This past week, I went to the famed American vacation party city place, Las Vegas, aka Sin City, aka America’s doo-doo pad. Americans really like it. We like to make big doo-doo on our big doo-doo pad.
Every time they air a Vegas commercial on TV, they insinuate that you can go there, wear a wig, have a threesome, and nobody will ever tell… because Vegas. [And let me tell you something, that is not a legitimate defense in our legal system. When asked to explain myself in front of the ladies and gentlemen of the jury as to why I hired, enchained, and defecated repeatedly upon two “entertainers” while illegally procuring and fondling at least one dozen “large exotic and game animals” to finally play out my long deserved, hard earned, brilliantly conceived, Steve Irwin fantasy, “Because Vegas” was about as useful of a defense as a paraplegic blind girl guarding a pissed off Lebron James in a game of one on one basketball.]
Vegas is famous for gambling, which is funny because gambling is legal in a lot of other places in the US too, but I guess it’s better in Vegas because there is just more of it there—just like Costco. This is America, after all, so we follow the American Way. If something is great, then a 100-pack of that said something must be 100 times better…or something. Why play a few slot machines with a few close friends when you can play in a cigarette incineration chamber filled with geriatric patients, truckers, and the mentally deranged with over 19,000 slot machines in one single, window-less room?
Beyond the baffling number of electronic machines, there are poker tables, blackjack tables, spinny ball things, and the new up-and-coming game: betting on the amount of time homeless people who infiltrate the casinos can remain inside before they are noticed and vaporized with lazer canons.
People always come to Vegas expecting to “win big”. As if one weekend at Vegas is going to put their future kid through college — whose a bastard anyway and doesn’t deserve, nor qualify, to attend any schooling past “The Bridge To Terabithia.” But in more cases than not, people leave here even poorer and even fatter than when they waddled in—and definitely more depressed.
I was one of those rare cases of people who had been to Vegas and not lost money there. I was last there 10 years ago, and I kept it conservative with the betting and ended up turning a small profit… of 41 cents.
Of course when you include my food, lodging, escort, and stuffed/live animal bills: I was in the red for nearly 12 grand, but for the “gambling” bill, I made money. I couldn’t even fit all the pennies into my pocket. I proudly and auditorily displayed my winnings by jangling around the casino lobby with my every step. One of my fellow gamblers even remarked that it was the biggest bulge she’d seen since Bill Roberts slanked his way into the Last Chance Saloon in 1953 Topeka, Kansas. She proceeded to buy me drinks as apparently her “shit for brains and dick for face” grandson Stevie didn’t deserve any sort of inheritance whatsoever. And so I happily gulped it down while she gulped me in the restroom stall. And let me go on record right now to say that while I have previously badmouthed dentures, I am now completely reversing my stance. They are a miracle of modern science and need to be celebrated as such—at least the removable ones.
Anyway, where were we? Ah yes, my immaculate Vegas track record…would I be able to do it again? Leave there without losing money?
It was three of us: me, my boss from work, and our company’s cameraman. We drove to Las Vegas from LA, a brisk 5 hour drive, and once we checked into our psuedo-pirate ship-themed Cromwell Hotel, we met in the lobby and were gambling within 10 mins.
We started at the slots. I inserted a single dollar into the machine, pressed a button, and that dollar ceased to exist. My boss won 50 bucks on his third spin. Yes that’s right. 50 bare-handed spankings behind the Disney slot machines from our dealer Tim. With sore heinies and deflated egos, we went to the roulette table.
Roulette is easy, because all you have to do is pick one color (red or black) and just continue betting that color the whole time. You probably won’t win shit, but you won’t lose shit either. Plus, then you can just hang out and feel like you are gambling with everyone else. We used to do this in Vietnam when all the bars were closed and we wanted to keep drinking, because they always will give you free booze as long as you are gambling. Remember that.
I’m not sure how much time had elapsed, but when I looked up, the other two were gone. I took a stroll around the casino and found them at the blackjack tables.
The cameraman had been practicing blackjack all week on his phone in preparation. They both expected to “win big”. I watched them play for awhile but didn’t partake myself since there were already 6 people at the table and there was nowhere for me to sit.
Eventually we relocated to another table where I would be able to play. There was nobody at the table except the dealer, some chubby Somalian guy with a skinny mustache and a sleazy grin.
The minimum bet at this table was 15 dollars.
I exchanged 60 dollars for a stack of red $5 chips. Four losses and I would be done. But I didn’t really feel like losing that night. Money, I mean. I did end up losing all of the clothing on the lower half of my torso, but, uh, we’ll save that story for another day.
Blackjack is not a hard game. You need to have more points than the dealer and not have your card value exceed 21. But I think the real strategy is in how you bet your money, rather than how you play the game.
I would typically bet $15 dollars every game I played. And I won more games than I lost. In other words, the red chip collection I had would grow ever so slightly. And when I would get 5 of these red chips together, I would ask the Somalian to exchange them for a green $25 dollar chip.
Betting a green chip, and losing, was much more devastating than losing a red chip, so I was less apt to bet them. I would only bet a green chip when I was out of red chips. So every few games I would push a stack of red ones to the dealer and be like, “yo let me get one of those green guys.”
After about 10 of these chip swapping requests, the Somalian exhaled loudly. The next time I asked him to exchange for a green chip he threw his hands in the air, blurting out, “come on man!”
I laughed, because of course he was just yanking my chain. Like that’s a big deal, to grab a plastic chip right in front of your face and toss it to the guy sitting two feet in front of you. What a workout! I hope he didn’t sprain his finger!
And then my coworkers let me know that he wasn’t joking. They told me in Japanese, “Darby, that is poor etiquette. You are supposed to wait until the end to swap out all of your coins.”
I looked at the Somalian. His big sleazy grin was gone, as were his wisecracks. He was actually upset by my requests for chips! Well, fuck this guy. The chip swapping is part of my strategy. He will exchange my chips and he will LIKE IT. And… he’s not getting any tips from me.
When it was time for his break, and a Mexican lady relieved him, I instantly showered her with coins.
Dollar coins, but still. These could have been yours, Somalian guy—all 3 of these Sacajawea coins! (By the way, how did that bitch get her own coin? She wasn’t even American! That’s like electing a black, non-US citizen to be president of our country. Oh wait…we already did that.)
And then suddenly it was 2 AM. I looked down at the table and had a nice little collection. I could’ve kept going, but I had to interview a guy in the morning, and I didn’t want to get too greedy. That’s the other problem people have in Vegas: knowing when to stop.
I walked out with 275 dollars.
My coworkers were on my nuts pretty tightly after that. They were amazed at how little I knew about gambling and how I could just walk in and win money, seemingly with ease. Then they started calling me Coor Guy after that, which means, you’ve guessed it, “Cool Guy” with a Japanese accent.
So on my second trip to Vegas, I, once again, walked out with more money than I did walking in. Of course after the legal fees, community service, and jail-time it was probably all a wash. But still, suck it, Vegas!
And bonus, I fucking smashed the TV interview I did the next morning. The guy I interviewed told me I asked good questions. I’m sure he would’ve never guessed that this was my first sit down interview at my new job.
But I’m sure he wouldn’t have guessed that I won money at the Blackjack table the night before, either. And that I was the Coorest Guy in the room.
