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Monday, September 10, 2018

Looking at the Pool People Looking at Me

Day 5 - Wednesday

A couple of things are on my mind when I awaken.

I'm not murdered.

I don't feel too bad in the guts!

I still don't know if the WestJet pilots are actually going to strike or not, thus screwing my return flight next week.

The day starts with some quiet time alone. I love my Little Giant so much! I give it all the attention it needs to make the morning complete.

I also love my coffee maker, and put it to work making delicious Lavazza Rosso in-room brewed coffee.

Gambling is a great way to start any day in the casinos of Las Vegas, and I carve out an absolutely beautiful run on multiplay nickel video poker.

Twenty bucks - one, two, three... twenty - $20 - one twenty dollar bill - lasts me two and a half hours of solid play. I get enough play that I'm happy to quit the session when I finally credit out.

And it rains quads! They just keep coming and coming.

I get quads at:

The next 45 minutes, the well goes dry and I play it out. Fantastic.

See for yourself!

Five for five on the outside straight draw. SAVVY!

I've gambled so well that I allow myself pizza by the slice for lunch and get not one, not two, not three, not four, but TWO slices of pizza. (I lied about the not two.)

It's damn good. A solid lunch option and leaves me with enough daily food comp for dinner.

It was good this morning. So good. And this is where it gets bad.

I go apeshit on Beeeffaalllooooo. I want that bonus round soooo badly!!! I hit the wall on it, playing a hundy, and then another. And then some more. It's not good at all.

I never get a bonus. My best win is $50.40, but on a regular pull.

First, I confess my sins to the Quad Queen via text - because I am flat out of any and all available cash. Everything I brought with me ($500) is gone.


I spend the afternoon doing things that don't cost money - in particular, taking a dip in the pool, and looking around at all the pool people looking around at me.

After I've spent enough time doing that, and working on the blog in my room, I take a single $100 bill from the safe and ferry it down to the casino. I hold it in two hands, out in front of me, like a divining rod, dowsing for a cash-filled well.

There's nothing I hate more than shorted games, so 6:5 blackjack rankles to my ankles. But I remember getting mown down at the 'full pay' $15 game last trip. And then I figure out a way to justify $5 6:5 blackjack. I won't tip.

I usually tip when winning. If I'm losing, I'm probably not getting blackjacks anyway, so there's no difference. Not tipping will make up the difference in the shitty 6:5 payback. The dealers will just have to suffer this time. Pretty shitty, eh?

It's also shitty to continually tighten the screws on the already disadvantaged gambler.

Fact is, if I have a big score at the table, I probably will tip. But not if its close.

The table is choppy, but I survive for an hour. Some people come and go. I survive for another half hour.

Mr. Two Sizes Too Small Blowhard sits down and foghorns away at everyone near and far. He's throwing green around like wedding confetti. He's taking huge chances, and the son of a bitch is winning.

I hate blowhards to begin with, but this guy is proof once again that short-dicked assholes finish first at 6:5 shitty blackjack tables.

There I am with my little stack of reds, trying to get in a couple of hours of play, and in about 15 minutes of horsing around, this fucker colors up four grand. He tips enough for both of us.

I feel lame and broke and wee.

Some other jerks sit down. These are the guys making bad plays that someone always argues don't make any difference. Maybe to you they don't, Jack, but they always seem to to me.

The last straw comes when Mr. Glans hits 14 against the dealers five when he should stand. He gets a seven. This gives him 21.

The Dealer has 15. The dealer would have busted if Danny Glans hadn't taken the seven. The Dealer takes a six for 21, pushing the Glans, and fucking everyone else at the table including me.

I color and ask for the pit boss. It's been about three hours and I've played $10 a hand for much of it. How about a food comp? Not a fucking chance. I get the old 'are you staying here? Great put it on your room, see your host, comps based on play, go away, don't ask me, just get out of here' line.

The $120 I color up goes to my crack whore VP habit - Ultimate X. I do okay but it's gut wrenching. Thank goodness I'm only playing gut wrenching nickels, and not gut hammering dimes or gut screwdriving quarters.

Hey, look I get four pointies! Of course, there is no multiplier in effect.

 I do okay on the next two quads, with small multipliers.

After this point in the day, there aren't any more gambling photos. Everything goes away. I celebrate doom and defeat with a totally amazing drunk cheeseburger.

The secret's in the sauces.

Great pickle, great burger, last of the AM PM beer.

I'm plus $20 on blackjack for the day. That's the good news.

I'm down $395 on machines. That's the bad news.

For the trip, I'm down $641 and I start to wonder how I will make it through with my tiny bankroll.


    1. That pizza does not look terrible, where is it from?

      1. It's from the South Beach Food Court at the Tropicana.


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