Thanks, pt, but I still say that I've caused more coffee to be spilled than the Chef ever though about making finger cakes for.
:
Not necessarily the Sunday Funnies
- Thread starter pt109
- Start date
Thanks, pt, but I still say that I've caused more coffee to be spilled than the Chef ever though about making finger cakes for.
:
Thanks, pt, but I still say that I've caused more coffee to be spilled than the Chef ever though about making finger cakes for.
It's true...you owe me three keyboards. :angry:
...but every once in a while, you'll be tossing that golf club also.
Rodney Dangerfield.....harassed by a heckler....."Whaddiya do for a living?'
Rodney..."I get dates for your sister." :grin:
Here's a post from another forum....I think it's terrific.
..gonna go back and search for the author's moniker....eventually.
I'd be nice if he visits AZ and introduces himself...
Don't be so jaded, you guys...what did you see when you started playing?
...lifted from Reddit
................................................................................
This might sound insincere or even facetious, but it is anything but... If anything, what I'm about to say comes from envy more than anything else: Enjoy this phase of your game to the absolute fullest. Shout. Cheer. Take celebratory shots. Go crazy. Whatever you want.
I didn't, and I regret it tremendously.
You are in a phase of rapid improvements, if you keep on practicing and refining. The joy that comes with each breakthrough is incredible. But it won't keep on coming at this pace. You might look forward to the day you will no longer miss a shot. You really shouldn't. That day will come inevitably, if you stay focused on practicing.
What you'll realize on the day you no longer miss is that not missing does not remotely mean not losing. If anything, you will lose more. You can't play with your friends anymore. They suck, and playing together is not fun anymore for any of you. You can't go challenge people at random bars. Those weekend bangers all know you by smell long before you even enter the bars. There's no one left to play, except for that one table that's always occupied on a Tuesday night by the exact same people.
They destroy you. You're not even close. They don't miss. They don't make mistakes. And they don't get snookered... ever. You die a little inside every time you play against them.
But you will tell yourself: "I just need to make this leave cleaner"; "I'll win once I smooth out my jumps"; or maybe even "I have to learn pattern racking."
None of that is going to help. You need all of them, plus a thousand more things you need to do better... MUCH better.
And they won't come. Not with any reasonable frequency at least.
As time goes on, you start to doubt your abilities. You ponder why you even both with this stupid game. You suck, and you're not getting any better, no matter how many hundreds of hours you sink into it. Running racks no longer mean anything to you. You're supposed to do that. Those "sick jumps" you saw on YouTube and envied? No, it's now about getting the perfect leave for the next 3 shots from that cross table jump at an awkward angle. The shot is assumed.
Every time you leave the pool hall, the only thing on your mind is how risky it might be for your rectus femoris if you snapped your ****ing piece of shit cue on your right leg?! You hate that overly inlaid casino looking thing. You wished you used the money for this nonflammable firewood for rent instead. Or strippers. Or drugs. Basically anything.
And then, a moment of clarity rushes over you: It's you, not the cue. You are just a no talent ass clown who wasted way too much time on something you are destined to fail at, as predicted by the Bible, the Quran, and that guy from Scientology.
You throw your cue in a corner, and go straight to bed. Pool is the last thing you care about anymore. It's but a stupid hobby. Tomorrow, you're going to wake up, go to the hobby store on the other side of the town, pick up a 1:35 scale M1A1 Abrams tank from Tamiya and a handful of paint, and build that shit into a work of ****ing art. At least it will sit on your computer desk, right next to your screen showing Reddit, as a constant reminder that you are good at something.
So you drive.
20 minutes in, at a stop light, you look around. There's a pool hall a block down, with its sign half falling off. "What the heck. Let's check it out." You say to yourself with more than a hint of contempt and a silo-ful of sarcasm. You aren't even good at sarcasm.
You walk in. The cue stand is closer to an oversized bonsai tree than anything else. There are donuts of chalk spewed around like needles in a crack den. The girl behind the bar cares more about polishing her Wolverine fake nails to a spit shine than anyone there. You see a table with a chalkboard. You know instantly what that means. You walk up and scribble your name down. The trice wetted stub of a chalk can barely make out a line, but the squiggly and dot you forced down are good enough. None of this matters, anyway. You suck. And you wait to prove that you suck.
Half a beer later, it's your turn. "What a silly game with balls, holes, and a tree branch!" You thought to yourself. The loser of the last match hands you the cue. It must've been the precursor to the rubberized finishes we love so much today on our phone protectors. And tip? What tip? If the FDA reclassifies beer as milk like they did with pizza and vegetables, this would be a bona fide milk dud tip!
What a waste of money and time. Your pool skills can't even be described on Amazon, because it doesn't go into the negatives.
And then, you lower yourself for the shot. 34 degrees to the left. Normal shaft made out of maple. Non-responsive laminated tip, probably Le Pro. Balls show significant wear and tear, and very dirty. At this distance, the contact induced throw is approximately 1 degree. Adjust for that. The next shot is on the far left, and the one after it is only a stun away, and the one after THAT is a half ball cut to the middle to set up for the one after THAT. You need to hit it with a tip of bottom and half a tip of left at 30% power. Given the condition of the shaft, the squirt would be about 1.5 degrees to the left, so compensate the same to the right. Offsetting the throw, that would be...
You freeze.
Your body is already in the right position. Your mind has already tuned everything to a micron's tolerance. You are already locked on... for this shot and the rest of the table.
You pull the trigger. The balls travel as if they were on rails. You fire again and again until all of your balls are gone. You look up. The room is silent. People are staring at you like Michael Jackson just came back and moonwalked the table. You are a god to them.
That Tamiya M1A1 Abrams? **** that! The only thing you want to do is to rush home and scream sorry to your cues sitting in that dirty corner!
You drive like Batman just found out his Batmo-tank had a rocket booster. You hug your cues like they are a puppy you considered abandoning. Without even letting your fan finish cooling your idle engine, you take your cues back to the pool hall. And you practice. Ball after ball. Drill after drill. Time just hopped on an SR-71 and went to China and back. You are liberated and at-home at the same time. Cloud Nine is too low of a standard. You have already seen Mars and moved on to the outer rims.
You continue on. No doubts. No second guesses. No distractions.
Then the day comes.
You won. Ah, **** that! You don't even care that you won.
You performed so flawlessly that supermodels start to look like burn victims. You can't describe it, but something just... clicked. Was it this drill or that drill? How about this book or that blog post? What caused this?!
You have no idea, and you don't care: Your game is now an entire class above where you were just days ago. If you were Goku, you just made Super Saiyan your normal state. You're ready to take on the whole ****ing world! You jump around and scream like no one is going to kick you out of the bar, because you know you earned this through blood and more blood! You ****ing EARNED it!
Enjoy it, you glorious mother****er. Enjoy it like Armageddon went the other way. Take a ****ing picture at 42mp on an A7Rii, turn up the saturation and contrast in Lightroom, and get that shit printed on a canvas that's bigger than your bedroom wall. You earned it!
Oh and those ****ers from Tuesday nights at that table? They will still destroy you. Just a tiny bit less so now. They are the best pros from a two-state radius. You are no match for them still. But something changed: You know you can beat them and be the very best...
..gonna go back and search for the author's moniker....eventually.
I'd be nice if he visits AZ and introduces himself...
Don't be so jaded, you guys...what did you see when you started playing?
...lifted from Reddit
................................................................................
This might sound insincere or even facetious, but it is anything but... If anything, what I'm about to say comes from envy more than anything else: Enjoy this phase of your game to the absolute fullest. Shout. Cheer. Take celebratory shots. Go crazy. Whatever you want.
I didn't, and I regret it tremendously.
You are in a phase of rapid improvements, if you keep on practicing and refining. The joy that comes with each breakthrough is incredible. But it won't keep on coming at this pace. You might look forward to the day you will no longer miss a shot. You really shouldn't. That day will come inevitably, if you stay focused on practicing.
What you'll realize on the day you no longer miss is that not missing does not remotely mean not losing. If anything, you will lose more. You can't play with your friends anymore. They suck, and playing together is not fun anymore for any of you. You can't go challenge people at random bars. Those weekend bangers all know you by smell long before you even enter the bars. There's no one left to play, except for that one table that's always occupied on a Tuesday night by the exact same people.
They destroy you. You're not even close. They don't miss. They don't make mistakes. And they don't get snookered... ever. You die a little inside every time you play against them.
But you will tell yourself: "I just need to make this leave cleaner"; "I'll win once I smooth out my jumps"; or maybe even "I have to learn pattern racking."
None of that is going to help. You need all of them, plus a thousand more things you need to do better... MUCH better.
And they won't come. Not with any reasonable frequency at least.
As time goes on, you start to doubt your abilities. You ponder why you even both with this stupid game. You suck, and you're not getting any better, no matter how many hundreds of hours you sink into it. Running racks no longer mean anything to you. You're supposed to do that. Those "sick jumps" you saw on YouTube and envied? No, it's now about getting the perfect leave for the next 3 shots from that cross table jump at an awkward angle. The shot is assumed.
Every time you leave the pool hall, the only thing on your mind is how risky it might be for your rectus femoris if you snapped your ****ing piece of shit cue on your right leg?! You hate that overly inlaid casino looking thing. You wished you used the money for this nonflammable firewood for rent instead. Or strippers. Or drugs. Basically anything.
And then, a moment of clarity rushes over you: It's you, not the cue. You are just a no talent ass clown who wasted way too much time on something you are destined to fail at, as predicted by the Bible, the Quran, and that guy from Scientology.
You throw your cue in a corner, and go straight to bed. Pool is the last thing you care about anymore. It's but a stupid hobby. Tomorrow, you're going to wake up, go to the hobby store on the other side of the town, pick up a 1:35 scale M1A1 Abrams tank from Tamiya and a handful of paint, and build that shit into a work of ****ing art. At least it will sit on your computer desk, right next to your screen showing Reddit, as a constant reminder that you are good at something.
So you drive.
20 minutes in, at a stop light, you look around. There's a pool hall a block down, with its sign half falling off. "What the heck. Let's check it out." You say to yourself with more than a hint of contempt and a silo-ful of sarcasm. You aren't even good at sarcasm.
You walk in. The cue stand is closer to an oversized bonsai tree than anything else. There are donuts of chalk spewed around like needles in a crack den. The girl behind the bar cares more about polishing her Wolverine fake nails to a spit shine than anyone there. You see a table with a chalkboard. You know instantly what that means. You walk up and scribble your name down. The trice wetted stub of a chalk can barely make out a line, but the squiggly and dot you forced down are good enough. None of this matters, anyway. You suck. And you wait to prove that you suck.
Half a beer later, it's your turn. "What a silly game with balls, holes, and a tree branch!" You thought to yourself. The loser of the last match hands you the cue. It must've been the precursor to the rubberized finishes we love so much today on our phone protectors. And tip? What tip? If the FDA reclassifies beer as milk like they did with pizza and vegetables, this would be a bona fide milk dud tip!
What a waste of money and time. Your pool skills can't even be described on Amazon, because it doesn't go into the negatives.
And then, you lower yourself for the shot. 34 degrees to the left. Normal shaft made out of maple. Non-responsive laminated tip, probably Le Pro. Balls show significant wear and tear, and very dirty. At this distance, the contact induced throw is approximately 1 degree. Adjust for that. The next shot is on the far left, and the one after it is only a stun away, and the one after THAT is a half ball cut to the middle to set up for the one after THAT. You need to hit it with a tip of bottom and half a tip of left at 30% power. Given the condition of the shaft, the squirt would be about 1.5 degrees to the left, so compensate the same to the right. Offsetting the throw, that would be...
You freeze.
Your body is already in the right position. Your mind has already tuned everything to a micron's tolerance. You are already locked on... for this shot and the rest of the table.
You pull the trigger. The balls travel as if they were on rails. You fire again and again until all of your balls are gone. You look up. The room is silent. People are staring at you like Michael Jackson just came back and moonwalked the table. You are a god to them.
That Tamiya M1A1 Abrams? **** that! The only thing you want to do is to rush home and scream sorry to your cues sitting in that dirty corner!
You drive like Batman just found out his Batmo-tank had a rocket booster. You hug your cues like they are a puppy you considered abandoning. Without even letting your fan finish cooling your idle engine, you take your cues back to the pool hall. And you practice. Ball after ball. Drill after drill. Time just hopped on an SR-71 and went to China and back. You are liberated and at-home at the same time. Cloud Nine is too low of a standard. You have already seen Mars and moved on to the outer rims.
You continue on. No doubts. No second guesses. No distractions.
Then the day comes.
You won. Ah, **** that! You don't even care that you won.
You performed so flawlessly that supermodels start to look like burn victims. You can't describe it, but something just... clicked. Was it this drill or that drill? How about this book or that blog post? What caused this?!
You have no idea, and you don't care: Your game is now an entire class above where you were just days ago. If you were Goku, you just made Super Saiyan your normal state. You're ready to take on the whole ****ing world! You jump around and scream like no one is going to kick you out of the bar, because you know you earned this through blood and more blood! You ****ing EARNED it!
Enjoy it, you glorious mother****er. Enjoy it like Armageddon went the other way. Take a ****ing picture at 42mp on an A7Rii, turn up the saturation and contrast in Lightroom, and get that shit printed on a canvas that's bigger than your bedroom wall. You earned it!
Oh and those ****ers from Tuesday nights at that table? They will still destroy you. Just a tiny bit less so now. They are the best pros from a two-state radius. You are no match for them still. But something changed: You know you can beat them and be the very best...
We've had some nice ones written on AZ....here's one I like from Mr Bond...
...........................................................................................................
ts Monday: An Extemporanious Piece - 10-22-2012, 10:49 AM
I got up this morning and felt pretty good actually..as opposed to being achey from this or that...
Made some coffee.... Mmmmm coffee.
Found myself walking past my sexy [pool] table, so I goosed her in the ribs as I passed by...and said "maybe later babe.."
But then she whispered in my in ear and said ...come play with me ...just one little rack....pretty please... and she winked...
FINE...just one little rack.....I gave in...
Turned on some music...racked up a tight one...and man it was tight, I even impressed myself...I was full of confidence and caffiene...
Oh damn...now one of my favorite songs came on...I had to turn it up...
The house is just thumpin...I've magically become a hybrid: My new name is Mosconi Cruise...and I'm cooler than cool, badder than bad....
I slowly bend down to line up my break shot....the tension [in my mind] is building because now I'm in super-fly-ninja mode, about to hit this cue ball so hard that my cue is going to splinter....
Swooosh!! I let er rip.......the cue ball breaks the sound barrier on the way to the rack....I am pool god unleashed....
Balls explode in every direction...
But then......
The cue ball decides that it cannot be constrained to this solar system, and thus launches itself straight up from the table....
Not having previously attained flight clearance, this was a problem...
For parked right above the table, is my nice big fat flourescent light fixture.
Cue ball went all honey-badger, and did not care whether my light fixture was in the way, it wanted out of the building...
*terrible crashing sound*
*darkness ensues*
So, I'm standing there in the dark, a crappy song comes on, and my coffee cup is filled with glass shards.
$^%@!
...........................................................................................................
ts Monday: An Extemporanious Piece - 10-22-2012, 10:49 AM
I got up this morning and felt pretty good actually..as opposed to being achey from this or that...
Made some coffee.... Mmmmm coffee.
Found myself walking past my sexy [pool] table, so I goosed her in the ribs as I passed by...and said "maybe later babe.."
But then she whispered in my in ear and said ...come play with me ...just one little rack....pretty please... and she winked...
FINE...just one little rack.....I gave in...
Turned on some music...racked up a tight one...and man it was tight, I even impressed myself...I was full of confidence and caffiene...
Oh damn...now one of my favorite songs came on...I had to turn it up...
The house is just thumpin...I've magically become a hybrid: My new name is Mosconi Cruise...and I'm cooler than cool, badder than bad....
I slowly bend down to line up my break shot....the tension [in my mind] is building because now I'm in super-fly-ninja mode, about to hit this cue ball so hard that my cue is going to splinter....
Swooosh!! I let er rip.......the cue ball breaks the sound barrier on the way to the rack....I am pool god unleashed....
Balls explode in every direction...
But then......
The cue ball decides that it cannot be constrained to this solar system, and thus launches itself straight up from the table....
Not having previously attained flight clearance, this was a problem...
For parked right above the table, is my nice big fat flourescent light fixture.
Cue ball went all honey-badger, and did not care whether my light fixture was in the way, it wanted out of the building...
*terrible crashing sound*
*darkness ensues*
So, I'm standing there in the dark, a crappy song comes on, and my coffee cup is filled with glass shards.
$^%@!
Okay....I admit it....I cackled....:lol::lol::lol:
True story: There's a guy in town that can break hard as hell and send the cueball up into the light, at will.
McCoy finally kicked him out of the hall, way back when, when he accidentally flew a hard hit break cue ball right into a woman Donny was sitting with. But what a break that guy has! I'd give my left nut (exaggeration) to have half of his power and control.
Btw, the guy doesn't play pool, but drums now. Go figure.
Jeff Livingston
DaveInSC
Banger
Great story!
Jack Taylor
Years ago in Dallas at the Cotton Bowling Palace the cops would come
in and arrest people for vagrancy. The place was always packed with
unemployed pool hustlers that would have to duck the cops. One day
Jack Taylor (Alf Taylors older brother) who was a good player, and a
great story teller comes in the CBP all out of breath and sweating. Alf
says "Jack whats going on " Jack says I was just getting out of the car
to come in and this cop that knows me starts hassling me, and says he is
going to bust me for vagrancy. I say hold on I'm working full time at the
domino factory. The cop says Bull--- what do you do. Jack says I put the
dots on dominoes and the only reason I'm not working today is they're
making double blanks . Jack was a very quick witted funny guy that
would keep the whole place laughing, but the world champion story
teller in our area was U.J. Puckett.
jack
Years ago in Dallas at the Cotton Bowling Palace the cops would come
in and arrest people for vagrancy. The place was always packed with
unemployed pool hustlers that would have to duck the cops. One day
Jack Taylor (Alf Taylors older brother) who was a good player, and a
great story teller comes in the CBP all out of breath and sweating. Alf
says "Jack whats going on " Jack says I was just getting out of the car
to come in and this cop that knows me starts hassling me, and says he is
going to bust me for vagrancy. I say hold on I'm working full time at the
domino factory. The cop says Bull--- what do you do. Jack says I put the
dots on dominoes and the only reason I'm not working today is they're
making double blanks . Jack was a very quick witted funny guy that
would keep the whole place laughing, but the world champion story
teller in our area was U.J. Puckett.
jack
From 2008...RSB
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
9/30/08
Your Liquid Assets:
If you had purchased $1,000 of shares in Delta Airlines one year ago,
you will have $49.00 today.
If you had purchased $1,000 of shares in AIG one year ago, you will
have $33.00 today.
If you had purchased $1,000 of shares in Lehman Brothers one year ago,
you will have $0.00 today.
But, if you had purchased $1,000 worth of beer one year ago, drank all
the beer, then turned in the aluminum cans for recycling refund, you
will have received a $51.00 payment.
Based on the above, the best current investment plan is to drink
heavily & recycle. It's called the 401-Keg.
A recent study found that the average American walks about 900 miles a
year.
Another study found that beer-loving Americans drink, on average, 22
gallons of
alcohol a year.
That means that, on average, Americans get about 41 miles to the
gallon!
Makes you proud to be an American!
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
9/30/08
Your Liquid Assets:
If you had purchased $1,000 of shares in Delta Airlines one year ago,
you will have $49.00 today.
If you had purchased $1,000 of shares in AIG one year ago, you will
have $33.00 today.
If you had purchased $1,000 of shares in Lehman Brothers one year ago,
you will have $0.00 today.
But, if you had purchased $1,000 worth of beer one year ago, drank all
the beer, then turned in the aluminum cans for recycling refund, you
will have received a $51.00 payment.
Based on the above, the best current investment plan is to drink
heavily & recycle. It's called the 401-Keg.
A recent study found that the average American walks about 900 miles a
year.
Another study found that beer-loving Americans drink, on average, 22
gallons of
alcohol a year.
That means that, on average, Americans get about 41 miles to the
gallon!
Makes you proud to be an American!
One from Smorg
----------------------------------------------------------
I don't think this is the dumbest thing I've ever done, but it's the
most recent dumb thing.
After a recent three month layoff, I was playing some one-pocket the
day before yesterday. My opponent had screwed up and left the cueball on
his side of the table and I had the stack and every other ball between
the cueball and my pocket. As luck would have it, there weren't any dead
balls or easy shots, BUT, there was a nine-eleven off angle combo. I got
down to line up the shot and then stood up and then got down and then
stood up and then got waaaaay down low (the nine was positioned so that
the stripe and number were facing up and to both sides, leaving me with
a BIG WHITE SPACE) and I fired the combination INTO THE HOLE using the
nineball as the cueball. OY-VEY !
I went back to P-9-Ball today and they are STILL laughing at my
stupidity.
Today, I didn't do anything stupid, but I lost a race to five
(one-pocket) 5-1.
oh yeah, and I pee'd on my shoe in the men's room (at least I
'think' it was the men's room) .... NEXT,
Doug
~>*(((>< Big fish eat Little fish ><)))*<~
----------------------------------------------------------
I don't think this is the dumbest thing I've ever done, but it's the
most recent dumb thing.
After a recent three month layoff, I was playing some one-pocket the
day before yesterday. My opponent had screwed up and left the cueball on
his side of the table and I had the stack and every other ball between
the cueball and my pocket. As luck would have it, there weren't any dead
balls or easy shots, BUT, there was a nine-eleven off angle combo. I got
down to line up the shot and then stood up and then got down and then
stood up and then got waaaaay down low (the nine was positioned so that
the stripe and number were facing up and to both sides, leaving me with
a BIG WHITE SPACE) and I fired the combination INTO THE HOLE using the
nineball as the cueball. OY-VEY !
I went back to P-9-Ball today and they are STILL laughing at my
stupidity.
Today, I didn't do anything stupid, but I lost a race to five
(one-pocket) 5-1.
oh yeah, and I pee'd on my shoe in the men's room (at least I
'think' it was the men's room) .... NEXT,
Doug
~>*(((>< Big fish eat Little fish ><)))*<~
GONG...you gotta be kidding. :killingme::killingme:
This old man named Stumpy wandered into the pool hall one day, not sure where the name came from, but he was super nice, loved to bet it up and STUNK at pool. It was pretty much a given that any time you needed gas or beer money (we were in college), run down to the pool hall and get a game with Stumpy...He was always good for 50-100 bucks, and he genuinely seemed to enjoy the company.
Thing is, not only did Stumpy stink at pool, he had the worst gastro-intestinal problems of any human in the history of humans. One of the first times we played together, every five minutes or so, a wet, flappy, fart would bellow from Stumpy, followed by the worst nose hair curling stench imaginable. At first we tried to ignore it, but it was obvious Stumpy was in some discomfort. Finally I asked him what was wrong, to which he replied that he had been having terrible gas and cramping the last week or so. "At least," he replied with a straight face, "they are silent and don't stink!" Well we didn't want to offend him, so we went along, although I did recommend he go to his doctor for his stomach issues.
About a week later he came into the pool hall looking a little perturbed. I asked him if he saw his doctor and he grunted that he had, but the crooked SOB hadn't helped him. "He gave me these little pills, but they didn't help the gas problem, in fact they made it worse! I am still passing these silent farts, but now they stink to high heaven!"
Without missing a beat, my buddy Wade quips, "Well Stumpy, your doctor got your sinus infection cleared up, maybe next visit he'll unclog your ears!"
Thing is, not only did Stumpy stink at pool, he had the worst gastro-intestinal problems of any human in the history of humans. One of the first times we played together, every five minutes or so, a wet, flappy, fart would bellow from Stumpy, followed by the worst nose hair curling stench imaginable. At first we tried to ignore it, but it was obvious Stumpy was in some discomfort. Finally I asked him what was wrong, to which he replied that he had been having terrible gas and cramping the last week or so. "At least," he replied with a straight face, "they are silent and don't stink!" Well we didn't want to offend him, so we went along, although I did recommend he go to his doctor for his stomach issues.
About a week later he came into the pool hall looking a little perturbed. I asked him if he saw his doctor and he grunted that he had, but the crooked SOB hadn't helped him. "He gave me these little pills, but they didn't help the gas problem, in fact they made it worse! I am still passing these silent farts, but now they stink to high heaven!"
Without missing a beat, my buddy Wade quips, "Well Stumpy, your doctor got your sinus infection cleared up, maybe next visit he'll unclog your ears!"
Greenie for you Mr. jokrswylde, that is hilarious!!!!!
It is funny with the wheelchair,Doesn't make sense with out.A good pool-hall joke but not appropriate for all.