If You Can't Say Something Nice …

I haven't written about my friend Oklahoma Johnny Hale in a long while. I had begun feeling guilty about picking on him all the time, so when I met a poker player named Alabama Eddie who was a lot like OJK, I decided to let Eddie take his place in my columns.

Also, I had grown tired of describing all the titles and honors Johnny has bestowed upon himself, such as "Gentleman Gambler," "Elder Statesman of Poker," "No. 1 Poker Family," self-inductee into the "Seniors Hall of Fame," and so forth. I can't mention them all because my columns are limited to 1,200 words. But I guess Johnny must have missed the publicity, because when I saw him at the Wildhorse Casino, he informed me that he had finally gotten a title from a source other than himself. The Oklahoma Legislature, he said, had named him a "favorite son," just like Will Rogers.

Well, congratulations, Johnny. That's quite an honor. I couldn't find any verification on the Internet, but there's no reason to doubt your word, because of all the similarities between you and Will Rogers. For example, Rogers never met a man he didn't like, and OKJ never met a man he didn't try to sell a book to.

Also, Hale and Rogers both lay claim to Native American ancestry. Johnny has repeatedly written that his great-grandfather married an Indian princess, thus making him one-sixty-fourth Native American. Unfortunately, he spelled the name of the tribe wrong, there is no such thing as Indian princesses (it's all a myth), and if his great-grandfather had married one, that would make OKJ one-eighth Native American, not one-sixty-fourth. Of course it's an excusable error, because the genealogical math is quite complex. It's 2 x 2 x 2.

Anyway, I expressed my regrets to Johnny for missing his 80th birthday party because I was out of town doing tournament write-ups. That in turn reminded me of someone else, and I began to think that maybe I should be more careful in what I write about people.

That someone else is Mike Paulle, another good friend of mine. I've never written anything negative about Mike, except maybe to note that he has the appetite of a water buffalo. I guess this annoyed him, because he recently wrote a blog in which he brought up my remarks about his eating habits (which he defended because of his size). He then retaliated by nitpicking my tournament reporting, saying that I could never "see, hear, or remember" anyone's name - as if that were some big deal.

I considered an appropriate retort, but thought better of it and decided to let sleeping dogs (or buffalo) lie. Mike is a fearsome mix of Bigfoot, King Kong, and Godzilla, not someone you would want to arouse.

From there I began to think of all the other times I have made cracks at the expense of poker players, and the resulting consequences. For some reason, not everyone appreciates my humor. For example, Eskimo Clark once threatened to sue me for a million dollars just because I had cast him in a movie called The Barstow Kid Rides Again, in which he calls Aunt Sophie an old hag when she tries to kiss him. I have been threatened more than once by Ham Gristle, simply just because I wrote about him being voted the meanest man in poker.

True, others are more tolerant, cognizant of the honor of being mentioned in my column; John Bonetti, for example. I can write anything I want about "Bono," and all he says is that I make him wet his pants laughing. Dirty Wally pays me to write about him. He gets upset only when I write about his grandfather, Filthy Willy, instead of him. Likewise, it's impossible to offend Action Al, no matter how hard I try. Tom McEvoy takes it like a sport when I comment on his questionable taste in wearing apparel. Of course, he once wrote a column calling me a dirty, lying wretch, but he was just kidding. (You were kidding, weren't you, Tom?) Ralph the Rattler has hissed at me a few times, but fortunately never fanged me. Michael Wiesenberg doesn't care about my trashing his beloved Aunt Sophie, though he keeps pestering me for royalties for using her. Even Phil Hellmuth doesn't seem to mind when I write how he acts like … well … like Phil Hellmuth.

Of course, I have been beaten up a couple of times by my sweetie, who insists it is untrue and unfair when I write about how she dominates me. She even whipped me the time I wrote a column in which I cast her in the role of a dominatrix. But she's an exception.

Well, I'm used to taking heat for poking fun at folks. It's called tit for tat. But sometimes I get blamed for nothing. For instance, I've done a number of straightforward reports on poker player roasts. One such ceremony featured a roaster perhaps best known for her incessant name-dropping. As usual at these events, she was in turn barbed by the emcee and the guest of honor. After the story ran, she phoned me at home and for two hours screamed and cursed me like a longshoreman when all I did was report what was said at the roast. Gee whiz, lady.

And sometimes even my victims outdo me. When I learned that Phil was to be inducted into the Poker Hall of Fame (along with Barbara), I wrote a column that had him saying, "What took so long?" Later, I regretted writing something so mean-spirited … until they had the induction ceremony, and that's exactly what he said!

Still, after 20 years of writing this column, I can't recall ever saying something good about anybody. So I've decided to turn over a new leaf and make amends by finding someone I admire and then writing something sincerely nice about him. I recently did. His name is Todd Brunson.

Doyle's son, of course, is a top-notch player in his own right, with lifetime tournament winnings to date of more than $3 million. I also enjoy his writing a lot. His column reminiscing about the late Sam Angel was hysterical. And then a while back, he did something that I believe merits an "A" for character.

Nancy Cartwright, the woman who is the voice of Bart Simpson, was holding her second-annual "Monte Carlo Night" charity poker party at her estate in Northridge, California. A number of top poker players, including Todd, had agreed to participate. He had just flown back to Vegas from London, and had gotten his dates wrong, thinking the event was on Sunday instead of Saturday night. He discovered his mistake just two hours before the tournament started, whereupon he hopped in his car, drove the 300 miles straight in, made an appearance, was able to play for a while, and even contributed a couple of hundred bucks to charity by rebuying. You're a class act, Todd.

OK, now that I've made up for all of my mean behavior, let me get back to what I do best. Johnny Hale has more pictures of himself on his clothing than you can find in a family album. Phil Hellmuth may soon launch his own line of baby diapers. John Bonetti …

Max Shapiro, a lifelong poker player and former newspaper reporter with several writing awards to his credit, has been writing a humor column for Card Player ever since it was launched 20 years ago. His early columns were collected in his book, Read 'em and Laugh.