One of the benefits of being a bit off-kilter (a polite way of saying nuttier than Cooter Brown) is that there is a non-stop reel of craziness that runs 24/7 through my gourd. If you doubt my craziness, I just wrote nuttier than Cooter Brown.
Truly bad cinema.
People that know me have come to expect the unexpected, so that is why I enjoyed meeting so many new people once I went from food service to a desk behind a computer screen.
Talk time.
I can’t wait for football (American) season to start at the end of August.
I have been homebound for the past week or so and it is driving me nuts.
My stump.
And just when I was starting to get a little bit optimistic about the chances of my favourite football club, they go and retain the manager, whom I was hoping would be replaced by a more offensive-minded coach.
United is the club where forwards go to die, evidently. We’ve had some of the all-time greats at putting the pill in the potato sack, but Ten Hag does not develop his anemic offense and he wastes far more talent than he develops, so, unfortunately, another year of trying to get a top 6 Europa-qualifying shot with no realistic chance of competing tor the Premier League title nor the top four Champions League-qualifying spots.
I’m trying to get psyched up for the Olympics coming up this summer in France, but they just don’t seem to captivate me the way they used to as when I was a youngster. I remember the nationalism of the Olympics, being reinforced to us as a military family living on a base on foreign soil. The whole family sitting around the TV in the living room with a huge bowl of popcorn, rooting on the red, white, and blue.
Since I was banned from Facebook, I find that (surprise!) I have much more time on my hands.
I need to start channeling the extra time into completing my book.
I have been re-creating the exact roll strategy I used in 1981 in Las Vegas at a crap table at the MGM Grand casino.
This was a night that started like any other: I arrived at my favorite little watering hole on the north end of the Strip, just a stone’s throw away from the Las Vegas Metro Police Department.
I powered down in quick succession, no doubt, about five shots followed by five pints.
Now I was ready.
Not quite Prince Charming, but definitely moving the needle a little further toward Charles Romance.
I sidled up to the busiest table, one of five that were open at three a.m.
I sat back and watched, refusing the dice from the stickman as I studied the players around the table. After a full turn of the players, I walked up, threw a hundred dollar bill on the table, shouting money plays on the Pass line.”
Seven.
“Double it.”
“Double it.”
“Double it.”
Now I have eight-hundred dollars and normally, I might have left the table, ambled up to the bar, hit on some cocktail waitresses or Keno runners, and be done for the night.
But no.
“Play it.”
The number is eight.
I put six-hundred dollars behind the Pass line as odds on the eight, which pays you eight to six.
I placed six hundred dollars on the six and five hundred dollars on both the five and nine.
“Roll numbers,” I mumbled under my breath as I shook the di in my cool hands.
I proceeded to hit the six three times, doubling up to eighteen-hundred dollars while pocketing six hundred myself. I hit both the five a total of five times in succession, doubling up on both.
So here I sit: I have eight thousand dollars spread out over the table in various bets and I am riding a hell streak.
Reason is gone.
Now, I will either walk with bank or I will be going home broke (again).
I pick up the dice, and, call it gambler’s superstition or whatever you want, but a very scary-looking person ambled up to the table, smelling of vomit and hashish.
I recoiled and called out “Down on all my place bets.”
Seven.
I just saved myself eight thousand dollars.
I usually keep to the same strategy, either throwing my lot behind a hot roller, or using my MENSA IQ to try and “break the code” and defeat the odds.
That night, I made every right move, doubling and tripling bets, pulling them down before a disastrous seven hit, and, thanks to a crazy-hot run of natural winners —sevens and elevens—I could not lose. I excused myself from the table, stuffing thousands of dollars of chips into my jeans, and after I returned from the table, I continued my streak.
I got so hot, I didn’t need to get into my pocketed money at all, working from my new stacks of chips I was still raking in.
By night’s end, the pit boss had been riding shotgun at the table ever since he got wind of my run, and I am sure he loved the action we stirred up on his casino floor.
When I finally pulled the plug, I gave a 12,000 tip to the dealers.
I was escorted to a rather luxurious room where I was met by the IRS fella.
He handed me a cashier’s check for 80,000, saying the rest fulfilled my tax obligation to the government.
All I heard was eighty-thousand dollars.
It was a very good day.
Stay well.
