u/Regular-Style-5504

I can get away with this because I'm a member of the tribe. But Israelis are an entirely different breed.

I had one more quest left to finish the puzzle game. Play video poker 9 times.

I last played at 6pm. I go on a few mines early and it clearly says 11 minutes. I take my eye off it for a minute and these mfers added an hour.

Here's what I wrote to them:

This is getting ridiculous and I can't wait to post it so everyone can see just how rigged the game is. I had 11 minutes left to play video poker, went to take my medication and when I looked again, you had added an hour.

What is wrong with you people? I knew exactly what time I last played and, because it happened before, I took a screenshot.

Why do you cheat? Again and again and again.

You're a joke. You won't fix it, you'll just deny it but all the players are going to see it.

See you on Facebook and Reddit.

I'll give you 5 minutes to fix it.

I hate them. If this doesn't prove the game is rigged nothing does.

My second account just stays stagnant at 100b, so I figured I'd go for it and see what happens. Max ante. Lost every hand. Every straight or flush was a dnq. Went from 110b to 20b in 3b minutes.

I'll say this publicly. Anyone who buys chips from this developer is a complete idiot. Make them play fair before anyone makes another purchase. They target buyers more than any other players because you're their addicted suckers.

Please take a moment to read and comment. Some of you have already read this.

I guess there was an allegation of cheating during the main event, so I replied with this:

If NSUS allows Playtika to rig the free poker app, well, why not the actual tournament. A lot more money.

I just replied in a separate post about a subject that everyone needs to be aware of.

When I first get a spot at a table, I ask everyone to respond in some way to do a bot check. Of course there's an asshole or two that won't respond just because they're assholes, but most people do.

I'm almost positive that they have bots playing and, although we do lose to idiots who call everything, I think a lot of these set up hands are lost to bots.

Has anyone else ever thought of this?

We're talking about Playtika here, so it's not just paranoia.

Have you ever played at the regular table games and feel like you were actually at set up. Like your dealt a pair, one gets flopped for the set and then a flush or straight rolls right out.

That doesn't happen in real life, all these full houses and flushes and even straights.

They manipulate outcomes to force calls.

I don't know why more players don't complain that the game is rigged. Then, again, I don't know why I'm playing a rigged game.

Can someone explain to me how all the Facebook mods have managed to accumulate a trillion + chips?

A little help from their friends at Playtika?

It sucks because it is the best poker app, but it's also the most rigged.

I can get away with saying things to them because I'm from the same tribe unfortunately.

I told them they embarrass me because they fit the stereotypical profile of a cheating ass Jewish business.

Don't do that. I can get away with it because, unfortunately, I was born one.

The point is, no one bitches, which is smart because I'm pretty sure they retaliated against me for calling them crooked, well, you know.

Can't believe this is my Crack.

Sorry, I needed to keep my daily streak alive and this post made sense.

In the city where I live, there is a genuine anti-hero who is almost legendary. My daughter was at one of those open mic events and someone read this from the podium.

I'm willing to say it's genuine because the guy hasn't been heard from in at least a year. He was active here for 30b years and, then, nothing.

If you have a moment and are a Cynthia Erivo fan please read it. I'm not moved easily. This did it. Sorry it's so long:

What follows is not a movie review. It isn’t an ode to an actress. It isn’t a confession of fandom or late-in-life softening. It is the account of a dam breaking.

For nearly fifty years, I did not cry.

Not when my father chose me out of four boys to take the brunt of his rage. Not when a hairbrush whistled through the air and found my backside over a missing piece of candy I did not take. Not when I screamed so hard, my throat burned and my grandfather sat in the next room pretending not to hear. That was the last time tears came easily. I learned something that day, wrongly, but thoroughly that tears are dangerous. They invited more blows. They proved weakness. They accomplished nothing.

So, I locked them away.

I did not cry when I was shot for standing up for a man who loved differently than their neighbors thought they should. I did not cry when I was stabbed for standing up to a bully who had made a sport of humiliation. I did not cry when my father drank himself into a smaller and more violent version of a man. I did not cry in a prison cell after taking the fall to protect someone who I thought loved me but would later walk out of my life without a backward glance.

And I did not cry when a drunk driver stole my wife and two little girls.

There are sentences that should not exist in any language. That is one of them. I did not cry. I organized. I built walls so high that even grief could not scale them. I told myself that I was forged in fire, that I was immune to sentimentality, that tears were for people who had the luxury of being safe.

I became a man with a misguided Robin Hood complex, robbing from villains as I defined them, redistributing in ways that made sense only to me. I justified it all as balance. I convinced myself that anger was cleaner than sorrow. Anger moves. Sorrow collapses.

I had no interest in collapsing.

And then, through a set of coincidences so improbable they feel almost scripted, I found myself alone in a room watching two movies on consecutive nights.

The first was “Wicked” (weird because I was never interested in musicals), with the character of Elphaba portrayed by an unrecognizable Cynthia Erivo. The bullying in the film is relentless. The categories of “good” and “wicked” are dismantled and rearranged. A green skinned girl, marked from birth as other, is emotionally abandoned by her father and publicly diminished by those who fear what they do not understand. She is set up for humiliation (by a hat no less) by someone who has been handed the title of “good”. She absorbs it. She stands anyway.

There is a moment if you have seen it; you know the world expects her to shrink. Instead, she refuses. She dances. She claims space. And when acceptance finally cracks the facade of mockery, something in her face shifts. Relief. Dignity. The terrifying hope of being seen coupled with that Erivo smile and tears.

For the first time in decades, something caught in my chest. My breath shortened. My eyes burned. A sound escaped me...a small involuntary sob, like a child startled by thunder. It embarrassed me, even though I was alone. I finished the film unsettled, irritated with myself, as though I had broken a long-standing vow.

The next night I watched Harriet, the film about Harriet Tubman, again portrayed by Erivo, but I did not realize that.

What struck me in Harriet was not heroism at first. It was the loss. Before the legend, before the myth, there is a woman whose body bears scars and whose heart carries names. When she breaks, when the enormity of what has been taken from her (her sisters, her husband, her freedom) presses in, I did not see performance. I saw a human being trying to breathe through the unbearable.

I know that feeling. I know what it is to lose “my person”, to have the world tilt so violently that gravity itself feels unreliable.

That was when the dam broke.

It was not graceful. It was not cinematic. Fifty years of sealed compartments blew open at once. My body convulsed with sobs that seemed to come from somewhere beneath bone. I cried for the boy with the hairbrush welts. I cried for the husband who never got to say goodbye. I cried for the father who memorized the weight of his daughters in his arms and then had to learn the unbearable lightness of their absence. I cried for the man who mistook vengeance for justice and motion for healing.

I cried for Harriet. I cried for Elphaba. I cried for myself.

Only after watching Harriet did I look up who played these women and discover it was the same person. That fact startled me, but it is not the point. This is not about celebrity. It is not about admiration (although I do). It is about the mysterious, almost sacred exchange that can happen when one human being reaches the depths of grief and, through art, holds up a mirror for another.

Whether Erivo drew on her own well of sorrow or simply possesses a rare ability to inhabit another’s, she did something I could not do alone: she made grief safe.

For half a century, I believed that if I allowed myself to feel the full measure of my losses, I would disintegrate. The tears would never stop. I would drown in them. But grief, I learned, is not an ocean without shore. It is a tide. It rises; it crashes, and if you let it, it recedes.

Those two performances did not save me. That language is too grand and too strange. They did something quieter and perhaps more important; they gave me permission. Permission to be the wounded child and the broken husband and the grieving father without surrendering the parts of me that still fight for others. Permission to understand that strength is not the absence of tears but the willingness to survive them.

For a man who built an identity on never crying, that permission was revolutionary.

In the aftermath, something shifted. The self-destructive edges dulled. The need to tilt at every windmill softened. I began to see that my so-called Robin Hood impulses were often grief in disguise a way to battle the unfairness of a universe that had taken too much. I could not resurrect my wife. I could no longer tuck my little girls into bed. But I could, at last, mourn them without feeling that I was betraying their memory by collapsing.

Tears did not make me smaller. They made me honest.

If there is a lesson in any of this, it is not about film or performance. It is about the thin, invisible threads that connect us. A woman playing a legendary formerly enslaved abolitionist who refused to accept the chains placed upon her. The same woman portraying a misunderstood woman with immense powers who refused to accept the label of wicked. And somewhere in the dark, a middle-aged man wo had accepted too many labels: criminal, hard hearted, vigilante and who had mistaken emotional paralysis for resilience.

In their defiance, I found my surrender.

Not surrender to despair but surrender to truth. The truth that grief does not negate strength. The truth that love, once given, never fully disappears, even its object is gone. The truth that a heart locked for fifty years can still open.

I do not know what I believe about God on my darker days. I have seen too much cruelty, too much randomness, and too much pain inflicted by human hands. But I know this: in a world capable of profound ugliness, it is also capable of astonishing grace. Sometimes that grace comes disguised as a film chosen at random. Sometimes it arrives in the form of a story about a runaway slave or a green-skinned girl. Sometimes it arrives as a tear you thought you had forgotten to shed.

I began this life as a boy who cried under the sting of a brush too many times to count and swore never to do so again.

I end this chapter as a man who finally did and lived.

If there is redemption for me, it is not in the myths I built around my own misdeeds or my misguided crusades. It is here, in this simple humbling truth: I loved deeply. I lost devastatingly. I grieved too late. And at last, I grieved.

That is not hero worship. It is gratitude for art, for humanity, for the strange alchemy that can turn performance into permission.

Fifty years of tears were waiting.

And when they came, they did not destroy me.

They set me free.

Ms. Erivo will never read these words, but I hope that she senses that the wish inside her song “Hero” came true. She broke someone of those chains.

Second post today, so sorry for being annoying but had to tell this story. So, I'm in a couple of WSOP groups on Facebook.

I had found out that every single mod has over 1T chips. I pointed that out and hinted that it must be nice to get a little preferential treatment and wondered if Playtika fixes their outcomes because they're basically lap dogs.

Found out a minute ago that they deleted my post and banned me from the group.

I mean, if it isn't true why get angry?

So, here we go again. One of the special quests is the rarity stars... need 50. I'm stuck at 49 because the thing won't register the cards. I have around 70 at this point. It's always something with these crooked people.

Oh by the way, is it okay to give a social media account on here? There is some video we want to post that proves they are retaliating against one of my teammates.

So, I've been struggling lately with this damn app. But I reached the 30,000 mark and with the +5 turned 68b into 175b with 30 spins

I'm posting for two reasons. Gotta keep the streak alive and I'm in the hospital and bored.

That said, I figured I'd try the Royal app. It's unplayable. Glitches and can't leave a table without losing an ante. Took a minute to write them and they said it's fine.

Has anyone else tried it? I know they lie like a lawyer but that's iinsane.

Two shady things happened today. First, like an idiot, I left Ultimate opened and the inactivity thing didn't work. Got blinded for 50 billion before I picked up my phone.

Second, I wasn't paying attention and ranked up to GM. The good news is that I completed quests and got the chip bonus up to 225%. The bad news is that I'm not getting ANY chip gifts.

I max out on those every day and I've only gotten 15 since hitting these bonuses.

So, Playtika are the cheapest and most crooked developer today and every day.