Written by: pvcpipe
This past weekend, I journeyed back to my home away from home, the reservation of the Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indians. I wanted to take in some history, some heritage, and view first-had the unbelievable collection of American History artifacts such as ancient Choctaw craftwork and centuries-old arrowheads. It turns out there’s also a casino on this reservation. What a happy coincidence! Even though I had no previous knowledge of a gambling establishment on the sacred tribal land, since I was already there I had no qualms about a little leisurely gambling.
I decided to take along a gambling companion. Similar to watching a movie, having an associate to gamble with doesn’t really enhance the experience itself, but it’s nice to have the company. Although most of my friends are either married or giant vaginas, my buddy Chad agreed to join me on my adventure. Everyone has certain friends that are great to hang out with, but are equally exasperating. Chad falls into that category. I always have fun spending time with him, but when I do, a good 10% of my sentences begin or end with “Fucking Chad.”
There’s nothing better than that first minute inside a casino. All the bells and whistles, the artificial sound of slot machines paying out, cries of jubilation and desperation as fortunes are won and lost……all of these things make a casino a Mecca of sorts for the action junkie. Best of all, upon arrival, the gambler hasn’t yet had a chance to lose, and the anticipation of winning far outweighs the potential anguish of losing. So, I wish my friend good luck at the roulette table (sucker!), and head to the dice pit.
It didn’t work out as I’d hoped. It was so cold; I’m convinced there were supernatural forces at work. Either the table is located directly above an old Indian Cemetery, or the casino was employing a tribal shaman as the stickman. Down a few hundred, I feel hot breath on the back of my neck. Good ol’ Chad. Slurping away on a beverage like Cousin Eddie, he enlightens me with this nugget of wisdom: “Well…The Lord giveth and the lord taketh away. That’s from the Book of Job. There was nothing else to read in the hotel room when I was taking a dump, so I grabbed the Bible. Pretty good stuff in there.” Fucking Chad.
(Incidentally, the Gideons would save a lot more people if they placed the Good Book on the back of the can in hotel bathrooms, rather than in the night stand. You’re telling me you wouldn’t peruse some scripture if there was nothing else around? The Lord works in mysterious ways, I always say.)
So, after being robbed blind at the dice table, I followed my friend into the High Limits slot salon. I tried to tell him that slots are useless, boring, and primarily for trophy wives that can’t figure out the intricacies of blackjack, but he wouldn’t listen. Probably a good thing, since no sooner did he pull the lever did he nail the machine for a $2,000.00 score. He immediately went into a celebration dance that would make Chad Johnson blush, while flies buzzed lazily out of my wallet. I won’t go into details about his makeshift end-zone celebration, I’ll just say it began with The Robot and ended in a slow, sensual dry hump of the “Blazing 7’s” machine. The real miracle is that we didn’t get laid.
After Chad’s victory over the slot machine, we decided to grab some food at the all night diner. Our waiter, like most employees, was Native American. And from the service, it’s safe to assume he’s still pissed about the Trail of Tears. I’m pretty sure his given name was “Drags Ass While Bringing Water,” or “Brave Who Will Make Paleface Suffer From Dehydration.” But his nametag just said, “Phil.”
To close out the evening, we hit the poker room, just playing some pot-limit hold ‘em. We did pretty well over a four hour span, but were eventually asked to leave when my friend slow rolled an opposing player, then winked at him and stiffed the dealer on a tip. Turning to me, they asked, “What the hell is wrong with your friend?” All I could say was: “Fucking Chad.”
PVCPIPE
