Picking the right blackjack table is an acquired art.
Every black jack player knows what I’m talking about. Ya gotta pick your precise
table to your own personal specifications, or the mo-jo’s off. Am I right?
Every black jack player knows what I’m talking about. Ya gotta pick your precise
table to your own personal specifications, or the mo-jo’s off. Am I right?
Here’s my personal criterion. First and foremost I need to
play with happy people. No negative Karma. I like a black guy at the table
(although unlike Donald Trump I will not refer to him as “My Black Guy”). A
black woman is good too, as long as they are big. The bigger the better. And
listen, there’s no bias or prejudice in any of this. It’s all trial and error.
I simply do better with some jumbo brothers and/or sisters at the table. I don’t
know why. And I don’t fight it. And I like the anchor seat. That’s it. Oh, and a pretty girl is a bonus.
play with happy people. No negative Karma. I like a black guy at the table
(although unlike Donald Trump I will not refer to him as “My Black Guy”). A
black woman is good too, as long as they are big. The bigger the better. And
listen, there’s no bias or prejudice in any of this. It’s all trial and error.
I simply do better with some jumbo brothers and/or sisters at the table. I don’t
know why. And I don’t fight it. And I like the anchor seat. That’s it. Oh, and a pretty girl is a bonus.
2:00 AM Saturday night, post-poker and a little bleary eyed, but still in the mood for a little Black Jack, Randy and I are wandering The Wynn Casino searching for a “good table” to end the night.
We saw her playing at a $25 table.
She was alone at first. Age indeterminate in the way that only the truly weird can
achieve. Slightly broad in the beam, her breasts hung down to her navel. I know
that because the deep cut of her dress revealed all. The hair was platinum curls and the dress was crimson.
Bright. I mean b-b-bright. So bright I’m surprised you didn’t see it from
wherever you were on Saturday night. That’s how bright. Thick purple plastic
framed prescription glasses studded with fake diamonds and plastic dinosaurs. Uh-huh.
She was giggly and crude and slightly incoherent. Like Julia Childs on Ecstasy.
achieve. Slightly broad in the beam, her breasts hung down to her navel. I know
that because the deep cut of her dress revealed all. The hair was platinum curls and the dress was crimson.
Bright. I mean b-b-bright. So bright I’m surprised you didn’t see it from
wherever you were on Saturday night. That’s how bright. Thick purple plastic
framed prescription glasses studded with fake diamonds and plastic dinosaurs. Uh-huh.
She was giggly and crude and slightly incoherent. Like Julia Childs on Ecstasy.
In terms of us finding the “right table” she broke all the rules,
but it was 2 AM and at that hour you gotta compromise a bit. Randy and I
straddled her. And by that I mean we sat on either side of her, Randy in seat 1
and me in the anchor seat where I prefer. WTF did you think I meant??!!
but it was 2 AM and at that hour you gotta compromise a bit. Randy and I
straddled her. And by that I mean we sat on either side of her, Randy in seat 1
and me in the anchor seat where I prefer. WTF did you think I meant??!!
Then the sunburnt boyfriend showed up. White suit with a white shirt (also open to the
navel) and a peach-colored chiffon scarf doubled around his neck and flowing to
the floor. A dead ringer for John C. Reilly. He never said a word. He could
easily have been her mute son, her deaf husband, or a paid escort she bought at
the dollar-store.
navel) and a peach-colored chiffon scarf doubled around his neck and flowing to
the floor. A dead ringer for John C. Reilly. He never said a word. He could
easily have been her mute son, her deaf husband, or a paid escort she bought at
the dollar-store.
Try as we might, it wasn’t happy. Even Randy,
who could generate a conga line at a funeral, couldn’t jump-start this party. His jokes went over her head, the banter was awk-weird*, they kept
doing that tangled hi-five, fist pump clash, never quite getting it right. The squat
and dyky dealer rolled her eyes while never busting. Eventually our lady ran out of money, us out of
steam, and with one last mangled hi-five, we called it a night.
who could generate a conga line at a funeral, couldn’t jump-start this party. His jokes went over her head, the banter was awk-weird*, they kept
doing that tangled hi-five, fist pump clash, never quite getting it right. The squat
and dyky dealer rolled her eyes while never busting. Eventually our lady ran out of money, us out of
steam, and with one last mangled hi-five, we called it a night.
Just one of those sad, perfect, and very real Vegas moments. I thought I’d
share.
share.
I’ll finish off the poker story tomorrow.
*- My son Joey coined this term when he was
about ten years old. It’s a nearly perfect word with endless uses and I wish he
could collect residuals on it.
virgilgoestoeurope 
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