Atlantic City: “America’s Favorite Playground”

I often think to myself, “Where can I find discourteous dealers, poor service, and unattractive cocktail waitresses? Where can I go to hear hundreds of old people complain at once, like a cantankerous symphony orchestra? Where are their overpriced restaurants that serve microwave entrees and hire foreign waiters that don’t know what orange juice is? Most importantly, I’m looking for invulnerable 8-deck blackjack games with rules that heavily favor the casino. Does a magical place like this exist?”

Then it hits me.

Atlantic City: “America’s Favorite Playground

11:00 am: Atlantic City 
Sitting on the stool at the left end of a blackjack table, I waited for the dealer to finish the ridiculous card shuffling/inspection procedure that takes place before a table can open. The rest of the early morning degenerate gamblers and I continued to wait, since this dealer was particularly slow. One man remarked, “I could give birth faster than this.” A good laugh was had by all, except the dealer. Middle-aged Hungarian women have no sense of humor.

Mercifully, Helga shifts to another lucky table and is replaced by someone who can count two cards at a time. Everyone nods in approval and orders more hard liquor from the cocktail waitress.

Eventually, play begins. The dealer immediately draws a 10 and ace. The players groan in unison, then each man mumbles quietly before looking at the other players in a clockwise motion, shaking his head and pounding his right hand against the table. Each time the dealer pulls a good hand, we repeat this process like synchronized swimmers.

An effeminate bald man in a skintight powder blue shirt sat down with us. He placed his bet, received a hand totaling 12, and began to cry out, “Show me a nine and I’ll drink some wine!”

Show me a nine and I’ll drink some wine!”

He prepared to hit his hand of 12 against the dealer’s 10. The rest of us silently cursed the hate crime legislation that prevented us from pummeling him.

“Can I get a glass of wine this early Randy?” he said, wrists flopping around furiously.

Randy, our distinguished pit boss, mumbled something unintelligible while shaking his toupee.

The dealer dealt him a queen for a total of 22. The wine was not necessary.

“Do you play a lot?” he asked, turning to me.

I replied by wiping my nose with my sleeve.

“I don’t mean to interfere, but you’re messing up your betting strategy,” he said.

Facts and mathematics have never stopped certain intrepid blackjack players from playing their hunches, and many of these imbeciles are happy to share their knowledge. Without the gambling jargon, the conversation would go something like this:

Player: “I’ll split these.”

Advice guy: “No, never do that with those cards. What you should do instead is flush your chips down the toilet. Then light your remaining money on fire and slam your genitals in a car door. After that, I’ll punch you in the kneecap. See why that’s better? Hey, I’ve been playing this game a long time.”

Player: “I’ll split these. Look, I won.”

Advice guy: “You got lucky that time.”

To amuse my fellow gamblers at the other end of the table, I decide to humor the blue-shirted fruit with the ‘betting strategy’ advice.

“What don’t you like about my betting?” I asked.

Excitedly, he shared his betting system. But it was more than just a betting system. It was more like a philosophy of life. “When you win, you should be moving those bets up to thirty or forty. That way you can parlay it into a big win. I was up $500 last night doing that.”

“Uh huh. How much have you won this morning?” I wondered out loud.

“Well, I’m down so far this morning.”

“Uh huh.”

Several of us at the full table mockingly feigned surprise.

The complete attention of the pit boss is fun for any card counter, and nothing gets the attention of Randy and his hairpiece faster than candid discussions about betting strategy. However, even Randy must know that it is impossible to win at blackjack with a betting strategy unless the player is also counting cards. Just in case, he’ll watch us a little more closely. I attempt to change the subject by asking Randy how long the $10 Van Halen chips have been around, then hint that the chips must be hard to get rid of because they have Sammy Hagar on them. A good laugh was had by all, as Sammy is a walking punch line.

Next, the effeminate man was dealt two tens, and the man directly to his left was dealt an ace. He protested, reasoning that it should be his ace because he had intended to split the tens, a move that hasn’t been attempted since the 1950’s, when telepathy was an acceptable playing strategy and blackjack was a guy who worked at the shoe store.

“Randy, he passed me up without even a hand signal. I was going to split those,” he said, deciding against the more accurate statement of ‘Randy, I’m trying to scam you.’

Our dealer — an angry fellow who had taken over for the Hungarian lady — looked at the guy in a way that expressed his displeasure. The rest of us looked towards Randy and waited to see what he had to say to the guy who was holding up the game.

“You can split them, but you’re not getting that ace, I’ll tell you that,” Randy replied. And that was that.

The game moved along until a few hands later when the effeminate man was dealt two more tens and shouted to the dealer, “Wait, I want to split those! Ah, Just having a little fun with you!”

Our dealer answered, “Do I look like I’m having fun?”

I think we’ve found a new slogan for the A. C. Expressway welcome sign.

Welcome to Atlantic City: America’s Favorite Playground 

Welcome to Atlantic City: Do I Look Like I’m Having Fun?

 

Toilet Seats and Potato Salad

I don’t know the reason why women want men to put the toilet seat down. I mean, let’s suppose that one night I get up to use the bathroom, it’s dark and I forget to put the seat up before I pee. I’m going to pee all over the toilet seat (in all honesty, I’m probably going to pee all over the seat even if it’s up — it’s just more fun that way) and if you’re a woman, you are most likely going to go in there later and sit on a seat full of urine. I’m assuming that women just sit down on the toilet without looking, because if you girls walked into the bathroom with your face pointed in the direction of where you’re going to sit then none of this would be a problem.

So what’s going to happen is you’ll probably end up sitting on the seat that I just peed on, since I’m certainly not going to be cleaning it up. That’s someone else’s job, like the girl who delivers the mail or someone from the escort service. If she’s from the escort service she’s going to have plenty more things to clean up, like her own vomit, so she probably won’t mind a toilet seat. But the point is, I’m not cleaning it. That kind of thing is woman’s work, like mowing the lawn or taking out the trash. And when I say trash I mean actual garbage – not immigrants.

Speaking of immigrants, don’t ever go for that Russian mail order bride shit. I mean, you get them all the way over here and they don’t even want to have sex. If I wanted a woman who doesn’t like sex I would have gotten an American woman. Anyway, after you manage to talk them into it with rational discussion / threat of pistol whipping, they’re gone the next morning when you wake up, never to return. I don’t think I’ll ever figure out how she managed to cut through the ropes. Now, the woman being gone in the morning — or preferably that night — is fine with me, but getting taken like that really made me look like a sucker in front of my girlfriend. I’m telling you, stay away from those Russian broads, and Russian cuisine too for that matter unless you like antique pickled cabbage. Oh well, at least Katrina’s facial hair covered up the cold sores. Meanwhile, I’m out $1200 bucks. That was the worst weekend I’ve had since that time I went to that place in Pennsylvania, and when I say “that place,” I mean anywhere.

But the good thing about weekends is you get a lot of chances to make up for a bad one. Weekends always come back, just like herpes, except you don’t have to tell people about weekends before you have sex with them. I think. In any case, the drugs they use now to treat herpes make people vomit and destroy their livers, but if they’re real Americans, they probably spend their weekends vomiting and getting liver damage anyway. And with the drugs, it’s still possible to transmit herpes — you just can’t see the little bumps. Way to go Valtrex!

So what was I talking about? Oh yeah. What does any of this have to do with putting the toilet seat down? I don’t know. But the thing about toilets is you can’t catch herpes from them, which is good, because I like to use them to clean myself up before dinner engagements if the facility isn’t equipped with a bidet. Just to be on the safe side though, I think I’ll stay away from toilet seats, which means I’m not touching them to put them down after I pee. It also means I’m not touching them to put them up before I pee. As for number two, I’ll probably just shit under the couch cushions like I do when I spend the night at a woman’s house. Hey, I’m only kidding. I never spend the night at a woman’s house. I leave after I ejaculate on her roommate and/or sister and then go into the fridge and piss in the potato salad. Why do women always have leftover potato salad in their refrigerators? Probably because it’s gross and nobody likes it, but gals, if you leave a big bowl of potato salad in your refrigerators, you might as well put a sign on top of it that says, “piss in here.”  I just can’t pass it up.

Anyway, I think I was talking about urinating on hookers, right? I like to do it in the bathtub if possible, because I still haven’t figured out a way to get the smell out of my car. But that’s my problem I guess. What I’m really trying to say here is, I would appreciate it if you or someone you know cleaned my bathroom. If you do it, I’ve got some nice potato salad that you can take home. Don’t worry if it tastes a little like Miller Lite.

In conclusion, stay away from my toilet.