The voices in my head have no problem with Full Tilt Poker

{Editor's Note: I have been getting absolutely CRUSHED lately with bad beats at the hands of Full Tilt. But rather than give you yet another rant about how online poker sucks righteous ass, especially when Josie chronicled the carnage so much better than I ever could, I thought I'd argue the other side of the coin.}


There's a common belief among the medical community that emergency rooms are more busy when it's a full moon. Ask any ER doctor (or better yet, if you want to know the real story about what's going on on the floor, ask an ER nurse) and they'll tell you it's absolutely true.

Except it's not.

Study after study refutes the notion that ER's are busier at a full moon - though there are fluctuations in the business of an ER, the moon has nothing to do with it at all.

The simple facts are these: Firstly, when people want there to be a correlation between a busy night and a full moon, they'll count the day or two before the actual full moon and the day or two after it, which is five days out of a 28-day cycle, or 18% of the entire month. So ER's are busy when there's a full moon A LOT - but one thing didn't affect the other. It's just another example of correlation falsely implying causation.

So when, as I did last night, I had to sweat a two-outer to take a huge chip lead and virtually guarantee a cash, and instead got walloped by the river (a six, if memory serves), my first inclination was to blame Full Tilt for being arbitrarily douchebunty. I mean, Jesus Tap Dancing Christ, it just happens all the time. I have been sucked out on with a magic two-outer or something similar twenty times more than live. The numbers are irrefutable.

"Bullshit," says my argumentative evil twin. "Twenty times more often, you say? Well that's about right, isn't it? Think about it. You've PLAYED twenty times more hands than online, that means twenty times more decisions, and twenty times more bad beats."

"Well, maybe," I say meekly (I am a little intimidated by my argumentative evil twin, have been all my life). "But shouldn't that mean that I have twenty times more triumphs, twenty times more often that my odds hold up, twenty times more times when I pull a magic two-outer on my opponent?"

At this, my argumentative evil twin (Let's call him "Shmew Boy") exhales slowly, and pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

"You have them," he says, with a tone of smug condescention. "You just don't remember them with nearly the same permanence as you remember a bad beat."

"Oh, come now," I fire back. "It can't be that simple, can it? I just remember them better?"

Shmew Boy leans back in his chair, confident that this battle of wits will soon be his.

"You don't remember every time you use a lighter, do you? But you certainly remember when you get burned. Am I right?" He smiles at me in just that way: he's won the argument and he knows it. "Well? Am I?"

I resort to the last club left in my bag.

"Fuck you, Shmew Boy," I retort. Game, Set, and Match.