Gambling and the Guy who Almost Ate the Casino

It's been a very didactic week around here, as I've learned a lot about the gambling habits of very obese people named "Crunch" who go all in three hands in a row at 4:30 in the morning at the $5 blackjack tables in Atlantic City. I've been on two separate gambling trips in the last few days, and besides for the inherent lessons that have to do with learning how to gradually turn down free booze and how to maintain a chip stack, there are a few tangential morals at the end of this fable. The most important thing I learned is that cocktail waitresses talk. Telling each of them you're in love with her will eventually get you in trouble, or will at least get a drink spilled on your lap.
Secondly, watching Crunch hit on our dealer was like zoning out in front of a Discovery Channel mating special on lower-level species. Here is an actual exchange between the two (the opening line, obviously, is from Crunch, who was smiling so widely that I could have fit in his face folds):

"Hey girl, where you like to shop?"
"You know, I like to shop some places." [Dealing cards, looking away in obviously fake disinterest]
"Hey girl, where you like to shop?" [Smile growing at a facially alarming rate]
"You know, Neiman Marcus or wherever." [Now she's making eye contact. Crunch knows he has it in the bag]
"Girl, Neiman Marcus? Girl, where you like to eat?" [He's slapping his rotund thigh]
"You know, Popeye's or whatever."
[They both look at each other, as if to tacitly agree that they're interested in each other]

The Cheetah then pounces on the Antelope, and the eons-old food chain is propogated once again, proving, in no uncertain terms, that when Crunch has a hunch, Crunch eats lunch. And yes, I thought of that myself.

There are infinite reasons, furthermore, to gamble in Connecticut instead of New Jersey, the least of which being that every state in the union, even the fake ones, are better than Jersey. The primary difference I saw, though, was that the dealers in Connecticut were much friendlier than the ones in Atlantic City. Intriguingly, the dealers in Jersey smile when you lose, as if the house pays them extra to make the players miserable. Not to mention that the Mohegan Sun tribal effect is everywhere in Connecticut, from the external construct to the live music to the more subdued alcohol culture to the subtle, yet perceivable theme of, "Yeah, you guys might have fucked us, taken our land, given us smallpox, and killed us wholsale, but now we're taking every cent from you obese, unwitting douchebags." There was a plasma television screen at the main entrance that said, "Today's Slot Jackpot Payouts: $12,567,302." Which makes you wonder how much, exactly, they took in that day, and how many people are massaged into thinking that they're bound to add to that total. All of that conniving brilliance makes Connecticut a safe choice over ambience-less Atlantic City, where the slums outnumber the casinos which outnumber the rational people which outnumber the times that Crunch has taken a lap around the track in the last two decades.

The point here, clearly, is that I'm up $35 after two nights and a combined 10 hours of gambling, so I can't complain. Factor in all the free drinks and a comped room, and you might even say that I'm rich. If you were a dumbass.

Stay corpulent, Crunch
DJ Double Down