I went to a casino with my mom and cousin yesterday. I haven’t gone to this particular one in a long time, so it was part nostalgia (I am a sucker for that in my older age) and part wanting to get the hell out of the house for a change. It most certainly had nothing to do with actually thinking I would win anything.
I don’t have much of a taste anymore for gambling. Only Kenny Rogers holds the key to knowing when to fold em’ and I have no fucking clue.
I put my money in, and the slots taketh away.
I spent most of my time sitting on a plush stool, watching people from all walks of life sitting in front of these bright, noisy, and exciting (video slots are so alluring) slot machines. They kiss their fingers, rub the screen lovingly, like giving the damn thing TLC is going to change the outcome of the spin.
Give me a little smooch, lucky 7′s.
There was one old man who was a little too close for comfort. He was sitting right next to me at a bank of slots. I was sitting there minding my business, quietly watching my coinage drop steadily, when he peered over at my screen.
I could whiff the stale smell of desperation and Camel, non-filters. Perhaps some Sanka as well.
Nothing exciting was going on that I could tell, so I just smiled slightly and shifted myself a bit in my comfy chair, well padded for people such as myself who do not have an ass.
Just then, I hit a bonus game!
You would have thought the guy was going to crap his pants, so excited was he for my luck.
The odd thing is, he didn’t even really talk. He was just so very interested in what was going on with me, that he even stopped hitting his own re-bet button.
I won a whopping 6.00 dollars. I plan on buying myself some new underwear. Slightly irregular.
I decided to cash out at that point. It was time to move on down the line and find a new machine to plunk my money into.
As soon as I moved, the old man went directly to the machine that I had just vacated.
And here I thought he just really liked the smell of my shampoo and conditioner.
So, in the end I played on $50 dollars for 3 hours. Not too shabby, if you look at gambling as a means of entertainment rather than a sure-fire way to win the mother-load, therefore being set for life. This is the illusion, that keeps all of these people running to the ATM, because who needs to pay the mortgage this month?
I have never been able to get myself to play the big machines, because deep down I am a skinflint. I prefer my money to stay in my wallet.
Max bet my ass.