Random Thoughts, "I'm Bad at Blackjack" Edition

Last night was the annual FOTG “head to Casino Arizona and leave pissed off and without money” night. Much like most of my gambling nights, we spent about 30 minutes too long there-just enough for me to erase any winnings with which I might have been able to leave the casino. Of course, as JP mentioned “any night in which you leave a casino having lost less than you had budgeted for the night, you should consider that a win.” In that case…we’re still not winners. Anyway, on to the random thoughts from night two of Spring Training 2009:

Non-Vegas Casinos may be the saddest places on earth. Anytime someone shows up by themselves and sits next to you at a blackjack table wearing what they had worn to work that day, then proceeds to take out what is clearly their pay for the day/week and set it on the table to bet, you know life just isn't quite working out like that person had hoped. There were far too many people there who were “just one good run at the tables away from paying the rent.”

Being at Casino Arizona made me appreciate Chicago’s smoking ban more than I could imagine. I half expected to walk out of there looking like a used catchers mitt.

Nothing is more annoying than sitting down at a table just in time for the bloodbath. 3 dealer blackjacks in a row (against your 3 20’s) is gambling equivalent of having the bases loaded in the bottom of the ninth and seeing Neifi Perez, Paul Bako and Jose Macias coming up.

A few rules for playing blackjack-all of which, when violated, made my night oh so much fun. (If you aren’t into blackjack or gambling, you might want to skip the next few lines. Then again, if you’re not into gambling, you probably stopped about 3 sentences into this post):

If you’re playing blackjack and you’re wife is sitting at the table, don’t make an ass of yourself. More importantly: if you proceed to blow through $200 in 20 minutes, don’t ask her to go to the ATM for you.

If you sit down at a table and the guy sitting next to you is complaining to a pit boss that the dealer didn’t let him split tens, leave the table. Immediately.

So help me God, if you are sitting on 13 and the dealer shows ten, HIT.
Especially if, on the next hand, you are sitting on 15, the dealer shows 6, and you take a hit.

NOTE: The drunk bastard sitting at our table almost got his jugular ripped out for those two moves-which, by the way, occurred on consecutive hands.

On that same note, when a dealer at a table says to you, “wow-you just fucked the whole table,” its probably a good idea to walk away. Of course, he didn’t.




Not that I’m bitter about last night or anything.