Don’t get me started about people who do not tip employees who perform a service for them. Now, if you just stopped there, we would just look at you, roll our eyes, and think what a cheap asshole.
But no.
It’s when you try and justify your moral ascendancy, in the rarified air ABOVE mortal man where the rules do not apply.
No explanation necessary.
I can tell, without any further inspection, that you are a cheap asshole who is a loser, and you should be spayed or neutered to prevent spreading your foul bloodline. You will live your whole life as a loser and when you die the only one that will show up at your funeral will be a diseased dog to piss on your coffin…
Other than that, you might be a cool person..
I was the perfect dumbass to get seduced by Las Vegas.
I was young; thought I knew it all.
I made good money.
I had absolutely no respect whatsoever for money.
However, one July night I got on a hot streak like nobody’s business at the California Club downtown. I arrived at the casino on a rare day off and opened up with a two-hundred dollar Pass Line bet at a very active table.
Seven.
Double up.
Eleven.
Double up.
Seven.
That was just for starters and many times turning my two C-notes into sixteen-hundred would be enough to send me to the bar and then to eat and then home.
I seemed to live like that for five years.
It’s hard to believe me when I speak of my “guns” when I was a MUCH younger man, I actually won many an arm-wrestling contest for pitchers of beer at Shakey Drake’s Saloon in Flagstaff, Arizona.
It was also cool that we were the house band there for two straight school seasons.
Now I’ve got these little old man spaghetti arms with these crepe paper wrinkles.
Very sexy.
Check out this short story…
Beauty
It was another Friday night in Las Vegas, and I was looking to fall in love.
My third girlfriend in as many months had given me my pink slip and I was tiring of the Strip prostitutes with whom I had become far too familiar. I decided to try my luck at the poker room of the Strip casinos. They had just hired a poker icon, a multiple winner of Binion’s Horseshoe Casino World Poker Championship, to serve as Poker Room Manager. I sat down at the seven-card stud table and promptly went on a hot streak, amassing several large stacks of green twenty-five dollar chips. I was up about sixteen-hundred when I abruptly sat down from the table and wandered over to the five-card draw table where my good luck continued.
I was a typical gambler. I would go out and win a lot of money, only to lose it back that same evening. However, as long as the hot streak lasted, I was the King. I would buy bottles of Dom for every player at my table when I was hot and once tipped a busty cocktail waitress a black chip (one hundred dollars) for bending over in front of me. She had just dropped off my champagne and I “accidentally” threw the chip on the floor at the girl’s feet. When she looked to me, I told her the chip was hers if she would give me a peek at the goods. She looked at me like I was some sort of bug that had smashed into her windshield. Then, she obviously thought about it, spun around, and bent down to pick up the token. She stayed there for about five full seconds, turned her head to me and asked.
“You good, George?” She was sarcastically flattering me with the moniker given to big tippers in the glitzy city in the desert.
“All yours, girl.”
She picked up her tip, tucked it into her bra, and gave me the smashed-bug-look again before resuming her rounds through the casino.
The King.
I lost back a lot of money, but ended the night almost eight hundred to the good. I went upstairs to the bar overlooking the live circus acts and ordered a triple V.O. and a Heineken chaser.
Then I saw her.
At the other end of the bar, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen was talking and laughing loudly. She was obviously over her limit and I was mesmerized as she climbed off her bar stool and jumped up on top of the bar. She stood there in her low-cut blouse, exposing a perfect pair of breasts.
“Would you care for some company?” I asked as I walked on over.
“Sure, good-lookin’ park it.”
She had amazing violet eyes, reminding me of Liz Taylor’s. Her eyelashes were long and curled, and her hair was auburn, matching her glittering lipstick. Her skirt was super-short and I have yet to see another pair of legs as finely shaped as hers. She had perfectly mani-pedi French nails, the color an exact match to the hair and lipstick. She also had a butterfly tattoo on her left ankle. Her skin was like Devonshire cream, all buttery and soft. It was apparent that she was very well cared for. Her smile exposed beautiful white teeth usually reserved for the rich or entertainers.
She climbed back down from the bar and we talked for almost an hour. She was at once beautiful, sexy, smart, and the type of woman who is only alone when she wants to be.
All of this and only thirty-three inches tall.
WTF?
*****
Stay well.
