The Blackjack Cheerleader

When I woke up at 5:00am, I knew that I had a very long day ahead. All day in Vegas, get in the rental car at 9:00pm, gas it up, dump it (maybe even at the car rental center), horrible shuttle bus to the terminal, take off for Toronto at 12:15am. Six hours later, on the train to Flusherville Junction.

I've had some really great winning days but I can't recall having two in a row like the last two days, where I pretty much won all day long, with some blips.

Could I do it again on this, the last day of my trip? I have to admit, I didn't think so. The key was to be careful, conservative, cautious, and cash savvy.

None of these are traits that I possess.

After some internetting, featuring hand-crafted hot-brewed direct-to-cup signature in-room coffee, I set out to have 'some of the green' at the Main Street Station breakfast buffet, and embark on my planned activities, which included playing in a slot tournament and enjoying some free play at the Golden Nugget, other gambling, drinking, and possibly a steak.

Check the 'some of the green' box.

Looking back on the day, I ain't gonna lie, it wasn't pretty. And this is evidenced by the dearth of photographic evidence. Which means there wasn't much to photograph.

I stooped to taking pictures of other people's wins.

The gambling day began at the scene of the Aces Kicker Bonanza - nickel Super Slutty Times Pay. It seemed like things were going to be fine!

First quad of the day!

View from the nickel gambling console.

I played out all the credits from the first two quads, which is not unexpected on a game like the one you see pictured there.

It was time to hit the Nugget. On my round of the slot tournament, the woman next to me had pretty much double my points at every point during the session. I knew I had no chance. Fair enough.

I decided to do freeplay on dollar short pay crap poker, and I did just fine! An early full house meant I'd cash out some dough from this exercise.

$50 freeplay becomes $75 cash. Woot.

This is the point in the day, approximately 10:17 AM, when my day became, with a nod to Mr. Lahey,  a shit-covered hot shit sandwich on rye, with a side of shitslaw, and a shitberry shake. In other words, a shiticane of bad luck.

I tried this, I tried that, it was the complete obverse (subverse?) of the day before. Where I couldn't lose, I now couldn't win. My day's stake was gone before I knew it, except for one black $100 chip.

The deepest cut came when I put my black chip in play in search of my first purple $500 chip. I played $10 a hand blackjack.

I lost the first eight hands in a row. Yup, just like that, I had $20 left.

A few minutes later, my last $10 was in the circle. I won that bet and spent the next 40 minutes struggling. At one point I recovered as high as $65 but dropped from there.

The worst part was when one of those guys joined the table that is the Blackjack Cheerleader.

Before he even sat down, he was loud-mouthing, "OK, I'm here, I'm good luck, so you're all going to win this hand! Winner Winner Chicken Dinner!!!"

Most of us lost.

"OK, just a speedbump, everybody's going to do great. Hey, do you know how to play the game?" he demanded of the guy sitting at third base, who was the last to make play decisions.

He nodded that he did.

"OK, he knows how to play, so no standing on 13, hahaha! Gonna be great, let's get going, Winner Winner Chicken Dinner!"

Within 6 minutes, I knew what this guy did for a living, where he was born, where he lived, how long he'd been married, how many times he'd been divorced, and what time of day he liked to have his tiny, spherical poop.

"Hey, where you from???" he shouted at me. There was no need to shout, as I was sitting 18" from him.

There are times when I'm stressed and losing and the last thing I want is some blowhard yammering nonsense at me. I didn't want to engage this blahblah-monger at all.

"I'm from nowhere," I said.

That slowed him down for about two seconds. "Who else here is from nowhere, hahaha???? Winner Winner Chicken Dinner!"

After about ten minutes of his nonstop unwanted blather and non-stop outfield play-by-play commentary, I happened to catch the dealer's eye, when the Blackjack Cheerleader's attention was focused elsewhere.

I gave her a huge eyeroll and made my mouth open and close rapidly, like a Thunderbirds puppet, silently going "BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH".

She could barely contain her giggles.

Later on, I think this paid off, when I mistakenly stood on 22. Sometimes, under the right circumstances, 22 is a push against the dealer's five card 21. But it didn't matter, in the end, two back to back bad double outcomes sunk me, and put an end to the whole purple chip fiasco.

The rest of the day consisted essentially of losing on other things, save a few bright spots on that same machine, two now, and one later.

At lunch - yes, it was only lunchtime - I ate the shopping center chinese food at the Fremont. While chomping down my Orange Chicken off of a styrofoam trough, I kept an eye on this guy, facing me obliquely, who seemed to be having a lot of Buffalo bonii, or perhaps one long Buffalo bonus.

If you've ever seen a Buffalo, you know that their bonus is one long bonus.

Anyway, the screen faced away from me, so I could only see his reactions. Then some other guy wandered by and started watching him. Meal scarfed, I went to see what was going on.

It was this guy and his wife, and he was having one fuck of a bonus round. He'd put $40 in the machine, and I grabbed a couple of pics toward the end of the bonus.

Not bad. Something like 64 free games, and a $2028 win on a bet of $1.80.

"Congratulations, so lucky! Way to go!" I said, shaking hands and smiling broadly. "Suck it! Go fuck yourself! It should be me! Eat shit and die!" I said, twenty paces away from the happy couple.

One time? My Mom was really mad at me? Because I'd messed something up on her sewing machine? And out of some sort of primordial built-in World War 2 instinct, she called me a name?

"You... you... Kraut!!!" she said, kraut being the most vile (to her) insult in her repertoire of  taboo wartime insults, and I said, "Mom, you can't call people Krauts"?

That's how mad I was that it wasn't me.

The only class that I have left is to wait the 20 paces before letting fly. Other than that, I am vile, baseless, and have a chip on my shoulder when losing the size of a Buffalo's bonii.

Let's see, where were we?

On the way back to the Cal. I packed and fucked around in the room. Played a (losing) keno ticket. Took more money. Lost it. Took more more money. Lost that. Cashed in the last of my Canadian money and lost that.

The last glimmer of hope that gave me an additional 16 minutes of play.

The Aces showed up yet again, but no kicker this time. After that, it was 200 hands of 'hold a bare Ace, get nothing, hold a pair of sixes, get nothing, hold a pair of fives, get nothing. get an 8x spinner, win nothing, immediately the next hand get dealt three of a kind, and then continue on getting nothing after that'.

As so many trips have, the last day ended in whimpering weak-assed self pitying disaster.

There were a few bucks left on my $75 food credit, so I treated myself to a meal at the Redwood Steakhouse, which is kind of a last night tradition.

It was simple, laid back (in the bar), and delicious - the filet was absolutely amazing - so tender, perfectly perfectly cooked (not charred fucking black on one side and raw on the other like a Noodle House pot fucker sticker) and so tasty! It didn't overly fill me up either, like a 82oz rib eye would.

Next chores: finish the packing, check wallet and passport 800 times, check for wallet passport and phone 900 times after locking the room, get parking validated, then drive in the I-15 500 to the south strip, gas up the car, drop it off at Avis, ride the bone shattering shuttle bus to the airport, and bend over for the TSA.

I have to say, about parking in Vegas? It's fucked. What a needless piece of stress-inducing cash grabbing clusterfee bullshit.

Example. Twice, at Luxor, I was stuck at the gate with a key that wouldn't work, a ticket that wouldn't work, no place to do anything with a credit card, a MILF card that wouldn't work, and a six minute convo with a parking fairy, ensconced in her parking fucking sugar cave, surrounded by rainbow art and gold framed video monitors, who finally pushed the single big red button in front of her, with a sparkling flourish of her parking fucking wand, and let me the fuck OUT of the place. Thank GOD there wasn't a lineup of itchy trigger fingered pickup truck people stuck waiting behind me. I'd never have survived.

Then, at the Cal, you now have to take your little paper ticket (you remembered to take that fucker with you, now didn't you?) to the BConned booth, wait in line, and get it validated with the Sapphire card privilege that, after next year, you will never ever see again.

Next, you take their word for it that all is well and they have sent the required hand calligraphed parchment secret fucking scroll down to the parking fairy, ensconced in her parking fucking sugar cave, surrounded by rainbow art and gold framed video monitors. And of course, as you pull up into the tank trap parking garage exit, with its titanium unbreachable parking garage arm blocking your way, you put the little paper ticket in the machine and it says, "FUCK YOU $16 DOLLARS".

Huh?

I have an airport to catch, bitch, this shit is COMPED.

"FUCK YOU $16 DOLLARS".

FUCK!!!! You wave your old room key at the sensor thing, you look for a place to put a credit card (there are none), you scream at the parking fairy, "LET ME OUT TINKERFUCKINGPARKINGBELL BITCH!!!!" but nothing works.

Finally, you spot a teeny tiny "Push if you are completely fucked up and trying to get somewhere on time" button.

You push it.

"Hello? Hello? Tinkerfuckerbell???? HELLO????"

Inexplicably... the titanium parking garage arm lifts. The parking fairy has accidentally hit the big red button with her iridescent (but gigantic) ass and you are on your way.

"KRAUT!!!" you shout, completely inappropriately, at the inanimate parking fairy console.

OK, everything after that went OK, I did the needful, got the car gassed and all that.

I'd upgraded my seat from "shit Rouge" to "less than shit Rouge but way shittier than shitty Rouge fake business class". $58 USD. Well spent.

My seat selection strategy was successful, and I had nobody beside me. I slept on and off on the plane, and the shitty 'slimline' seats, that have no pad to the padding anymore (and probably never did) hurt my ass the whole time. My Aeroplan points are now all used up and hopefully, I'll never fly Air FU Canada Rouge to or from Vegas again, let alone a godforsaken redeye.

In Toronto, I caught the UP, caught my train, and made it home safe to Flusherville, where Chippy and the Quad Queen were happy to see me.

THE END

But wait!!! What about the McCarran last chance airport desperation gambling???

Triple Double Bonus. At one point, dealt three Aces. Couldn't finish.

Had one interesting hand:

Dealt full house. My instinct was to break it, and a check with Winpoker confirmed it.

A sad end, considering the previous two days.

But look. It's gambling. That's the way it is. Half the battle is learning how to deal with the inevitable swings.

Overall, it was a great trip. Generally, we think you are going to have two losing days for every winner, and out of eight days, I had two winners and one break even.

I had a total blast, and I loved taking you all along for the ride. Sorry I fumbled the purple chip thing. But I love a challenge... this is NOT OVER.

The reaction to this live trip has been amazing, with tons of input, comments, likes, and so on. The tweet with picture of the El Cortez sign and blue sky has reached 13,000 people. GAK!!!

Thank you to folks who have left such fun comments, who share posts, like tweets, and social the heck out of the media. It's important to me - thanks for spreading the word.

Huge props to the people who donated or booked rooms through the links on the blog - thank you SO MUCH!!!

If you are going to book a room, show, or whatever, access the sites using the links on my blog, and help a brother out with a little piece of the kickback to help keep the IP addresses clean and the lights on here on the blog.

The eternal question I get is, "when are you going back?"

The answer is "soon, with Quad Queen riding shotgun". Stay tuna.

I mean tuned.

Yrs,

Flushiepants.