In the past year three of my friends decided to end their lives. Only instead of painting the wall with cherry pie or prolonged exposure to a Fran Drescher sitcom, they’ve chosen to slowly grind down their souls over the course of several decades like rain weathering mountains. For women reading this: 1) Why are you reading this? 2) They got engaged. This cubed suicide led to the debauched conclusion that a bachelor party must take place in Atlantic City: catering to the lowest common denominator since 1976. And I was there, too.
My brother, Mark, has been married for almost 10 years. When I asked him at his eldest daughter’s 6th birthday why he was going to AC by himself he replied, (with bloodshot eyes) “I haven’t had a day off since Christmas. I think I’ve earned it.” I meet up with him at the Borgata around 11 Thursday night. If there were a race between casinos in AC, the Borgata would be Darren Sproles and the rest would be the down syndrome all-stars. Rewards at the Borgata are accumulated much faster, dining options are plentiful and higher in quality, the décor isn’t as obnoxious as a Jersey Shore/Laguna Beach crossover, and the employees don’t act like you’re insulting them as you tip them for shitty service (e.g. Somehow a drink spills as a server hands it to bachelor #1: El Matador. She yells “Jesus Christ” and walks away). My brother's downing red bulls despite saying drinking red bulls all night falls in the not good category. At some point I’m up $200, but by 5:30 I’m down $100 and its time for bed.
9:30 – back to blackjack. I get back to even before 2 ladies sit down at our table and I win $300 in 1 shoe. When it’s done they leave and we decide it’s a good time for lunch, which is paid for by our playing blackjack for 7 hours (score!). The first gaggle of idiots isn’t getting in until 10, so I take the scenic route to the Tropicana. Along the way I learn a few things. Did you know: there is nothing on this earth sexier, believe me gentlemen, then 2 Asian women yelling “Why you do that?!” after one of them doesn’t pay you on a win in Paigow and you don’t point out she messed up fast enough. So confusing and arousing at the same time. Not really, it was actually annoying and angering, but that story isn’t as good.
Have you ever played a video game for several straight hours, days, or weeks and suddenly realized it’s not fun anymore; you’re just going through the motions? That’s what 2-4 limit hold ‘em is like, only you’re losing money to a whole menagerie of social rejects, including the always crowd pleasing female mullet and the guy next to me who might have been from New Jersey and tells me what hand he had and how close he would have been to winning had he not folded every single hand. By 8 I’ve lost most of my winnings and am sitting at a bar by myself.
The first of many bachelorette parties I see over the weekend comes in. They’re all around 40 and it's the bachelorette's second marriage (Side note: The bachelorette tells me the best age to get married is around 43: Right on track). They’re a pretty lively bunch, and since my friends still aren’t here and they start buying me drinks I accompany them to another bar and then the craps table until 10.
In the 20 minutes I wander trying to connect with the first set of fucktards, which includes bachelor #2: Goose, I see:
• A guy peeing on a plant in full view of the gambling public
• A guy at a slot machine bent over puking
• A guy I saw a half hour before on the verge of vomiting/falling over/staggering into anything with his friends trying to keep him standing. He’s in the same condition only without his friends
I don’t remember much about the next 6 hours. One dealer, Tao, must have just finished his doctorate in rapeology because the whole table is pummeled like woo girls at a club on ladies night with special guest Ben Roethlisberger. Finally some $15 blackjack tables open up and Sluegar and I settle in for the grind. Things are looking good…and it’s gone. By 7 I’m down $150 and the only person up besides us is Fart Factory who stays up until 10 playing poker.
We wake up around 11 and dial it in before lunch. It’s established everyone is down at least a $100. I find out bachelor El Matador isn’t coming because he has to work Saturday and Sunday. I call him and explain he will be dead in 2 months and this is his last chance to do anything fun ever. A barrage of texts from the rest of our contingent ensues and he finally concedes. At PF Changs, which was lovely, we have a group of about 10. Half of us are served appetizers before the other half’s orders are taken. I’m not sure if I can overemphasize how low the average IQ level of AC Casino employees is, but Simple Jack would be in the running for Valedictorian. (If any casino employees read this, let me just say thank you for all your hard work. Yours is the back the Atlantic City economy is built on. Without you it wouldn’t be possible to…wait, reading this would require knowledge of the Internet…and literacy. I think I’m in the clear.)
We head to the bar to watch soccer, which I don’t care about but I am firmly in Gamblor’s neon claw, and begin betting on everything from arcade games to over under on flops in the soccer game. You see, gambling makes things better. Its what I like to call an awesomeness enhancer. Other awesomeness enhancers include bacon, alcohol, and possibly girls in bikinis. I can’t think of any service or industry that couldn’t be improved by some girls in bikinis.
After some craps with Dr. Thundah, Fro and Goose, I find Sluegar at a blackjack table with some of our group behind him. I ask him how he’s doing which he answers by pulling 4 or 5 black chips from his pocket. I realize he’s lost the ability to stop talking or make sense – my favorite drunk Sluegar stage (followed by eyes closed mumbling incoherently). The table loves him. I watch as he and the Spanish gentleman next to him are showered with winnings, including the Spaniard calling a 4 followed by a 10 to get 21, which my mind can’t fathom because it is blown. While there I receive reports Fro and the Doctah are up big at craps and have gained the admiration of their table as well. I tell Sluegar everyone’s going to dinner, but he’s staying there because if he leaves that seat I will stab him.
At dinner our party of 11 is surpassed by one of about 20 behind us who’s soulful rendition of Happy Birthday is on par with Marvin Gaye’s rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. Our BullDike-ish waitress arrives and immediately starts wrestling Viktor for the spoon he’s using to launch mints into a cup. I’m worried she’ll remove him via headlock so I distract her from the retardery by ordering wine. Family style dinning begins and Fro dominates 3 on 3 mint launch.
One more session of blackjack, which is just enough to win back all the money I've lost. With a plan so simple, nothing could possiblye go wrong. I am quickly down money and ask the dealer, Tien, if she knows Tao. She does! Viktor and I tell her their playing styles are similar, and we want to be her friend but she’s not playing fair. She does not like us, or our light-hearted antics. Bachelor #3: The Wolf shows up and things turn slightly positive. I’ve stopped drinking and decide to try counting cards again. The count gets up to 20 and I press my bets big. I win $200 in 4-6 hands but forget to keep counting and lose it in the next shoe and ½. I decide to call it an early night and go to bed at 3:30.
In a way we all won this weekend. But in another, more correct way, some of us lost such that we now require a second job because some asshole decided to have his wedding in Hawaii. So, who won the weekend? I’ve put together my pertinent stats and I think I’ve got a shot. I encourage fellow bumblers to post theirs as well so pointless debate can commence, a champion can be crowned and maximum heckling can be achieved.
Stat line for the weekend (Total, daily average):
Player Name: Divac
Hours gambling: 30, 10
Hours sleeping: 12, 4
Drinks consumed (approx.) 45, 15
Winnings -$550, -$183
*Bonus stat: 696 PSI on punching game, compared to 949 by random large man at the bar
