First off, why Atlantic City? It's possible that my day job is doing its best to make me a compulsive gambler and alcoholic. I'm suspicious that they want drones like myself buried under gambling debts so that they become functional indentured servants with dying souls. And if I down a 40 the moment work releases me, I can't drive off into the sunset and escape.
It's more likely that the thought process for the trip went something like this:
"We have lots of consultants who need to learn a software we may or may not put into place."
"Where do they work?"
"What about the people training them?"
"They work in D.C."
"Great. But we need a room. And some computers."
"No kidding. We actually have rooms here. Lots of them. Whole offices, actually"
"Yeah, I think so. I know I've been checking my email on something."
"Hmmm. Ok. Well, "Atlantic City" comes first alphabetically on this computer registration form. So we're going to send them there.
Whatever the mysterious case may be, travelling occurred, and I'm actually grateful for the opportunity. But I have been longing for a good chance to blog.
For most of the week I was attempting to answer emails and update blog posts by telepathically messaging everyone. As I later informed some friends, New Jersey unfortunately magically caps brain power/superpowers. That's why Snooki uses the Bump-It--- to shield her wise mind from the Jersey stupifying rays. The Situation... No such luck.
|What's up with the added shipping, Bump-It?|
As a guy, I don't really have the hair for a bump, so I fell subject to New Jersey's mind beams. And I did what any mind-rattled zombie will do: I hit the casino.
First I went into a place called Resorts which you have probably never heard of. You know you're in a quality establishment when you have a $2 minimum bet at the blackjack table (but they charge you a quarter every hand to play). The dealer was an old woman who was apparently close to the end of her shift, because she gave me a death stare when I sat down to her table. She literally told me "You don't have to talk to me, just hand signal if you want to hit, stay, etc." Ouch.
I'm a believer in tipping your dealers, but after playing about 5 minutes, I left angry, depressed, and unwilling to tip Granny Goodness.
Then I made my way over to the Trump Taj Mahal. This casino is the realization of Donald Trumps' vision:
"You know what would really improve one of the most beautiful buildings in the world? Slot Machines!"
This place was actually pretty nice: relatively low minimum bets (as low as 5$ on the roulette table) without a complete sacrifice of quality. Plus, Donald Trumps' picture is EVERYWHERE, so there is always something amusing to laugh at.
By the way, let's be real for a moment: Donald Trump could afford a new hair stylist. So at some point, he made a conscious choice to keep that hairdo.
The first thing I see is a dealer who looks EXACTLY like Dwight Scrhute. The guy could have been Rainn Wilson's older brother.
|Shuffle Up and Deal!|
Because I like shiny colors and moving objects, I hit the roulette table. At first I had mediocre to bad luck and was slowly draining money and getting overlooked by cocktail waitresses.
Then... true to form, I found a dealer with a moustache. And this was no weak 'stache-- this was a handlebar you would put on your bike if you could.
This roulette dealer with the moustache helped me win back all of my losings, and I broke even for the night. Deciding that wasn't too shabby, I departed before my neglectful cocktail waitress brought me a drink I had been stalling for 20 minutes to get.
Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner.