,,,No, it's a nicotine patch.
When last we left our heroes, they had left the thrill and excitement of Memphis and were heading for Tunica. Upon arrival, we were greeted by a marble lobby, reportedly comparable to the foyer at the Blankmore. Needless to say, it was a little change of pace from the most boring roadways in the Southeast. We dropped the stuff off in the hotel rooms and headed for the casino floor. It was 1:00 in the morning. I see 1 a.m., on average, 3 times a year, and one of those three times is spent on the toilet. That average was about to skyrocket.
Let me take this opportunity to thank Tennessee, or Nashville, or whoever it was that outlawed cigarettes in public buildings. As I’m typing this, I’m getting sized for my trachea hole that I will be breathing through for the remainder of my life due to the amount of nicotine coating my lungs. Fairly confident that for one weekend my lungs were being covered in tar faster than the Gulf of Mexico. Sorry, BP, you got second place. Anyhoo, everyone in that place actually brought their mother so that they could smoke two times the amount of cigarettes they could without the extra puffer.
We entered the haze of the casino, and, admittedly, we were a little shell-shocked. Collectively, we headed for the penny slots. High rollers indeed. After the one-hit-wonder managed to win $50 on two spins of the penny slots, a couple of the less frugal members of the wedding party cracked open the wallets and hit the blackjack tables. Nothing eventful to report from morning one in the casino. Turns out, private school kids are fairly low-key in a Casino environment.
Saturday afternoon three of the eight travelers determined that there was one game in the casino that was impossible to lose at… craps. To be honest, it looked like they were right – no matter what the man voted “most patient” in high school rolled, they kept giving him chips. Maybe they were on to something… Regardless, I’m off to the penny slots again.
We eat, swim, and watch soccer in no particular order for the remainder of the afternoon. As the evening gambling session begins, I leave the true gamblers to their blackjack and craps and head for the comfort of the penny slots. Fairly quickly, groomsmen begin coming up to me… early reports indicate craps is not unloseable. Go figure. Yep, turns out there’s a reason 7 is the number that stops the game – it just so happens to be mathematical. Anyway, after reality came crashing down, and broke the backs of the high horses, the low rollers went and watched a few of our number play some blackjack…
It seems when you are the youngest people in a place that is predominately cranky, smoky, and wrinkly, you have the eye of the pitbosses. If you manage to ride that wave, and travel in packs, cracking jokes, providing applause, and generally raising Cain (I’ve never really typed that out – the capitalization, while accurate per Wikipedia, appears awkward), aforementioned pitbosses determine you are good for business and offer to provide you a complimentary steak and lobster buffet. Count it.
In summary, money was won. Money was lost. Food was eaten. Second hand smoke was inhaled. Poker tournaments were entered. Soccer games ended in ties, and thus could have never been played and would have made the exact same impact on history. Lungs were forever damaged. Groomsmen were cursed by dealers. And fun was had. Count it all as time well wasted (Paisley, 2005).
I know you’re wondering. It’s ok to go ahead and ask… Yeah, I came out on top. Up $18. Take that, gambling.
Next time’s topic – how I used my gambling winnings to buy a house.
6.13.2010
Jello Syringe - I Don't Want It, But I Get It
I apologize in advance for the length of this, but it’s a blog. You don’t have to read it. Stop now if you want. Welcome to part one of to-be-determined…
I’m fairly confident I burned at least 1,500 calories this weekend merely by pulling my ID out of my back pocket. After work on Friday, I set out to meet up with the other three members of Car B, the late departure for bachelor weekend. Eight young men in their prime, determined to roll high, brush off golddiggers, and hit on 19… heading to Tunica. One small problem: Australian Karen, who lives in my Garmin, was unable to locate the address for the Gold Strike Casino… No worries, we’ll just start driving and see what happens.
Before we can get carded in Redneck Vegas, we decide to get carded in Memphis. Car A took off to Tunica, checked everyone in to the hotel, and backtracked to Memphis. We in Car B headed straight for Beale Street. Looking to be a pedestrian on the most popular street in West Tennessee? Please stand in line to verify your age and to be checked with a metal detector by a man whose sense of humor was lost somewhere in the first 2,000 groins he patted down before he got to mine. Good news: I was over 21 when I got carded in the middle of Beale Street.
I have now been to Beale Street. As such, I never have to return. It was approximately 95 degrees. At 10:00 at night. As some groomsmen in training may have wanted to whet their whistles, we decide to go into Club 152. Don’t worry, my streak of never having been in a club did not come to a screeching halt. This was a bar with 2 floors above it that allegedly qualified it to be a club. A later discovery would determine that club status cannot be achieved if the only people on your 2nd and 3rd floors are bouncers. In order to make that discovery, we first had to get in. For your reference, basketball shorts are not classy enough to get into a Beale Street finger-quote club. However, Ronald McDonald taught Grimace to be accepting before he put him in a yellow shirt and sent him to be the doorman at Club 152… Because all my buddies were going in, the man who, earlier in the day, swallowed Shrek whole graciously allowed me to pay him my $10 cover. Such a sweetheart. His silent partner then checked my ID. Still over 21. Boom (Graves, 2009). [NOTE: Please do not be alarmed if, going forward, you see in-text citations in MLA format.]
While basketball shorts are clearly a fashion faux-pas, double lip rings, back murals and pedophile moustaches are all acceptable accessories. Anyways, after our 45 minutes of talking to one another like we would do anywhere else, only at a higher volume, we headed out. Out past the people leaving the GWAR concert covered in blood, past the Ab-Belt guy flipping down the middle of the road, past 74 policemen, and back to the cars to take the party down to Tunica.
Tune in next time for the Mississippi part of our Mississippi adventure...
I’m fairly confident I burned at least 1,500 calories this weekend merely by pulling my ID out of my back pocket. After work on Friday, I set out to meet up with the other three members of Car B, the late departure for bachelor weekend. Eight young men in their prime, determined to roll high, brush off golddiggers, and hit on 19… heading to Tunica. One small problem: Australian Karen, who lives in my Garmin, was unable to locate the address for the Gold Strike Casino… No worries, we’ll just start driving and see what happens.
Before we can get carded in Redneck Vegas, we decide to get carded in Memphis. Car A took off to Tunica, checked everyone in to the hotel, and backtracked to Memphis. We in Car B headed straight for Beale Street. Looking to be a pedestrian on the most popular street in West Tennessee? Please stand in line to verify your age and to be checked with a metal detector by a man whose sense of humor was lost somewhere in the first 2,000 groins he patted down before he got to mine. Good news: I was over 21 when I got carded in the middle of Beale Street.
I have now been to Beale Street. As such, I never have to return. It was approximately 95 degrees. At 10:00 at night. As some groomsmen in training may have wanted to whet their whistles, we decide to go into Club 152. Don’t worry, my streak of never having been in a club did not come to a screeching halt. This was a bar with 2 floors above it that allegedly qualified it to be a club. A later discovery would determine that club status cannot be achieved if the only people on your 2nd and 3rd floors are bouncers. In order to make that discovery, we first had to get in. For your reference, basketball shorts are not classy enough to get into a Beale Street finger-quote club. However, Ronald McDonald taught Grimace to be accepting before he put him in a yellow shirt and sent him to be the doorman at Club 152… Because all my buddies were going in, the man who, earlier in the day, swallowed Shrek whole graciously allowed me to pay him my $10 cover. Such a sweetheart. His silent partner then checked my ID. Still over 21. Boom (Graves, 2009). [NOTE: Please do not be alarmed if, going forward, you see in-text citations in MLA format.]
While basketball shorts are clearly a fashion faux-pas, double lip rings, back murals and pedophile moustaches are all acceptable accessories. Anyways, after our 45 minutes of talking to one another like we would do anywhere else, only at a higher volume, we headed out. Out past the people leaving the GWAR concert covered in blood, past the Ab-Belt guy flipping down the middle of the road, past 74 policemen, and back to the cars to take the party down to Tunica.
Tune in next time for the Mississippi part of our Mississippi adventure...
6.06.2010
Save the World. NBD.
To the educational professional faction of my readership, allow me to apologize on behalf of America and the 160 character text limit. In the youth class I help teach at church, we had a little test – before you get all worked up, this was merely an opportunity for the kids to display their knowledge in an attempt to win prizes… We haven’t gone off the deep end and implemented some type of system that encourages kids to actually learn the Bible. I’m not sure if that was sarcastic or not. Regardless, it was only a means to tell you this – More than one teenage male in the class physically wrote the following response: “IDK.” Seriously… Seriously?
In an age where grown men can sit silently and send a message that reads “LOL”, this is getting out of hand. While I respect a man that can have radioactive beams shot into his scrotum, I’ve never been a big Lance Armstrong fan. However, as I’m watching Jesus Shuttlesworth light up Los Angeles like the spotlights the cocky FBI guy aims at Nakatomi Plaza in Die Hard, I find myself agreeing with every word from the mouth of pantsless Lance - No male over 30 should ever use a colon-dash-close-parenthesis.
In order to try to fulfill Ms. Tracy’s expectations from high school English and weave a common thread throughout my writing, do you really think John McClane would write “Hans looked sooo >:-0 when I threw him off the roof. LOL. TTYL” to Sergeant Al Powell (formerly Lieutenant Carl Winslow)? The man ran barefoot over 15 feet of glass shards while dodging Eastern European machine gun fire. If they had invented text messaging by the second time John and Holly got back together, he would be exactly 100% more likely to text “Yipee-Kay-Yay, Mister Falcon” than anything involving a smiley face.
Now Lucy McClane may be somewhat excused if she sends the occasional less-than-three to the awkward kid from the Mac commercials during Die Hard 4. I’m not saying I dislike it any less, but I’m not exactly going to talk trash to the officer’s daughter after he shot himself through the shoulder in order to get a bullet into the guy who had him in a choke hold.
Think how much harder it would have been for Zeus to figure out how to get exactly 4 gallons of water using only a 3-gallon jug and a 5-gallon jug at the elephant fountain if Simon Gruber had sent the riddle to him in 13-year-old-girl-text… New York City would have exploded. Bottom line.
I don’t expect you to observe all of the obscure rules of American grammar, but allow me to kindly request that we, as one nation, under God, indivisible, use actual words with liberty and justice for all.
Remember: only you can prevent the country’s most famous cities from being attacked by terrorists.
In an age where grown men can sit silently and send a message that reads “LOL”, this is getting out of hand. While I respect a man that can have radioactive beams shot into his scrotum, I’ve never been a big Lance Armstrong fan. However, as I’m watching Jesus Shuttlesworth light up Los Angeles like the spotlights the cocky FBI guy aims at Nakatomi Plaza in Die Hard, I find myself agreeing with every word from the mouth of pantsless Lance - No male over 30 should ever use a colon-dash-close-parenthesis.
In order to try to fulfill Ms. Tracy’s expectations from high school English and weave a common thread throughout my writing, do you really think John McClane would write “Hans looked sooo >:-0 when I threw him off the roof. LOL. TTYL” to Sergeant Al Powell (formerly Lieutenant Carl Winslow)? The man ran barefoot over 15 feet of glass shards while dodging Eastern European machine gun fire. If they had invented text messaging by the second time John and Holly got back together, he would be exactly 100% more likely to text “Yipee-Kay-Yay, Mister Falcon” than anything involving a smiley face.
Now Lucy McClane may be somewhat excused if she sends the occasional less-than-three to the awkward kid from the Mac commercials during Die Hard 4. I’m not saying I dislike it any less, but I’m not exactly going to talk trash to the officer’s daughter after he shot himself through the shoulder in order to get a bullet into the guy who had him in a choke hold.
Think how much harder it would have been for Zeus to figure out how to get exactly 4 gallons of water using only a 3-gallon jug and a 5-gallon jug at the elephant fountain if Simon Gruber had sent the riddle to him in 13-year-old-girl-text… New York City would have exploded. Bottom line.
I don’t expect you to observe all of the obscure rules of American grammar, but allow me to kindly request that we, as one nation, under God, indivisible, use actual words with liberty and justice for all.
Remember: only you can prevent the country’s most famous cities from being attacked by terrorists.
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