Good Luck, Me...

 

After 2 straight months of diligently working on my game, I've decided to try something new, and invest in myself. I'll be playing the upcoming WSOPc series at Caesars, Atlantic City.  

I'll be taking a stab at it in the following tournaments - if you happen to be in the area on these dates, feel free to stop by and wish me luck or slip me your room key.


Monday, March 4th - Event #4 - No-Limit Hold 'Em - $365 - Ring Event

Wednesday, March 6th - Event #6 - No-Limit Hold 'Em Six Max - $365 - Ring Event

Friday, March 8th - Event #9 - No-Limit Hold 'Em Turbo - $365 - Ring Event

Saturday, March 9th - Ladies No-Limit Hold 'Em - $250 - Non-Ring Event

Sunday, March 10th - Event #11 - No-Limit Hold 'Em - $365 - Ring Event


In the event that I should accidentally do something very right and FT one of those, I plan to play the Main Event as well, which is on Saturday, March 9th ($1675).


Good luck, me.

Amarillo Slim Smiled At Me From The Great Beyond...

Sometimes in life, the order in which certain events play out make you think that things really do happen for a reason...


Yesterday, or maybe the day before... actually, could have been 3 days ago - who knows? When you spend your life in poker rooms at 12 - 30 hours at a clip, the days all blend together. Anyway, SOMETIME earlier this week, I was doing my Twittah thang, and saw a tweet from @PetsAlive, a group dedicated to saving animals from euthanasia, about a dog named Max desperately needing a home.  Something about this dog just got to me... I mean, look at him!!! I decided, on the spot, that I would rescue this dog from shelter life, and in return, he'd rescue me from a life of conditional love.

So... I #SnapCalled and replied to the tweet, saying, "Max can come live with me... How do we do this?".  The shelter is in New York, I live in Delaware, but I even added, "I'll drive there and pick him up if I have to." I expected an immediate response, but didn't get one.  I had a few errands to run, and figured that by the time I was done, I'd definitely have a reply waiting, so I headed out to do what I needed to do, and even picked up a new doggie toy as a "welcome to your new home" gift for Max.

When I got home, I immediately checked Twitter, thinking that after a few hours, someone would DEFINITELY have responded. Nope. Nothing. And I was angry. I mean, did this place want their dogs adopted, or not?? I would think that, given the time sensitive nature of a shelter dog's situation, they would go out of their way to answer a person showing obvious interest, ESPECIALLY one willing to drive across FOUR states to pick the dog up!! 

I was bitching about it to a friend of mine (a cat person - ugh! *rolls eyes) who said "Who cares? Let the fucking dog die!" Nice. Leave it to a cat person to say something stupid. 

But, that phrase... "Let the dog die"... it rang a bell. Loudly. I knew I'd heard that phrase somewhere before, just couldn't put my finger on where. Something told me it was poker related. Hmmm... Where the HELL did I hear that?? Think, Kim, think... it'll come to you. After 5 minutes of attempted recollection, I gave up.

I again checked Twitter, and THIS time, there WAS a response from @PetsAlive, telling me to go to their website and fill out an application (which I did, so wish me and Max luck!!) but there was also a message from my pal Doyle Brunson, aka @TexDolly. Sadly, poker legend Amarillo Slim passed away on April 29; he and Doyle were very close friends.  Because people are, in general, human stains, there have been vicious rumors circulating about Amarillo Slim in the wake of his death - the things being said about him are so malicious in nature that I won't even dignify the bottomfeeders who are spreading these stories by going into specifics, but I'll tell you that the gist of Doyle's message to me was "He had his faults, but don't believe the shit people are saying about Slim".  Not to worry, sir, I don't.

BUT WAIT A SECOND!!! OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD... Doyle!!! THAT'S where I've heard the phrase "Just let the fucking dog die"!! YES!!! I knew it'd come to me somehow! There's a story in Doyle's book "Poker Wisdom Of A Champion" about that phrase!! Now... what the hell was that story about, again? If only my short term memory didn't fuck me in the ass on a regular basis, I'd be able to remember... Hmmm... Here we go again. Think, Kim, think. Oh, fuck this...  

I retrieved the book from it's spot on the shelf and proceeded to look for the story, and found it... right here on page 177. 

Weird how things come together, right? Right. Because on page 176, directly opposite of "Letting The Dog Die" is this picture, of Doyle & Amarillo Slim. The way Slim is posed, it's as if he's saying "Listen to THIS guy... He knows what he's talking about when it comes to what people are saying about me!"

The lesson here? Life is a bitch sometimes... but she does have her reasons. Pay attention when she speaks to you.

                                  

Rest in peace, Amarillo Slim.

Names Have Been Changed To Protect Stupid Motherfuckers...

For those of you who do that thing called.. um... sleep? Yeah, sleep. For those of you who do that, Happy Saturday! For me, it's still Tuesday, but I digress...

Last night, @Jennicide (aka "JAWS") (aka Jennifer Leigh) and I hung out for a while, ranting & raving and exchanging horror stories about drawing to 2 outs, bricking 26 outers, and not being able to fold. <--- All code phrases for other issues, but frankly, the real details are none of your fucking business. Anyhooooo... that bitch makes me laugh. She also makes me think. She gave me some food for thought, and I PIGGED OUT on it. (Thanks, JAWS... you're the best.)

While giving serious consideration to some of the things Jennicide suggested I consider, I was mindlessly going through old blog post drafts and stumbled upon this true story from about 2 summers ago. Reading it reminded me that I'm not exactly a stranger to making bad decisions... and what I (ding! ding! ding! *epiphany*) realized is that in life, just like in poker, even though surrendering sucks balls, you can save yourself a boatload of tilt if you muck your hand as soon as you know you're beat. And you know what sucks bigger and hairier balls than folding?? Drawing dead.

So without further adieu, here it is... the silly little story that will change my life from today forward. Enjoy!


Okay, kiddies... so at long last, here's my camping story - enjoy it. Or don't. Frankly, I'm way too hot to give a shit.

So as you all know, I had another one of my infamous "Who Is She Kidding, This Is Going To Be A Disaster" ideas... This one was entitled "Wouldn't It Be Great If We Went Camping - But Not Just Regular Camping. Wouldn't It Be Great If We Spent A Week In The Total Wilderness With Bears And Wolves And Who Gives A Shit That It's Been Raining For Nineteen Weeks Straight, This Is Gonna Be Awesome!"

Skipping the gristle and getting straight to the bone, it was by far one of my worst Great Ideas ever.... here's how it all went down:

My best friend, who from here forward shall be referred to as "Mr. Vagina", and I hit the road headed for Baldface Mountain in Maine. According to Mapquest, which from here forward shall be referred to as "The Website That Fucked Me Over", the distance to our destination was approximately 230 miles. Mr. Vagina and I calculated that the entire trip, including stops to eat and pee, should take no more than 5 hours. Awesome! We put the Eminem 'Relapse' CD in the stereo and set sail. Or set drive. You know what I fucking mean.



Putting all our trust in The Website That Fucked Me Over was my second most moronic idea of all time, because by following the directions they gave, we were taken so far off our course that we ended up arriving to the mountain 4 hours late. Guess what kids? 4 hours late translates to climbing a mountain (4400' elevation by the way), hiking a mile and a half deep into the forest and setting up a frigging tent in the dark. The pitch dark. The scary, deep in the woods, up in a fucking mountain, hey did I just hear a wolf howl, I can't see JACK SHIT type of dark. Yeah.

MUST...HAVE...FIRE.  Guess what kids? Can't make fire without wood. Guess what else kids?? Every piece of wood in the forest is wet. I manage to find a log that's only about 60% saturated and begin chopping with my itty bitty Playskool-esque hatchet and (no word of a lie) THREE HOURS later, I had managed to chop a tiny hunk out of my new arch nemesis, the damp log.

I threw my little hunk of wood into what Mr. Vagina claimed was our fire ring and told him to get the fire rockin'. An hour and a half later, Mr. Vagina still had not produced fire out of the fucking thing. His parents MUST be cousins, no? (Just FYI folks: this "fire ring" was actually 4 stones in a retarded semi circle... and by the way, that's what Mr. Vagina managed to accomplish during my three hours of hardcore wood chopping labor) So our first day ends in utter disappointment without fire. Oh, and did I mention we forgot to take the sleeping bags out of the car? No big deal though... I had a towel.

If I tell you every detail of the remainder of the trip, you'll be reading until Catholic priests stop playing slap and tickle with little boys, so let me just summarize from here on out:

Day #2

 
- wake up FREEZING under my towel blanket

- four more total hours wasted hiking back down and back up then back down and back up and back down mountain to the car in order to retrieve remaining   gear

- managed to get small fire lit - wood is still soaking wet

- attempt at making burgers failed (I knocked the grill grate over while fleeing prehistoric sized mosquito and burgers got ruined)

- stuck hot dogs on the end of sticks and ate those instead

- begin 2nd attempt at chopping firewood   (which comes to a screeching halt when I realize I've got five open blisters from Day 1's firewood chopping fiasco)

- hike back down mountain and drive 30 miles to buy firewood

- torrential rain starts at 6 pm and DOES NOT STOP

- decide to just go to sleep, telling ourselves "You know what? The hard part is over... our fun can start tomorrow."

Yeah.

- wake up in middle of night to sloshing sounds... tent is leaking

- turn on lantern... we're sitting in a 3 inch puddle

- sleeping bags and entire backpacks including clothing SOAKED

- thunder, lightening and rain does not let up

- Mr. Vagina huddles up in a corner of the tent while I bail out the water.     
  Laziness and homosexual tendencies - there's something penicillin won't cure
  in a fella, right Mr. Vagina???

Yeah. The hard part's over alright.

Day #3any future floods.

- Realizing I'm on my hands and knees covered in mud, bugs and sweat while Mr.Vagina is standing above  me in a squeaky clean rain slicker, I state the  obvious: "You're a fucking pussy, Mr. Clean... GET THE FUCK DOWN HERE  AND HELP ME WITH THIS DIGGING!!!!!"

- Mr. Vagina responds with "Every team has a laborer and an engineer. I'M THE  ENGINEER."

- I throw digging tool at Mr. Vagina and decide that I will poison him later.

- Rain stops FINALLY and Mr. Vagina gets a fire lit

- Successfully make burgers and dogs... eat like kings, laughing about the
  whole thing

- Hiked to a spot on Baldface Mountain called "The Emerald Pool"... Jumped off a 30 foot cliff into the natural spring. Had the time of my life until I realized Mr. Vagina had no intentions of jumping too. Jumped (solo) once more, forcing Mr. Vagina to stand on an adjoining cliff to snap the action shot. Decided this wasn't any fun without a jumping partner.

- Pissed, begin hiking back to site. Asked Mr. Vagina if he was afraid his tampon would have gotten wet if he had jumped. 

- Once back at site, I rolled a huge doob while Mr. Vagina got the fire roaring better than he had the whole trip... Sat back, smoked & watched the dancing flames.

- Begin hearing wolves howling...

- Howling seems to be coming from VERY VERY close proximity to site - start panicking

- Get ambushed by a spinning animal of unknown origin when it runs head first into our dining canopy

- Scream and run like little girls, never finding out what the animal was or  where it went.

- Paranoid for the next 2 hours, Mr. Vagina refuses to turn off blinding lantern so we can enjoy the campfire.

- I Finally convince Mr. Vagina to turn off said blinding lantern, but agree to let him scan the woods every 40 seconds with Bat Signal like flashlight.

- During one of his scans, Mr. Vagina jumps up and yells "IT'S RUNNING RIGHT AT US!"  but does not specify what is running at us or from which direction it is running. BY FAR THE SCARIEST MOMENT IN MY ENTIRE LIFE.


- Turns out Mr. Vagina is just a pink dress wearing pussy and it was nothing.

- We make S'mores and laugh about what a disaster this whole thing is.

- It starts to rain again and I'm not laughing anymore.

Day #4:

- Wake up realizing that I left my shoes outside the tent overnight and they are now a wading pool for mosquitoes.

- Put plastic bags over my feet and wear wet shoes anyway, risking the jungle  rot.

- Dry firewood is now wet because Mr. Vagina moved the tarp I had covering it.

- I throw marshmallow stick at Mr. Vagina, again reminding him of his mind blowing incompetence.

- Hike BACK DOWN mountain and make another 30 mile drive to get more dry firewood. Lug the 60 pounds of wood back up mountain.

- Slip on moss covered rock while lugging wood up mountain and sprain my right hand. In an attempt to rescue me from falling, Mr. Vagina falls as well, busting his shin wide open. Because of our injuries, it takes 3 trips to get the wood to the top of the mountain.

- Mr. Vagina tries and tries and tries but cannot get fire lit.

- I tell Mr. Vagina "I'm soooo glad you came - too bad your father did!" and storm off, announcing that I'm going home and leaving him there alone to become bear food.

- Got pissed because he wasn't scared even a little bit.... Decide I need to take a short walk to cool down. Grab my flashlight and head for the path.

- Come face to face on path with snarling animal, which I could only assume was a wolf. Turns out it was a dog, but snarling nonetheless... Dog shows it's teeth and inches toward me, I raise my Mag Light and ready myself to smash its head in.

- Dog's owner comes prancing around the bend in her fucking L.L. Bean gear and tells me "You need to stop shining the light in her eyes." IS SHE KIDDING ME???? I tell Captain Dumbcunt that her dog just came seconds from death and that she should really have it on a leash. Because I was feeling extra helpful in that moment, I also advised her to go eat a flaming bag of dicks.

- I skulk back to the site and tell Mr. Vagina to get packing... we have no choice but to just leave.

I'd rather swim in raw sewage than ever go camping again.

Want Some?

The Borgata Winter Poker Open starts Tuesday, January 17th with the $500 + $60 Deepstack event (half million guarantee). This is your last chance to lock up a piece of my action! $8 per 1%, people. If you're interested, email me at kimshannonpoker@gmail.com to discuss the details. GO ME!!! (Go us!!)

The Most Entertaining Poker Players To Follow On Twitter

Daily Douchebag Double Feature

Hi Kids! I've got a mixed bag today, and lots of shit to cover, so let's skip the gristle and get straight to the bone, shall we??

I'd like to announce the Douchebag Of The Day. Actually, make that a plural... "douchebagS".  I've got one for Halloween AND today.  So without futher adieu, here they are folks - all the way from a vaginal cleansing product factory somewhere in New Jersey or Michigan, your Daily Bags Of Douche:

Massengill Man # 1 - The creep who reached under my costume and grabbed my cat Halloween night.

Your name is unimportant, as is your entire existence, actually. Since I don't remember it, I have dubbed you "Mr. Rapey McViolater",  but ohhhhhhh;  you can bet your genetically inferior ass that I will never forget your fleshy, pink, and swollen face. I won't forget the sneer it wore when you attempted your charming little barside pelvic exam, but more than that, I'll always remember the way it scrunched up, all mongoose-like and pouty when you realized you were barking up the wrong tree. I think that moment must have come right after I said, "Listen, bitch. If you ever make the foolish decision to try and touch me again, EVER, I will shatter your fucking jaw. Are we clear, motherfucker? I'm not the one. Now GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME."  And you did, without a fight, which surprised me. Because I was preoccupied*, I put you in the back of my head, and even though I saw you at a couple of different places that night, I wasn't bothered by you in the least. The night went on without incident, and I managed to salvage my mood and enjoy Halloween.

At least for a couple of hours. BUT once a low-rent swine, always a low-rent swine, and true to your porcine nature, you went and shoved a forearm up my friend's skirt too.... I caught it out of the corner of my eye, and for a split second, I thought you were about to pull some kind of figure skating lift and twirl move out of your bag o' tricks, but sadly, you were simply fisting my friends box. You ARE quite the charmer, you.  Because my friend didn't blow her rape whistle or donkey punch you, I snapped a pic for posterity and kept my mouth shut.

(yes, I DID say "snapped a pic"... saving that tasty treat for later in the post)

Alas, the mouth can never stay shut for long, thanks to bottom-feeding cretins like you... When I realized it was YOUR headlights in my rearview mirror on the drive home from the last party, I knew it was time to sound off. And when I pulled into the parking lot where my friend's car was parked & you pulled in behind me, I knew it was time to mentally rehearse all those self-defense for women moves I've learned over the years. You fucking scared me, and I don't scare easily.  Hey - you gotta give me credit, I was straightforward & honest with you, remember? I told you "Listen, parasite... If my friend wants to talk to you tomorrow when she's sober, that's HER stupid decision - but right now, she's smashed, which means she's MY responsibility. I'm telling you LOUD AND CLEAR there's NO FUCKING WAY you're getting near her, so please exit... stage left even."  But you stood your ground and refused. I asked you again, this time getting out of my car to confront you. Any self-respecting douchebag would have been ultimately embarrassed by now & would have left. Not YOU, Mr. Duct Tape In The Trunk... Nooooooooo. I had to have one of my male friends physically threaten you to get rid of your lecherous ass. (BTW - you're "Pussy of the day" too.... ran like a little girl THEN, didn't ya?) I was so relieved to see you pull out of the lot that I almost peed.

And then I almost shit. You know when? OF COURSE YOU DO, you creepy fucking insect... I almost shit when we pulled around the back of the building to drop my friend off at his car. You know why? Again, OF COURSE YOU DO, you slimy predator... I almost shit because there you were, in the back lot, car running & headlights off, just WAITING for the 2 women to drop off their male friend. We KNOW what happened at THAT point... no need to rehash the ugly details. Bet you never plan another rape again, though, will ya? Freak.

For your ruthless stalking, undeterred violations of personal space and total lack of morals or social skills, you are THIS YEARS NUMBER ONE DOUCHEBAG. Your parents must be awfully proud. Oh - I almost forgot... I promised to show you what you look like when you're in "hunt" mode. So here's the lovely visual:

If this were me, I'd have kicked your teeth in... consider yourself lucky that my friend (the molestation victim above) didn't take your eyes out...

Oh - and as an added bonus, I have taken the liberty of tacking this to every telephone pole within a 5 mile radius AND in every ladies room I happen to visit. You're welcome.

Nobody, not even someone as altruistic and charitable as I am, relishes unsolicited drunken groping, especially yours. And you actually thought I'd be okay with this, or even ENJOY it? Ugh! What a self-righteous dickshaft.



Douchebag #2 -

You are a human stain... and since I don't remember your name either, I will refer to you you as THE STAIN.

You are the pathetic cunt who said this to me on Full Tilt Poker Monday night:
"I hope you get AIDS and cancer bitch."

Let me try and remember why you said that..... oh yeah - I REMEMBER NOW: I beat you out of a petty 450 dollar pot. Maybe you have some sand in your vagina, but buddy, it was A FIVE DOLLAR FUCKING BUY IN. What went wrong in your life that night?? Did you lose your favorite pink dress???

Cancer is not something to be thrown around so lightly - ask anyone who's had a mastectomy recently.

You need to take a long hard look in the mirror... a mirror doesn't lie. And lucky for you, it can't laugh either.

Pack up your eyeliner & get the hell outta my poker room...

The honor of Douchebag of the Day is awarded to the emo brat who has taken up residence in my favorite poker room. This mouthy little asshole just turned 21 two weeks ago, and has been standing on my last nerve ever since. I hate his attitude, I hate his style of play, I hate his voice and I hate his face. If there wasn't a rule against verbally attacking another player in the poker room, this is what I'd say to his smarmy little moon face:

Listen up you little punk... you don’t like me, and I’d rather date an amputee with chronic halitosis than deal with you. But seeing as how we share the same oxygen in the same poker room, and even though you are the CEO of FuckingAnnoying, Inc., I feel compelled to tell you a few things. I know you just turned 21, so you're still technically a "kid". I'm well aware that conventional standards dictate that you should be playing stickball and catching frogs, or something... what do normal kids your age DO, anyway??? But I’ve had it with you and your pissy attitude & horrific poker table etiquette. There are kids one quarter of your age making t-shirts in Malaysia. Why don’t YOU go out and get a job; make yourself useful. Cut my lawn. Wash cars. Pirate DVDs. Make me some fucking pants.

                               I win!! Just in time too... gotta hurry home to check my MySpace messages

While we're on the matter of clothing... what the fuck is your problem? How many shades of black can you possibly have? Did I miss the part of "Being Hardcore 101" that states, "The amount of black t-shirts with shitty band logos owned is directly proportional to the wearer’s intimidation factor"? I must have. Because even with your Cannibal Corpse tee and Valium-level Relaxed-fit jeans, you're still about as scary as a cartoon bunny riding a My Little Pony through a rainbow.

You know what IS scary, though? How much your parents are going to have to pay the shrink when you start screwing cats and taking apart the stereo to "stop the government from monitoring the tracking device in your penis." Or the lawyer's retainer when you start acting out because Daddy didn't nurture your sports skills and you didn't get to hang out with the jocks. Honestly asshole, even with a Hall of Fame coaching staff and his own stadium, Stephen Hawking (like you—minus the intelligence and good looks) would never make it to the big leagues. Some people were meant to play ball and others were meant to play WITH balls. You’re the latter. Deal with it, Queerbait. So you didn’t get to hang out with Joe Quarterback and bang the head cheerleader in your Mustang. WAAAAAAAAHHH. Cry me a fucking river. Does this mean you have to play poker? And more importantly, does this mean you have to play poker WITH ME?

Don’t give me the whole, “I'm not really the complete asshole I make myself out to be... there’s just so much pressure on young adults these days, man. You don’t get it.” Sorry that the huge burden of turning your parent's basement into your own little slice of heaven and living there for free IS SOOOOO unjust. You should probably freak out and burn the casino down, you little sociopath. I know it must be hard to learn any adult social skills... I mean, you don't have that kind of time, what with all your extra-curricular activities like MySpacing the shit out of Katie DiPastillo because Kurt Bradford said he touched her boobs UNDER the bra and playing micro stakes on Full Tilt Poker. Maybe you should spend a little less time being depressed and wearing mascara because its cool and jerking off to Hannah Montana.

Perhaps I’m being a bit optimistic, but I think you'd probably pass for a half decent poker player if you and the rest of the Shitstain Crew took a break from spray-painting your lame gang signs on the parking garage. Trust me, no one is concerned about your claimed turf, including the 1400 people that park there. If you want to boost your street cred, I'll be more than happy to drop you off in South Providence so you can get some pointers from the experts. If they don't make you an ashtray or a pin cushion for used needles, maybe you can get some wardrobe advice and career counseling. Sound good, Sport?

Although you’re going to continue to annoy the living piss out of me until you turn 25 or decide to permanently shut the fuck up, you do have some redeeming qualities... If I knocked you unconscious, I’m certain you’d do a bang-up job as a doorstop.

Please go make like a mime and bleed to death in my trunk.

Darwinism and Say Whaaaaattttt?

I am the kind of person who lives by the motto "I'll believe it when I see it".  Because of my limited range of trust, I have always been skeptical of the whole Jesus, Mary & Joseph thing. I never believed that Noah had a boat stuffed with animals, and I serious doubted that J.C. rose after 3 days... Even with the technological and medical advances we've made since then, we still can't manage to magically raise the dead. That's some David Blaine shit. The thing is, I may have discovered a hole in Darwin's theory of evolution by natural selection because there is absolutely no way that the guy I had the misfortune of meeting today online is of the same species as the rest of us. Sorry Charles - you fucked up and missed something - like I said, this guy can't possibly be of the same species. During a heated game of online poker at Full Tilt Poker , the aforementioned  cretin actually spewed this tidbit of verbal sludge - "Hey Danger, you're  pretty hot. Wanna meet in a private room and have a little fun?" 

Say whaaaaaaat?  

For those of you who aren't familiar with the site, this is what I look like on Full Tilt:

YUP.... I'm a friggin' cartoon character. A cute cartoon character, but a cartoon character nonetheless. There must be some kind of animation fetish that I'm not aware of... Ew. So when this caveman asks me if I'd like to meet in a private room, my first reaction is to throw up in my mouth a little bit. My second reaction is to consider the proposition. Would I like to meet him in a private room for some "fun"??  Hmmmm.....

No. Absolutely not. In fact, I can't think of anything I'd rather do less. 

I can, however, think of things I'd rather do more...

- I'd rather gargle with broken glass.

- I'd rather drink a tabasco and shit smoothie.

- I'd rather eat a popsicle made of hobo drool.

- I'd rather straddle a running sand belt.

- I'd rather watch Gary Busey dance in the nude.

- I'd rather try to stop a lawn mower blade with my tongue.

- I'd rather jump into a lion's den wearing a catnip suit.

- I'd rather fall asleep on a killer ant hill covered in kool aid.

So thanks to "creepy poker game guy", I guess I need to rethink my position on Darwinism.