MRF's First Poetry Slam Don't blame me. I just checked out this site. The resulting post came from my muse.

SUNY poets without jobs.
Dirty ripped jeans.
They’re such slobs!

Twenty stone lass reads her book.
I look around for the Gong Show hook.
Warbling love sonnet about her ass.
Forty stanzas later, I’d take the gas (pipe).

She can’t be that bad; surely I jest
I’ll quote her work as a test.

“I love my big fat rear. It’s where I poo.
I love its smell. And ask me if I care
If you hate its pimples, hair, star tattoo.
You can only hope (beg) to see it bare.”

Next writer for our enjoyment
Is some army man post deployment.
I really try to catch his vibe.
Too bad he’s such a shitty scribe.

Barking rhymes is his plan:
He screed begins: “Man!
You don’t understand!
You didn’t fight in Vietnam!”

Next up is a smelly sapphite.
Talking trash, spouting shite.
She hates men as it should be
Her looks will drive us up a tree.

She begins and ends with random words.
In between, she mouths turds.
“Lady.
Bug.
Razor.
Slit.
Hate.
Named for preconceived gender roles.
Revolution”

But none compare to our next wannabe.
He has nineteen years of life memory.
He isn’t aware of what he lacks
I’d like to hit him with a car jack.

He turns his baseball cap to face us.
His subliminal signal to get Ser-i-ous.
I start to rise, I can’t sit still.
I know should I stay I would kill.

As I rise, the screed begins.
An endless litany of social sins.
I look around for a baseball bat.
I should show junior where it’s at.

************************************

Until my muse strikes again, peace out.  ¶ 2:30 PM 0 comments

  A fan letter


  ¶ 1:24 PM 4 comments

  Taking One Since I was thirteen years old, every time we played McGowan Hardware, Terry would pitch. And every time he pitched, I got plunked. That works out to two times a season and three seasons, six bean balls. One pitch got me in the shoulder, one in the thigh, three to the back, and finally, the topper to my ass. It was bad enough that the guy was successfully throwing at me but, he threw the baseball as only adolescent Cro-Magnons could. “Hulk throw ball. Crush puny human head,” I thought I heard him rumble more than once from the mound. As luck would have it, he missed me once. The ball sailed about six inches over my head, hit the plank board backstop on the fly, leaving a three inch dent there. I knew this because, as our catcher, I inspected the wall between innings.
I found it hard to think that Terry felt some deep seated hostility towards me. In the three years we spent at Cohunk Intermediate Baseball League, we may have exchanged eight and one half words (grunts count fractionally). Standing at first rubbing my thigh, back or ass, I would ponder the mystery. I would stand there waiting for the coach’s sign, which seldom came, to steal second against the vaunted McGowan Hardware nine. Maybe I breached some baseball etiquette. Perhaps I forgot to shake his hand after they shellacked our team again. Could the hostility stem from butting the hot dog line? Was I too tall? Too short? Not worthy to be on the field? I had no idea. The only certainty was that I should never, ever dig into the batter’s box when facing Terry Bove.
Indeed I am no angel. More than occasionally I considered letting my bat “slip” in Terry’s general direction. Reasoning, or so I thought, that my flying aluminum Adirondack would be construed as a defensive measure against more talented and hostile adversaries. However, more fearful and judicious voices in my head restrained me.
A cinch for last place, our team, “Mabel’s Sundries,” entered my last year of organized baseball by meeting very low expectations. Two men in scoring position and no outs, there they stayed until the end of the inning. A pop out to shallow left field turned into a double as the fly ball would fall between the shortstop and outfielder who subsequently fought over who would throw the ball back into the infield. I too made remarkable mistakes, both at the plate and behind it. While my .222 average was mediocre in anyone’s book, my .432 strike out average opened many eyes to my true putridity. When Ricky Mason, the amazing limping first basemen for the opposing Berdar’s Bakery, tried to steal second in our first meeting of the season, I managed to bounce my throw before it reached the pitcher’s mound. I outdid myself the next week by hitting the batter’s club with an errant throw to third. These plays and others less ridiculous are recorded in my mind’s highlight reel. From time to time, I review them and vomit.
You might expect a more understanding and grounded adult manager would find some humor in our baseball escapades. There might be such a man. A man with beautiful wife and two happy kids. He enjoys his work and attends church every Sunday. He’s a Boy Scout headmaster that no one thinks anything but wonderful about him. Alas, Don Sanders was not him. Coach Sanders was former semipro standout who settled down, got a job, and had a family. He was in his mid-forties, yet maintained many of the abilities which made his glory days, well, glorious. Standing about 5 foot 10 inches, his shoulders almost managed to be as wide as he was tall. Popeye would envy this man’s forearms. They were massive; I could see him ripping the top off a can of spinach. His legs were just bigger versions of his arms. Don’s kid was on the team and lacking his father’s gifts, I imagined Dad coached Mabel’s with the hope that he could get Donny Jr. some playing time. Unfortunately, our pathetic play proved that there were bigger fish to fry.
By the third week of the season, Coach Sanders had seen enough. After another inevitable and yes, ignominious blowout, he held a meeting after the game. His face burned with shame and the clenched tendons in his neck told our team that now would not be an excellent time for levity. We gathered in the dugout with heads hung low in disgust. Standing at its entrance, Coach Sanders gripping the roof with his great ape arms and began his speech.
“We’re going to have practice on Memorial Day. Be there or hand in your uniform now. Our play is like crap and I don’t want to manage a team that doesn’t want to get better. We will have batting and infield practice, but mostly we are going to work on fundamentals. That means hitting the cutoff man, getting in front of the ball, making strong throws, and basically, changing our attitude towards this game. I can’t take it anymore boys. We are a laughingstock and I’ll be damned if that will continue. See you on Monday at 11 sharp.”
Sheldon Lisp, our starting right fielder, thought this was a good time to manage the manager’s schedule.
“My mom and her boyfriend wanted have a cookout Monday. Is it ok if I leave practice early?”
While twelve pairs of his teammates’ eyes peered at Sheldon with incredulity, Sanders, expecting some lame excuses, fired back calmly and evenly.
“Sure, Shelly. You can leave early. You can leave right now. But, please don’t bother coming back. Oh, and by the way, could you take some of the boozers, potheads, and girl chasers with you? I am sure your Mommy has a few extra wienies for your friends that don’t want to play better.”
And at that debate ended. The following Monday practice was full of griping young men. Resigned to my fate, I took my position behind the plate for batting practice. Before I could get into a squat, Sanders barked out: “No, uh-uh, we are not hitting yet. Coach Stram will conduct infield practice for the next hour. Get to your positions. Coach Stram, if anyone of our lovelies doesn’t get in front of a ball or doesn’t hit the cut off or doesn’t call for a fly ball, make him run a lap around the field. Another lap every time he does it. If he drops while running laps, leave him where he lies.”
Turning to me he barked “Catcher’s practice is in the bullpen. Bring your gear and I hope you wore your cup today.”
Thankfully, I had.
Watching Coach grab a bucket of balls, he strides over to the bullpen. It was then I remembered that Coach Gargantua used to pitch semipro. Putting two and two together, I cursed my fate and shambled along behind him.
“All right. We are going to practice digging balls out of the dirt. Get your mask on and get behind the plate,” he recited his request, expecting no complaint. Taking my punishment like a man, I gave him none.
The first pitch was a hard “12 to 6” curve about a foot wide of the plate. It bounced about five feet in front of home and to my right. Since I was leaning on my haunches, I offered a very feeble glove move to block the ball. Coach Sanders yelled “Don’t relax back there. Get on the balls of your feet and move your ass!”
The next pitch was much the same only to my glove hand. In response, I tried to “Ole” the pitch. Ole was trying to catch the ball by waving your glove towards the ball similarly to how a matador waves the cape at a bull and precisely the habit Sanders was trying to break. “One more wave at the ball and you will be running a very long time. Get in front of the pitch.”
Next came the fastball. Ninety miles an hour, right in front of me, and airborne for fifty feet. The ball hit a rock in the bullpen and bounced over my glove into the chest protector. I felt a direct hit to my solar plexus. I fell forward, gasping for air. The ball, miraculously, stayed in front of me.
My coach offered the following praise, “Nice job. That’s what I’m talking about. Here comes the next one.”
And so it went. After half an hour, I thought he had enough and we would move on to some skills training. That’s when Coach Sanders managed to squeeze a low hard one between my thighs, pass my cup, and into my prized family jewels. When the stars cleared, I heard him say, not very concernedly, “You all right?” Since the searing pain prevented any communication on my part for a minute, I assumed my position. I can’t be sure, but I thought I heard him say “Good man.”
After another half hour, we stopped. While we gathering the stray balls about the bullpen and I appraised my various bruises, he muttered to me. “Look, the other kids look up to you. You have to make an effort or this whole team is going down the shitter. You did well towards the end. Use your quickness to stop the passed balls. Anymore catching balls with one hand and we’re going to have to do this again. Understood?”
I was tired and a little embarrassed by the need for Coach’s special attention. In his own way, though, we both knew that this was his peace offering. If I agreed to play harder, he would stop breaking my back. With a little luck, he believed, we could make our team a little more than cannon fodder for the rest of the league. Beaten like a rented mule, I considered the alternatives and said “OK.”
Practice was only beginning. For our next exercise, Coach gathered the team, save Jimmy Beales and myself, at first base. Jimmy was sent to second and I was behind the plate. Before he went to the mound with his bucket of balls, he left me with some words of advice. “Look, you have to stop thinking about your throws. Just get up and throw the ball. Honestly, you can’t do any worse. You’re already starting to worry about your them. How you’re gonna be embarrassed in front of your friends. How your dad is going to hate you. How the girls wont think you’re cool. Knock it off. Just throw the ball to second.”
The session began unmiraculously. My first five throws were wide left from two to three feet. After the next throw sailed over Jimmy’s head, I bounced five more ten feet in front of the bag and into right center field. Red with rage and shame behind the plate, I tried to settle myself down. And there, in the middle of all my anger and embarrassment, I had an epiphany. A little nugget of truth covered in batter box slop:
“Who fucking cares?”
And I paused for a moment to mull over my deep thought. What in God’s name do I care what my moronic teammates think? In a couple of weeks, I’ll never see them again. Hidden from their derision through no proximity, what I should be worrying about is how best to intimidate these guys and how to end this particular drill. Quickly, I strategized. Given my current state of mind, some action utilizing my hostility would probably work best. In that moment, I stopped worrying about what these losers thought and I began to visualize throws bouncing off their heads…one at a time.
On the next pitch, my throw reached second on the fly, on time, but just a little high. I darkly grimaced behind the plate. The next throw was on the money. Runner is out. And so was the next. And the next. Feeling the rhythm of Coach’s pitches and the runner’s break for second, I could get out of my stance and unload each throw quicker than its predecessor. Even errant throws, by the end of the drill, were getting the runners because: one, they weren’t that errant; two, I was giving Jimmy plenty of time to adjust to a less than perfect throw. Eventually the rhythm became mindless, receive pitch, out of stance while getting ball from glove, cock my arm and unload. Again and again.
“Whatever the hell you’re doing back there, keep doing it,” Coach Sanders said. Artful encouragement from an artful man.
“Not a problem, Coach,” I tried to say without my anger.
“Get in the outfield for batting practice,” Coach bellowed from the mound.
From left field, I watched my teammates hit. Occasionally, a ball would make its way out to me but I was mostly occupied with thoughts of how best to stop these drills from ever occurring again. I stood out there and let my rage roll over me: rage at myself for getting in this predicament, rage at my teammates for their crummy play, but mostly rage at my opponents, rage for those bastards who think they can roll right over my team. They think I’m their patsies. They think we have no pride. Well, the other teams are screwed. Let them ridicule Mabel’s. Let them say anything they want about our play. But God help them if they try to steal. And have mercy on their souls if they lose their helmet in the process.
Our next game was Berdar’s again, with Donny Jr. on the mound no less. I am sitting behind the plate as the game starts grimly determined to collect payment from those attempting to steal on Donny’s weak stretch delivery. When the first two batters made out, I thought I would have to wait until the next inning to unleash my fury. But Ricky Mason, with his uncanny leaden legs, walked on four pitches. I go out to the mound to talk to Donny.
With my mask still on, I say “Donny, don’t pitch from the stretch. And fire the first one right down the middle.”
“No way. My old man will kill me,” Donny whispers, ever the courageous one.
“Look, I have a plan. Just hurry up and throw me a fastball, then a pitch out.”
“You think old lead ass on first is going?” Donny caught on.
“He will if we ask him to.” I left the mound.
Donny waited for me to get behind the plate before he set for the pitch. With the batter in place, he threw with a full windup before anyone realized what he was doing. Strike one. The first complaints came from our dugout.
“Donny, what the hell are you doing? You have a man on first. Pitch from the stretch or you’ll be in right field faster than you can say ‘Dad, I hate baseball.’” Coach Sanders yelled and, in the outfield, Shelly’s heart skipped a beat.
I threw the ball back to Donny and the batter got in the box. Immediately, Donny stepped on the rubber and prepared to pitch full wind up again. I smiled from behind my mask and watched ambulatory impaired Ricky take off on Donny’s first movement. Without looking, Donny fired three feet wide of the plate where I waited. Ricky hadn’t reached the midway by the time I threw to second. Before he was ten feet from the bag, Jimmy was waiting for him with the ball. The inning was over.
Donny and I entered the dugout together. From the third base coaching box, Sanders promised us endless days filled with hundreds of laps if we didn’t start listening to him. I kept my head down and smiled.
The game was tight for a couple of innings, but Mabel’s would not be denied. It seemed that my rage infected the rest of the team. It was as if, collectively we surmised our opponents’ ability and desire as slightly more pathetic as our own. And, as you know, once you reach that understanding, there is nothing to do but the lay the hammer down on your competition. Our box score became littered with decent plays and some timely hitting. For the first time that I could remember I had no passed balls, three assists, and two hits. The final score: Mabel’s 6, Berdar’s 3.
After the game, there was no post mortem, no skull session following ignominious defeat. Sanders just told us we did well and we should continue to focus on those things that led to our victory. That was easy. In two short days we faced McGowan again…with Terry Bove on the mound.
Our lineup remained the same except that Jimmy and Donny would switch positions. Jimmy Beales was one of the best players in the league and gave our team a marginal winning chance with his pitching, despite the talent letdown of Donny at shortstop. I am not sure if the Berdar’s win made my teammates a tad delusional or if the stark reality of our plight made gallows comedians of us all, but the mood in the dugout was jovial. The other Mabel’s players optimistically thought that perhaps, just perhaps, lightning would strike twice and we could win. Maybe this was the start of a new, brighter, winning era for the league punching bags.
In the top of the first, I got to bat with no one on and two out. Stepping into the batter’s box, I already new what was in store for me. I stepped lightly. The first pitch zipped right over the outside corner. Strike one. I was unfazed. Terry couldn’t resist. His second pitch hit me square in the back.
I didn’t flinch.
I didn’t look at the mound.
And I sure as hell didn’t rub my back. I took my base and planned.
In some other world, maybe fifteen year old baseball players act like they know less than their coaches. A more effective and less fun world, it must be. I stood on first and looked at Coach Sanders. With Jimmy at the plate, he didn’t waste anytime with signs. I would not be stealing. Or so he thought. I thought I would give Jimmy two pitches.
At 2 and 0, I took off. McGowan’s catcher had no chance. Terry had bounced a curve in the dirt and I stole second, standing up. The 3-0 pitch was a fastball that Jimmy fouled directly behind him. From second, I watched Terry set for the stretch pitch, pretending to peer in at the catcher’s signs. I can’t be sure but, I think I saw sweat on Bove’s brow.
With the count 3 and 1 with two out, conventional wisdom dictates that runners on second not try to be heroes this early in the game. I had different scores to settle. Not even bothering to look at Sanders, I took off for third. The pitch hit the inside corner and I was safe by a mile. While I was dusting myself off, Coach said, “Do that again and you’re sitting.”
“Won’t happen again,” I smiled. “I think I have their attention though.”
“Don’t screw up.”
“C’mon Jimmy. Knock me in, man.”
Nowadays, you can pay big money in consultant fees in order to learn how to relax. In that moment, I think Jimmy and I reached a mutual understanding that when you have nothing to lose, the job at hand becomes much easier. Given prevailing opinion, we were expected to fail. How nice it was to see our opponents, the guys who couldn’t be bothered with our pesky presence, shouldn’t be concerned with our crappy team, become a little worried. It was in that moment that I learned that even the most accomplished amongst us might wilt under a little bit of pressure.
Terry fired a fastball down the middle of the plate and Jimmy deposited it over the left field fence.
Of course our story does not end there. There wasn’t much more scoring; Terry settled down and McGowan managed to squeek a run. At the end of five and a half innings, we led 2 to 1.
Jimmy pitched a pretty good game but our opponents were beginning to catch up to his fast ball. Their first two batters lined out sharply to left and center. With two out, they sent up my nemesis. Terry Bove relaxed at the plate. He didn’t look at me or the people in the stands. He just watched Jimmy, imagining the next pitch. I figured we would start him off atypically with a curve in the dirt. Jimmy missed but Terry didn’t. That curve landed on the center field fence and Terry stopped running at second.
Next to the plate was McGowan’s first baseman, Jack Watson. On the very first pitch, Jack screamed a shot past Donny into short left field. And the next few seconds I remember as if it happened today.
Three...
On the sound of the bat, Terry took off. He rumbled halfway to third as the ball zipped by Donny. From my vantage point, I could see he intended to round third. By the time our left fielder threw, Terry was rounding the bag.
I begin to see the short term future. If Donny cleanly retrieves the ball and realizes Terry is on his way to home, he quite possibly could throw home. I throw my mask aside and wait for the throw to get into the infield. It’s only moments…
Two…
Terry rounds third without looking, he is headlong for the plate. He doesn’t acknowledge anything but the current mission, score. And if that means Hulk must crush some puny human (that would be me, folks), so be it. Donny fields the ball cleanly and I don’t even wait for him to assess the situation. At the top of my lungs I cry out “Don, get it home.” I make sure I am blocking the plate.
Don turns and realizes the magnitude of the moment. Without hesitation he responds like a seasoned pro. He fires a seed at my chest…
One…
Terry is ten feet from me. He is running hard and heedlessly. He is ready to bowl me over. In his eyes, I am not another guy, someone you might share a joke with or a beer.. I am an obstacle to be overcome, or in this case, flattened. He lowers his shoulder and I finally, finally, finally, after three long years, dig in on Terry Bove. Because today kiddies,
I already have the ball.
Zero
Jammed in my glove and protected with my right hand, I tag at Terry as he lowers the boom. His shoulder meets my jaw while my hands, arms, and torso push him off the base path. We land in a crumpled heap in front of, but not touching, home plate.
Standing up first, my first, my only concern, is the umpire. What’s the call, man? He’s looking at me and waiting. I realize he doesn’t see the ball and I know I’m home free. Holding it now with my thumb and forefinger, I show the blue suit that I never, ever, intended to drop that ball.
“You’re out!”
I wish I could say the crowd went wild. Perhaps they did. They should have. It must have been a hell of a show. Nonetheless, I was only interested in slapping hands with my fellow Mabel’s morons. We did it. We showed those opposing jackasses that we can’t be trifled with. It’s Miller Time Everybody!
They talk about men who share foxholes and K rations form brotherly bonds. I never served our country and the only thing I know of that approximates that feeling may be that night. We were shamed and ridiculed and finally, redeemed together. I will remember each of my teammates, my brothers in athletic shame, for the rest of my life. Even Shelly Lisp.
The celebration on the field eventually ran out of gas. As was the custom, we crossed the field for our usual after game ritual: the handshake. Walking over, I felt Terry owed me some answers. I mean, it was three years of hell, what was his reasoning. When I got to Terry, I had to ask:
“Terry, good game. Why do hit me with a pitch every time we play?”
“I do?”  ¶ 2:51 PM 2 comments

  On Tuesday Afternoon

It’s Tuesday afternoon, around two, and the heat from the window units and the winter sun blasting through the blindless windows, beat me into submission. I sit at my desk and count the forty-first drop of sweat running down my brow. My shirt is ruined. My previous efforts at manipulating the window heaters were futile. I am too tired to even try now. Running a sleeve over my forehead, the back of my hand measures my brain’s temperature. I am burning up. Her phone rings in the next cubicle and my thoughts are fever dreams.

Whose muffled voice is on the other end? No, wait a minute, I think she’s speaking. What is the big secret? Drowsy, I focus on my spreadsheet. Ten seconds later, my head reels from a number jumble. Heat calls me to sleep and my eyelids flutter shut. I am going down, just for a minute, I’m sure.

Did she just say my name?!

Now I’m awake and listening. Indiscernible words frustrate me. Bending my head forward, towards her cubicle wall, my thoughts twirl in a whirlwind of secret agents and paranoia.

“The answer to your question is yes.”

What was that? What did she just say? Who the hell talks like that?

There was a time when she just started, I tried to be nice. One Friday, some of us were headed out for a beer after work. Asking her if she would like to join, her one word answer was “No.” Not “No, thank you.” Not “I’m sorry but I am meeting my boyfriend for dinner.” Back then I pegged her as simply odd. Did she think I was putting a move on her? Does she want to keep her work and personal worlds separate? Does my breath stink? Finally, I chalked it up to her social retardation.

Similarly, I asked her a question a few minutes ago. She was whispering on the phone then too. She held up one finger in my direction so, I waited at my desk, unsuccessfully maintaining conciousness. It’s getting too late to get back to me dear. I think about going without her but I figure that would be rude. I wait for her to poll her constituency telephonically. What does he want? Be leery of him. He only wants you for your body, money…Anybody’s guess.

The functional design dances on my desk, trying to grab my eye. I consider opening it and giving it a once over. It’s too damn hot and I can’t be bothered working, so damn tiresome. Better left for a day when I am not so irritable.

Receiver lands in its cradle quietly as if she doesn’t want to betray her conversation. That rouses me. May we get on with it now honey? I wait a second then three hundred more.

My head lowers to my chest. In a moment, there will be no denying sleep. That is when her chair moves. Quiet footsteps herald her approach.

“Hey, what’s up?” So she hadn’t heard my question.

“The heat’s putting me to sleep. Would you like to get a Coke?”

“Never drink the stuff. Enjoy though.”

Denied company again, this sad, friendless office drone enjoys his cold caffeine alone.

  ¶ 3:17 PM 7 comments

  First Rule of M80 Club: There is no M80 Club Watching TV with my son yesterday, I turn on the 24 hour news station. It's a normal holiday. Light on the real news, the crews travel to Troy to get the lowdown on any Fourth of July scofflaws. I quote the local constabulary:

Troy Cop: Yeah, it's gonna be a long night. We'll be chasing kids of all ages 'til midnight and then some. Yeah, it'll be rough but you gotta remember we're acting in the public's safety whether they know it or not. You don't got to be a rocket scientist or nothing. All you gotta do is take a couple of probability courses down at the University at Albany and you'll know all you need to know: Light up enough firecrackers and you're bound to blow your FUGGIN arm off!

And there you have it from Mr. Safety himself. All you need to know.

I trust none of my readers blew a fuggin limb off yesterday. Have a nice rest of the weekend.
  ¶ 12:26 PM 3 comments

  Reply To All To: MrFriendly@MrFriendlyInc.com, MrFriendlyClient@Client.com, MrFriendlyClientSupervisor@Client.com, MrFriendlyClientManager@Client.com,
MrFriendlyClientDirector@Client.com

From: LowlyITTrash@Client.com

Subj: Your most recent screw up

Dear Mr. Friendly Sir,
Your latest database design has many flaws. I have doubts with respect to and regarding implementation of your schema change in database CLIENT1. PLEASE CHANGE AT YOUR EARLIEST CONVENIENCE!!!

Hoping to correct your flawed thinking,
Lowly IT Trash

Ummmm, ok. Today, class we discuss the most egregious problem with the email above. Let’s begin with a multiple choice test:

Is the most egregious problem?
a.) Pidgin English
b.) Failure to describe problem.
c.) The assumption that your humble correspondent is responsible for unspecified problem.
d.) All of the above

Take your time, I’ll wait.

If you said, “e.) The Mofo just emailed my entire supervisory team,” you would be correct. This mode of correspondence is rife with problems. I will try to list them here:
1.) It alerts my client that I may not be, Horrors!, perfect.
2.) It shows these same people that you are not an English wordsmith. Fortuitous enough, that is not my problem.
3.) It opens the door for the old “REPLY TO ALL” rebuttal, which I am quite skilled.

To: : LowlyITTrash@Client.com

CC: MrFriendlyClient@Client.com, MrFriendlyClientSupervisor@Client.com, MrFriendlyClientManager@Client.com,
MrFriendlyClientDirector@Client.com

From MrFriendly@MrFriendlyInc.com

Re: Your most recent screw up
LITT,
Not quite sure which problem you indicate. Please elucidate.
Yours in Christ,
MRF

Note class, my effective use of the open ended follow up. The more rope I give the mope, the better he might hang himself. The reply to this email is not significant. Suffice it to say that we go back and forth like this for a couple of days only to find out that my learned colleague failed to check his facts.

I point this out for one reason only. When composing your screed detailing your officemates’ deficiencies, you may not want to share that with management. My reasoning is, of course, bulletproof.

Suppose you are wrong. Do I really need to detail how your managers will now sympathize with your adversary? Or how they will reevaluate their opinion on your interpersonal and technical skills? Do I? I’m asking the questions here? ANSWER ME!

This works in everyday life too. Suppose you receive the following email:

To: Joan@yahoo.com, Bridget@gmail.com, Tony@somecompany.com, AlphabetSoup@earthlink.net, mrfriendlyalb@yahoo.com, dralan@healthco.org,
Tanya@someschooldistrict.com, mykidsaremylife@nys.org, ihatetheworld@ymail.com,
Ireallyjusthateyou@ymail.com, Mom@hometownemailservice.com, Mary@gmail.com

From: SomePainInTheArse@gmail.com

Subj: New Email Address

To all,
Please note my new email address. Take a moment to update your address books. You may also reach me at
HOME: 888-xxx-xxxx
OFFICE: 888-xxx-xxxx
CELL: 888-xxx-xxxx

Or if you feel like writing,
OFFICE EMAIL: SomePainInTheArse@myoffice.com

Please respond to this email so I can rest easy tonight knowing that all my friends know I changed my email address.

Needfully yours,
Some Pain In The Arse

All right nothing odd here except the strange request for a response. That’s probably the source of another post. Let’s get to the reply I got this morning.

To: SomePainInTheArse@gmail.com

CC: Joan@yahoo.com, Tony@somecompany.com, AlphabetSoup@earthlink.net, mrfriendlyalb@yahoo.com, dralan@healthco.org,
Tanya@someschooldistrict.com, mykidsaremylife@nys.org, ihatetheworld@ymail.com,
Ireallyjusthateyou@ymail.com, Mom@hometownemailservice.com, Mary@gmail.com

From: Bridget@gmail.com

Re: New Email Address

Dear Pain In The Ass,
Thanks for the note. How do you like gmail? I simply love it! Please write back and let me know.
I am always thinking of you.
Love,
Bridget.

Stop. Right. There.

Now we all make mistakes. Since 5:45 this morning, I have 32. But, but, but…no big mistakes. No snipping the blue wire when I meant to cut the green wire, no calling the wife by the wrong name, and certainly no mash notes to former or current lovers posted to 467 of my best friends. With that in mind, I feel empowered to share the following bits of wisdom.

A.) 1.) a.) iv.) Always, always…ALWAYS check who will receive your letter of love.
B.) 234.) z.) mcmvxxxii.) Pain In The Ass may wish to reconsider his/her relationship with Bridget. I mean, come on, would you share a bed or a joke with Bridget.

That is all. No need to reply.  ¶ 9:26 AM 0 comments

  Me Dear Sainted Mother Another story refused from some godforsaken flash fiction site. What the h*ll do they know?
--MRF


“Oooohhh, I guess I’ll go to da store meself,” moaned Mrs. O’Leary. “Too bad dough, cause me corns are killing me weary feet. Oooooh, how I wish my children loved me more than they do. Oooohh, ohhh, oooo. Me poor feet.”

Tom O’Leary rolled his eyes. So practiced he was at this he thought he could spin his orbs in their sockets. Too impatient to try today, he answered his mother. “Mom, what do you need from the store? I’ll go get it.”

“Ooooohhhh, don’t bodder yourself Tommy. I’ll eat da dog food here. Not that Fagin is going to need it anymore since you put ‘im down. What is it dat you said he had?”

“Rectal cancer Mom. Jesus, I’ve told you that a million times! You can remember ass cancer, can’t you?” He was here five minutes and losing his grip. He needed to get out of this house. Now. “Do you have a grocery list Mom?”

Mrs. O’Leary nodded towards the refrigerator. “Ooohhh, don’t go taking the Lord’s name in vain in me house Tommy. He may strike you down and take da house and me wit’ you. And tank you so much for going to the store Tommy. If I was to wait on your ten brothers and sisters, the police would be finding an old skeleton stuck to the recliner come this spring. Oh, and remember the Lactaid. Regular milk gives me da runs.”

Tom, retrieved the list and, with his back facing his mother, rolled his eyes one more time. It felt like his corneas would touch his optic nerve. He said nothing.

Trudging through the snow, Tom got nearly everything his Mom wanted from Coccas Corner Store. It was snowing like a bastard, maybe two inches an hour. Lugging four stacked and packed bags through hellish weather made Tom’s walk home ponderously plodding. That was all well and good, less time spent with the old bat. Since he was doing chores for her, his venial resentment wouldn’t need mention at confession this week. He walked home thanking God for the opportunity to offer his suffering up and dreams of sunny climes.

From a block away, Tommy could see his mother, bad feet and all, shoveling the walk in front of the house. Under his breath, he raced through an act of contrition until his rage subsided. He wished his eyes would stop throbbing.

“I was just clearing a path for you, Tommy. God knows I don’t want you to slip and fall,” she fretted. “How would you work if you were laid up for who knows how long? Ever since that, forgive me Mary Mother of Jesus, that bitch left, you have no one at home to look after you.”

She put down her shovel and followed him into the house. Tom’s eyes felt as if someone lashed them with barbed wire. Mrs. O’Leary’s coat wasn’t off when she said “Oooh, you didn’t forget the tea now, did you?”

The one thing Coccas didn’t have. Tom closed his eyes and counted to ten. “We can have coffee Mom,” he offered, hoping that caffeine might relieve his pain.
“Oh oh oh, I don’t have any of that either,” she moaned.

“I’ll ask the Marinellis if we can borrow some.”

“Those garlic eaters won’t give you nuttin’. Better to go wit’ out. I won’t drink it if you get it.”

“I think you might Mom. I’ll make it the way you like it. You’ll feel better.”

Returning from the neighbors, Tom hurriedly made sure his mother was comfortable, brewed the coffee, and downed two extra-strength ibuprofen. After serving her, he waited for her inevitable nod off.

Mr. Marinelli found the martyred Mrs. O’Leary’s stockinged legs sticking up from a snow bank in her back yard two weeks later. The police immediately suspected Tommy and began their search. Tommy, clever boy, figured the authorities would never find him in the Grand Caymans. And even if they did, a local priest guaranteed that God absolves guilt. All Tom had to do was ask. He did that and Tommy knew he was forgiven because his eyes never bothered him again  ¶ 1:15 PM 0 comments

  This is not a Poker Blog If you are pot committed before you look at your cards, should you even bother taking a peek?
--MRF


I have no idea where the BigMan lives. For the purposes of this recap, that is a good thing. TheHost doesn’t know either and that’s a bad thing, he’s driving. Good thing MarkyMark navigates, although my faith in him is waning. He seems a little sketchy on the details.

“Yeah, this turn, take a left…I think.”

And so it goes. The return of the Colonie Three. Totally clueless and ready to tilt.

The BigMan has a lovely home, lovely wife, lovely kids. Unfortunately, my story isn’t about them. I could cobble seven hundred and fifty words together about domestic bliss but it wouldn’t ring true. I mean, for the moment, this here space is a poker blog.

Shall we get to it?

Deciding whether or not to call Mr. Vegas’ push on your big blind while your humble correspondent is the short stack doesn’t even rate as a bibliographical reference to the index of a footnote in the big book of human history. Unfortunately for you, dear reader, that is what this post is about. After putting up my blind, about two thirds of my stack, I mistakenly looked at my cards. Looking was incorrect because it took Vegas’ all of about two heartbeats to bet the rest of my stack. Immediately I saw the idiocy of my action but I went into the tank anyways, trying to think my way through. When Vegas got called, I stopped thinking.

My cards are irrelevant. It doesn’t matter. I could be holding 7-2 offsuit and it would pay (in the sense that statistics and probability make sense) to play. I could play the board, I could play the hammer, it didn’t matter. I am getting over 5 to 1 for the rest of my chips. The clarity of pot odds chased out my trepidation. The apprehension from knowing what I held in my hand and the implicit probability (near 0) of a win, simply disappeared. Sometimes though, it makes sense to chip up irrespective of your cards. Ask the FlyingDane, he knows all things about sucking out and imputed, imperfect, improbable pot odds. I go all in, baby. What do I hold? The most fearsome cards in hold ‘em, the lauded hammer, 7-2 offsuit.

I am out in a flash. But I did the right thing. The problem with my game was that I got caught in the bind in the first place. That is today’s lesson kids: Don’t let the blinds get you or rather, don’t get bent because the structure of the tournament caused your downfall. That is the way cookie crumbles.

Big fun at the table anyways. The twenty man tourney split into two tables. My table consisted of the following ten people: theHost, WallyBall, me, Foley, and 5 people I never saw in my life. Host, Wally, and I are seated at one end; the end where the yakking never stops. To my tablemates from game one, if you want us to shut up, deal us hole cards that might stand up to a suited 9-6. Otherwise, your auditory bombardment continues unabated. I must confess that I was the worst perpetrator. Sorry, it’s hard to see 4-2, 8-3, A-2, K-5, 10-7,…and not get disgusted with poker and people. Now hobbling me with stoicism will not stand.

Someone has to speak truth to power.

Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah, Vegas bounced me from Game 1. That’s when the BigMan flayed my dignity by making me the banker for Game 2.

I’ll try to get to that story shortly. It has a very, very happy ending.  ¶ 1:13 PM 0 comments