds. The push might seem like a mental play, but it’s one of those situations where – if you don’t respect the abilities of your opponents much – you can find yourself 4-1 favourite against the likes of QQ and JJ, or 70% favourite against players who simply over-value AK.
Give it a go some time. Just don’t blame me if you run into aces (it does happen occasionally). Happy hunting! PS: Thanks to Ramchip for coming up to me afterwards and saying "Great plan. Unlucky". Nice to know SOMEONE understands me!
October 06, 2008
Filed Under (Blog) by admin on 06-10-2008
Ever since poker pro Erik Lindgren beat a burglar to death with a five iron in his house last month he won’t stop parading from room to room like some vigilante king. Lindgren’s wife, Jean, is grateful that her husband protected the family, but his constant bragging is beginning to wear thin: “He acts like nobody’s ever killed an intruder before.”
For his part, E-Dog says simply: “I AM A HERO.”
Lindgren has now requested that the police give him the burglar’s ears so he can string them into a necklace.
September 22, 2008
Filed Under (Blog) by admin on 22-09-2008
Having recently been out to Las Vegas for the WSOP I was looking forward to heading back there with absolutely no work commitments to get in the way of actually sitting down and playing some poker. A decade ago, taking a ‘poker holiday’ in Vegas required some serious planning. You needed to know exactly when the few decent poker rooms in town were running their juicy games, and be prepared to leapfrog from one tournament to the next to minimise dead time and maximise value. Sitting at the table was as much about finding out the good ‘tourney routes’ from other players as it was about taking their chips. These days the poker comes to you. Even the smallest casinos have a poker room, even if that ‘room’ is nothing more than a couple of tables with a rope around them. My basic plan for the trip was to enjoy the Vegas sun (what with the British ‘Summer’ being the usual mixture of snow, wind, piss and general misery), hit a few shows, drink a few cocktails, and make some strategic decisions about where to play my poker. We are forever harping on about profitability in poker being about game selection… When it comes to making money in Las Vegas the game selection goes as far as deciding which casinos to sit down in. Consider this: Big Dave fancies himself as a bit of a poker player (having ‘totally pwned’ a £5 sit ‘n’ go on Betfair… twice!) Where would you expect him to go to play poker? O’Sheas? Casino Royale? That shitty little casino made of wood that I can’t even remember the name of that nearly got blown up because everyone forgot it was hidden behind Stardust? No; of course not. Minutes after his fat head bobbles into McCarren’s arrivals lounge, Big Dave will be swaggering into The Bellagio’s sweet-smelling poker room looking like something out of Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. The locals will take one look at him and - quick as a flash - metaphorically have his pants down, his Pringle jumper up over his head, and be sending him tarred and feathered back out into the blistering sun, scratching his fat bonce and wondering where all his beer money went. Which is exactly why you WON’T find me down The Bellagio, The Wynn, The Mandalay Bay, or any other casino that might be considered ‘nice’. Why? Well let me ask you another question: where do you think the meek, timid, new-to-the-game, first-live-experience enthusiasts are going to go to pop their poker cherries? How about all the sh*t-holes that are entirely unlikely to have any ‘proper’ poker players sitting there! And that, my wily friends, is exactly why you’ll find me trying to peel my shoes off the sticky carpets at Bill’s Gamblin’ Hall & Saloon, sucking down warm beers at the soon-to-be-demolished Imperial Palace, and generally rubbing shoulders with the voucher-obsessed tramps who frequent the - shall we say - less salubrious casinos Las Vegas has to offer. While my more image-conscious friends are trying to make a name for themselves in the beautiful surroundings of the Caesar’s Palace poker room (with its fancy perfumed air-conditioning and yet-to-be-pensioned waitresses) I’m sat at the Flamingo’s entirely adequate poker room between a rock and a hard place (i.e. two fat blokes) enjoying the juiciest cash table I’ve ever witnessed. On a future occasion I shall share some specifics regarding the games I encountered during this latest trip, but suffice to say that upon my return my MSN ‘tag’ screamed "A VEGAS WINNER!" at my friends for a full week. Truly, it was the best of times (the results), it was the worst of times (the surroundings). It’s a hard job, but someone’s got to do it…
August 27, 2008
Filed Under (Blog) by admin on 27-08-2008
There’s something magical about returning from a poker game late/early enough that the sun rises as you drive home. Sharing the near-empty dawn roads with delinquent foxes kicking over dustbins and smoking cigarettes (I think I saw one lighting up) the trip back from Luton takes the time my Tom Tom optimistically said it would take to get me there originally. I knew better than to trust the lying bastard on the way up simply because my Tom Tom lives in a glorious world where feckless morons don’t crash into each other ever five minutes, and the never-ending road works on the M1 are a thing of fiction. I’ve got used to adding 30 minutes onto everything it says. It’s a bit like having a wife who says she‘ll be ready by 7pm but never is. The bitch.
August 04, 2008
Filed Under (Blog) by admin on 04-08-2008
Doctors are saying that poker professional Barry Greenstein’s brain subconsciously made room for a catchy TV jingle by deleting valuable space required for his survival instinct. Now severely injured, Greenstein only became aware of the change later, having accidentally walked through a dark alley filled with knife-wielding yobs. He told us: “I knew I should have been running in the other direction, but all I could think was: ‘I feel like chicken tonight; like chicken tonight’.
Greenstein’s uncle died under similar circumstances when his brain traded the part that controls breathing for enough room to accompany the Bird’s-eye Potato Waffles song.
July 14, 2008
Filed Under (Blog) by admin on 14-07-2008
I have a tendency to make my life more complicated than it needs to be. Having finally committed to heading out for the WSOP despite a distinct lack of work to justify the time and expense, I then went about making things as difficult as possible.
First up I invited a friend along - which in itself wasn’t a massive problem - but I then also decided to up the ante somewhat by organising to have eye laser surgery during the trip. That’s right; voluntarily paying American doctors to slice open my eyes, fire lasers into them, and then send me off half-blind into Sin City to play tour guide. Sounds like a shit comedy screenplay doesn’t it.
Things started about as crap as you could imagine, with a mere seven separate incidents on the M25 to Gatwick. Let’s think about that… SEVEN sets of dickheads who have somehow mastered the art of changing radio stations, adjusting their seats, and applying lipstick on the move, but can’t seem to stop smashing into the back of other people’s cars. Now I’ve never managed to be so fucking stupid that I can’t stop my car before it enters the same physical space as another car so I don’t entirely understand this problem. I have taken, however, to dealing with this constant frustration by winding down my window as I pass by the relevant drivers and shouting “COCKS!” at them as they sit scratching their fat, empty bonces on the central reservation while a grown-up from the RAC collects up bits of Mondeo.
The various delays also mean that the nice man who was waiting to meet and greet my car at the terminal has now buggered off for a brew so I have to call him back out again. Meanwhile, a uniformed job’s-worth traffic drone is insisting that I can’t wait at the terminal, so I pretend to have a ‘leg problem’ and shuffle back and forth with single items of baggage, killing time until the chauffeur turns up. Halfway through an award-winning performance (think Lieutenant Dan in Forest Gump) the driver finally turns up. I grab my bags, shout “It’s a miracle!” and sprint up the ramp to the check-in.
The pain continues as we discover that we can’t sit together. What was to be an incredible plane-based poker and beer festival now looks more like eleven hours watching The Royal Family and episodes of The Simpsons from back before Homer got his own voice right. FFS.
And then… as I plod through the gate… just as eleven hours of misery stretches out before me… I hear “come back, sir”. Oh great. What now? Has my friend hilariously stashed 20 kilos of cocaine in my backpack ‘for a laugh’ and I’m about to meet a hulking customs official called Bubba who likes to make finger puppets out of sphincters?
But no – instead the lovely gate lady utters those beautiful words that all travellers dream of: “You’ve been upgraded” BINGO! And then I catch my friend’s face. Oops…
Sadly it was only me that got upgraded and my friend still had to face eleven hours stuck between a man with no love of deodorant and a women more interested in piercing every square inch on her face than brushing her teeth.
I patted him on the back, commenting: “Good job we weren’t sitting together or that would have been a real tough decision for me”. Needless to say, BOLLOCKS would it have been tough! I would have been off up those stairs before you could cough the words ‘complimentary pretzels’ into a free glass of champagne.
I try to play down the generous leg room and free fruit as I visit the hobos down in economy a few hours later (I think my friend was pleased to see the banana I brought him, but perhaps asking him to “dance for it like a monkey” was a step too far.)
Before my Vegas trip I’d bought a new toy: a small video recorder no bigger than a mobile phone that grabs an hour of high-quality footage. I used this now to play my chum footage I’d taken ‘upstairs’, pointing out the spacious aisles, the orgy of free booze sitting about the place, and the entirely more attractive class of traveller that made up the higher echelons I liked to frequent.
At this point the slob next to my friend farted freely into the very air that he’d be sucking back down his fat gullet in a recycled fashion for the next eight hours, so I excused myself and headed back upstairs where I believed a small group of more fragrant passengers were putting on some impromptu Shakespeare. My friend waved goodbye with a clenched fist. And some spitting.
Settled back into the comfort of my small couch, I opted to watch I am Legend. If you’ve not seen it, he dies in the end. There: that’s two hours of your life I’ve just saved you. I also watched National Treasure 2 with Nicholas Cage. I don’t mean I watched it with him, just that he was in the film. He didn’t die (in case you were wondering) but that bald bloke out of The Abyss did. Again, I’d give it a miss if I were you.
Anyway, with a couple of hours eaten up by shit films, I put on some protective foot wear and venture back to the post-apocalyptic wastelands of economy to check that no feral dogs have eaten my friend yet. I ask what he ate for dinner. “Some chicken shit” is his reply and I decide it’s best not to mention the banquette my stunning hostess presented me with earlier (although I can’t resist showing him a video I took of my gorgeous metal cutlery). He tries to hide his plastic spork under a napkin but it’s too late, I’ve already seen it. The poor bastard.
It’s a tearful goodbye as I disembark, and though I’d like to think that the fact I was upgraded on the way out could mean I’ll get upgraded again on the way back, I think both the stewardess and I know that our time together is over. She doesn’t look quite as gutted about this fact as I am, but I’m pretty sure she’s just putting on a brave face. If only I could see under all that make-up I’d know for sure…
Once on the ground and back in the land of unexceptional average people, I slip back into the moribund disguise of my hollow life with ease. To look at me you wouldn’t know I travel as a sophisticate, but I don’t mind. I like to spend time with ‘the normals’ as I think it builds character.
With a tight schedule and plenty to do, it’s almost immediately off to the eye clinic for me, as I have a batch of tests to sort before my scheduled operation the next morning. Everything’s going well, right until they bring me a wad of disclaimers to sign.
Now I’d never sign up for a treatment involving burning light being fired into my brain on a whim, so prior to the procedure I’d talked to various people who’d been through the surgery themselves, read up on supportive statistics and grilled the hell out of my own surgeon on email for months. Nothing, however, could prepare me for the list I was presented with now. The likes of: “I understand that I might end up blind” was top of the sheet, followed by such gems as: “I understand that I could spend the rest of my life trying to tell the difference between men and women using only the power of smell”.
My nurse was a classic Las Vegas woman in her 50s, with way too much make-up and a sun-baked face that wouldn’t look out of place at the World of Leather on the A13. “Elenor” I asked, “Is this form designed to make me shit myself?” She smiled back. “I wouldn’t worry about it honey,” she reassured me. “I had my eyes done a while back and it was fine.” With that she handed me a pen, gestured for me to sign away all responsibility, and left the room. It was only once she’d gone I realised she’d been wearing glasses. Oh fuck.
It was, however, too late - my mind was made up. The next day I went back, had a man cut off the tops of my eyes, fire lasers into them and then put the tops of my eyes back on. ‘Weird’ doesn’t quite cover the sensation, but then again nor does ‘fucking awful’. It was like being abducted by aliens, only aliens with an eye fetish rather than a propensity to stick things up your arse while mutilating cattle (which on reflection is probably a good thing).
Later that day I stood at the top of the Rio’s VooDoo lounge looking in wonder and awe as the Las Vegan sun went down over the mountains and the lights came on along The Strip. I’d like to pretend my tears were tears of joy brought on by seeing properly with my own eyes for the first time, but actually it’s just that they really fucking hurt. It would be wrong of me not to thank Ladbrokes for inviting me to that particular party as it was a hell of a way to test out my new peepers. The invite did come at a cost though, as I had to bear witness to a bunch of teenage cheerleaders attempting to get us all to chant “We love Ladbrokes” (pronounced Lad-Brokes rather than Lad-Brooks). It was like being at a Nazi rally (I imagine). Needless to say the predominantly British crowd stood with their arms folded and their lips clamped shut. It was painful, but not as painful as my sodding eyes so I just shut them and waited for the cheerleaders to go away (not a sentence I ever thought I’d find myself saying, I can tell you).
I made good use of my new bionic eyes during the next few days, watching some amazing poker, bumping (quite literally) into some of the best players on the planet (inlcuding - might I add - one Kara Scott!) and discovering the delights of beer pong (more on that another time perhaps). However, I’m probably due for more eye drops sometime soon so i’d best go give them a rest.
Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I didn’t get upgraded on the way back, but I did steal a spork and looked through their underwear with my magic eyes, so effectively I had the last laugh. The tight bastards.
June 23, 2008
Filed Under (Blog) by admin on 23-06-2008
The numbers for December 2007’s Christmas season miracles are in and - according to a new report released today - they’re not that good; confirming only three Christmas miracles - the lowest since record-keeping began in 1934. Holiday miracle analyst, Steve Playford, commented: "One person is touched by a miracle and it can - over time - bring good cheer to thousands of people in the outlying area. Unfortunately we’re just seeing a lot less of that." Sources close to the Lord God have indicated that he had been setting miracles aside for some time to assist Jesus-botherering card clown, Jerry Yang, as he luck-boxed and misplayed his way to victory in the 2007 WSOP Main Event.
June 06, 2008
Filed Under (Blog) by admin on 06-06-2008
Pokerstars today secured its chances of owning the next World Series of Poker Champion by signing up every poker player on the planet to Team Pokerstars. The company’s CEO made the announcement in a morning press conference at the Rio Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas, Nevada: “With these acquisitions we’re in a position to finally nab that elusive 5th WSOP Champion”. The PPA approved the signing, noting that there was no reason why other companies couldn’t remain competitive just because they lack players.
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