A night at Caesars
Most people arrive in Las Vegas with a system for gambling their way into a fortune. Some people have progressive-betting systems. Others have card-counting systems. Some bet on their kids' birthday dates, or perhaps the date their loved one(s) get out of prison. I conceived my own system for blackjack: bribing the dealer. I figure the dealer makes a better friend than an enemy. Plus he has access to the cards. Instead of beating the odds, why not enlist his help? Here was my foolproof plan. When I had an iffy hand, I'd offer the dealer a $1 chip to give me a peek at the next card. If I liked the card, I'd hit. If I didn't, I'd stand. Either way I'd toss the dollar-chip at my good man behind the table. We both come out winners.
Unfortunately the dealer didn't appreciate the genius of my plan. In fact, my proposition appeared to discomfort him. “Sir, I'm not allowed to do that.” “Sir, I can't reveal the cards before they're dealt.” “Sir, perhaps you'd like to try roulette or craps instead.”
What a putz this dealer was. What was he so worried about?
“Come on, Dealer. Why the worry? Nobody's gonna know. It's not like they've got a camera on you or something. Just give me a peek at th...”
Just then a gentleman in a suit emerged from behind the tables and approached me. He asked for a word. I quipped to the dealer, “Gee, the cocktail waitresses in this place are awfully butch.” Then I tossed the flathead in the three-piece suit one of my dollar chips and asked him to fetch me a Harvey Wallbanger. The Suit became indignant. He began asking me all kinds of questions. Did I have ID? How much did I have to drink this evening? Was I aware that cheating at a blackjack table was a felony in Nevada? Did I enjoy the tent scene in Brokeback Mountain -- I knew he was queer. I scoffed at his questions and advised him to stop shopping for suits at Dagos-R-Us. I returned to my game. “Let's see the next hand, Dealer.” Meanwhile, the dago in the suit gestured in the air with his hand, whereupon several uniformed security guards converged on our blackjack table.
I figured it was time to try a different casino. I gathered my remaining chips and bolted for the exit. The guards gave chase. Luckily I had a good head-start. I bobbed and weaved through the oceans of tourists at Caesar's Palace. In my haste I forgot where the nearest exit was. I charged onward and eventually emerged from the crowd to discover a large fountain with sculptures of Roman Gods. I paused briefly to think. I could hear the commotion of the guards in the distance behind me. I had to think fast. Inspiration struck. I jumped into the fountain, stripped down to the nude, struck a pose and established a flow of urine. I remained perfectly still and waited for the danger to pass. Hopefully the guards would mistake me for your average Roman God bathing in a fountain. I'll grant you this plan wasn't as foolproof as my bribe-the-dealer blackjack scheme, but still, I liked the odds for success. It wouldn't be the first time I'd evaded the law by posing naked in a fountain.
The dozen harvey wallbangers I drank made public nudity, remaining motionless and urinating easy tasks. I blended into the fountain. To onlookers, it appeared Michelangelo himself inserted me into the work. My alabaster skin matched the complexion of the statues. And also, I was naked. Like many of the statues, I had a steady stream of fluid flowing from me. The only blemish in my camouflage was that I was the only circumcised Roman God. I had to hope the guards wouldn't scrutinize the goods too closely. Hopefully they weren't queer like the pit boss who started this whole affair. The guards thundered into the atrium. They halted. They searched the area. Noone paid me any attention. Frustrated, the guards dithered about until a commander shouted through their walkie talkies to “return to base.” Ha! My planned worked perfectly -- and without a nick of time to spare; I was running out of urine! Also, several senior citizen ladies were taking notice of my circumcision. I overheard one remark that I reminded her of her late husband, Harold. This is no time to reminisce on your husband's junk, Myrtle! I leaped from the fountain, gathered my crumpled clothes and darted for the casino exit without further incident.
The rest of my trip was uneventful. I'm glad to be back and blogging again. Hey, can you spot me in the picture (above) that Myrtle took?