Rub me the wrong way

No this is not a post about table showers gone bad.

One evening in the Fremont, Mrs. Flusher and I sat down to play Treasure Chest Poker. If you hit a four of a kind, you then pick one of five 'treasure chests' to see what amount you've won. The prizes range from 140 quarters to (supposedly) $1199 in quarters. Supposedly. Pretty much all the time you get 140, and rarely anything more.

It was a rip-roaring Friday night on Fremont Street. The din of the casino was as thick as the smoke in the air - a wall of excitement. The tinge of a thousand on-edge gamblers was electricity you could feel.

We plunked down in the only two seats left on the bank Treasure Chest machines, edgy gamblers that we are.

After a few hands I realized the woman to my left was in constant motion. She was 'encouraging the machine' with touches, gestures, and in some cases, some exaggerated rubbing on the side of the thing that looked bizarrely sexual.

Occasionally, if dealt a crap hand with nothing much going for it, she'd slightly scold the machine and then 'encourage' it, tickling it here, stroking it there.

In the face of such obviously deranged behavior, its best to simply cash out, and leave without making eye contact, as quietly as possible. Sort of as if you'd stumbled across a casino bear.

So, naturally, Mrs. Flusher and I started to mimic Ms. Rub 'n Tug, caressing our machines and whispering sweet nothings.

We became more and more brazen in our actions. At one point I was standing, both hands jacking the sides of the machine for all I was worth.

And then, wouldn't you know it, Mrs. Flusher hit a four of a kind.

She picked a treasure chest - and hit 250 quarters.

And then she started to curse the machine for not giving more, shaking her fist at it and swearing.

The poor woman to my left cashed out, spooked beyond belief.

Sometimes I wonder just what kind of shit I'm going to land in, in some future life, for this kind of karma trampling.