Scott Bowser, contributor
Years ago I worked on a merchandising crew and spent a lot of time in the Las Vegas area. Merchandising isn’t as glamorous as it sounds. It’s a bunch of meth addicts setting up displays in supermarkets and retail outlets, but they didn’t mind my alcoholism and we got per diem and mileage. I was quite fond of taking that daily handout and blowing it all the first night at the tables. There’s nothing like taking that down to the last $20 then rallying it back up to $250.
Now, I’m not some fucking rube. I know the house exists to collect the percentage that is in its favor and generate revenue. I’m aware that is the price to pay for my amusement and I have no problem with that. In fact I take them for more booze than percentage paid every time. Even though Vegas sportsbooks are horrible about drink tickets. Problem I have is over the years, at all the tables I’ve lost thousands of dollars at, most of them have an anti-swearing policy. I shit you not.
I’ve had cocaine fall out of my face straight on to the smooth green felt of a blackjack table. That’s fine. It keeps you up and playing. Yet Las Vegas corporate cash pits like to present themselves as family destinations. Therefore if I so much utter “holy fuck rag” when I double down on a $100 bet and the dealer sodomizes me with a 16, I become the biggest public enemy in that town since the days of Tony “The Ant” Spilotro. It’s such fucking bullshit. I can’t walk 10 feet down the street without someone trying to sell me pussy but God forbid I call a blackjack dealer an asshole. It’s a double standard. You can’t give me all that booze, take my money, then tell me to keep it G-rated.