Monday, August 10

What The Hell Am I Doing In Dubuque?



I knew unequivocally that I had a terrible time at the Mystique Casino the night before, but I didn't understand the full magnitude until I was in the shower the next morning.

In my naked, bleary-eyed, hung-over stupor of failure and fiscal tragedy, I actually checked my wrist to see what time it was, fully expecting to see a watch there.

And there was.

They don't allow cameras in the casino, and it was probably for the better. Sweet Jesus Goddammit, I sure do hate gambling. Although I can always seem to find some sort of justification for going, it really is a ridiculously depressing and asinine way to spend your evening. Even the rare luxury of winning doesn't even justify how mind-numbingly dumb it is.

It's for two types of people only. One, Professional Gamblers, the likes of which make up approximately .000000019% of the population. And no, you cannot refer to yourself as a 'Professional Gambler' if you've never net a profit and have no other primary source of employment. That simply makes you a dude from my hometown.

Type II, inarguably the lion's share of Casino-goers, are RV-Driving Chainsmokers Who Want To Get Rid Of Their Nickels. Without question and without any sort of ego attached to this statement whatsoever, me and the Missus were the best-dressed, best-looking and youngest people in the entire Mystique compound. This is not because Dubuque is some jerkwater berg that ran their culture out of town on a rail decades ago (that would be Oshkosh); it's because me and my wife are idiots and every other 20-something in the world probably knows better than to throw heaps of cash into the toilet.

In the end, we lost a few hundred bucks (a steal, all things considered) and more importantly, our pride. The pain of this is magnified tenfold, however, when you take into consideration that the Missus had us up $250 and promptly whizzed it all away in...let me count on my fingers, here...no more than 15 minutes. When she initially hit the proverbial 'We broke slightly better than even!' jackpot, I should have grabbed her by the scruff, dragged her the Cashier's Station and made sweet love to her atop a bed covered in deposit receipts. But nope. I circled the Blackjack table for the billionth time while she, presumably whacked out of her mind on complimentary soda and oxygen-rich air, lost everything.

Seriously though, the air-purification system at Mystique is top-notch. The vacuum in the ceiling was so vicious, I figure they're just one step away from sucking the spare change out of people's pockets as soon as they walk in, shooting them directly upwards into some sort of collection basin or reservoir. Every other casino I've ever been to contains that unshakable funk combo of Cat Food and Asshole that clings to you like a pube on a bar of soap.

Come to think of it, I think I saw Cat Food & Asshole open up for Clyde Stubblefield a few years back. 'Funk combo,' you see.

Here's one final piece of evidence as to how I not only have no business being in a gambling establishment, but also precisely how low-rent of an individual I am. When I approached the blackjack table, they had a sign stating what the minimum and maximum bids were. The minimum read '5,' and the maximum read '500.' I, of course, thought they were referring to a spread of five cents to five dollars. "Great," I doofusly hypothesized. "I can play nickel hands! I didn't even think they made five cent chips!"

How I made it back home is anyone's guess.



(LISTEN UP! The Communist Dance Party is inching ever closer to Post #1000! As part of the festivities, the CDP will devote the entire week of August 17-21 to answering any and all questions you may have about the Little Blog That Could. So think of something you've always wanted to ask about Ryan J. Zeinert or theCDP.net, post or send it to communistdance@yahoo.com, and wait until the week of August 17 for the answer. You can stay anonymous and can ask as many questions as you want. Thanks in advance!)

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Comments:
Casinos never fail to fill me with a deep, creeping dread. I just don't understand the appeal, unless you're into creeping dread. Then hey, knock yourself out.

I've played one 25 cent slot in my life and that's it. Nearly cost me my life, too, as the old woman making her way down the aisle, from slot to slot, basically tried to knock me over to get to my machine.

It's just sad.
 
Love the Oshkosh put down (speaking as a native Oshkosh-ian). Couldn't be more true.
 
JULIA - Same here. Every time I go home to see the folks, I get more and more depressed that I spent so much of my youth there. It's going to be a David Lynch-ian industrial wasteland within 10 years, mark my words. Sad stuff.
 

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