SATURDAY
Sad ol' Las Vegas regulars provide easily as much entertainment as any other inane flashing nonsense going on.
Sure, there are mornings I wake up, look at myself in the mirror and think, "so this is what you've laid out for yourself, huh? Way to go, jagoff." But never, ever, even at the lowest depths of despair can I imagine being one of these sad, prematurely old bastards who roll themselves out of bed in the morning, sidle into the nearest flashing wasteland and set up shop at their favorite slot machine for nine or ten hours at a go. But not just any slot machine... the "lucky one"- the one that's going to pay off big one of these days.
And there are a lot of these little nomads wandering about, drawn to "the lucky one" where they sit, hour upon hour waiting for emblems to line up on a machine designed specifically to NOT have those emblems line up.
Two things immediately cross my mind:
Firstly, they can't ALL possibly be the lucky one. And "luck" is very different than "chance." "Chance" is a real, provable thing. "Luck" is part of the same chapter in the "Life Lessons" book as leprechauns, dragons, and Santa Claus: it's bullshit.
Secondly: What the hell would these people do differently with their lives if they WERE to suddenly hit it rich?
To aid them in their quest to redeem a big payoff ticket, they march out all sorts of "lucky" accouterments- rabbits feet, plush toys, troll dolls, pictures of deceased loved ones, flowers- all to be adjusted in such a way as to make that particular machine pay off big. "If I dance my troll doll with colorful hair two steps to the left, one to the right, a half turn around and blow on his hair, cherries come up on the screen!"
But with all the weird shit being paraded on top of the slot machines lining our hotel, easily the weirdest and most unpleasant luck-finder was the gentleman pictured above, absent-mindedly going about his business playing a slot machine in a lumberjack shirt and no pants. From what I could tell, not even underpants. Just a pantsless old guy at 11:30 AM on a Saturday playing "Gold Mine!" hoping, that having his balls exposed in public will somehow cause the machine to pay off in a major way.
Aghast, we walked to the liquor store, and on the way back passed a group of younger guys coming towards us, one of whom was saying to the others, "Geeze, that dude's gotta wear some underwear or something, bro!"
And sure enough, multiple hours later after hitting a major car show at the Orleans, old Pantsless Jim was still there, rockin' the hot slots.
From then on, every place I sat (and- possibly every place I will EVER sit) I had to wonder if the seat had been kissed with a liberal dose of bare old man ass sweat.
As such, all of the pants from my trip have entirely bleached backsides.
Sad ol' Las Vegas regulars provide easily as much entertainment as any other inane flashing nonsense going on.
Sure, there are mornings I wake up, look at myself in the mirror and think, "so this is what you've laid out for yourself, huh? Way to go, jagoff." But never, ever, even at the lowest depths of despair can I imagine being one of these sad, prematurely old bastards who roll themselves out of bed in the morning, sidle into the nearest flashing wasteland and set up shop at their favorite slot machine for nine or ten hours at a go. But not just any slot machine... the "lucky one"- the one that's going to pay off big one of these days.
And there are a lot of these little nomads wandering about, drawn to "the lucky one" where they sit, hour upon hour waiting for emblems to line up on a machine designed specifically to NOT have those emblems line up.
Two things immediately cross my mind:
Firstly, they can't ALL possibly be the lucky one. And "luck" is very different than "chance." "Chance" is a real, provable thing. "Luck" is part of the same chapter in the "Life Lessons" book as leprechauns, dragons, and Santa Claus: it's bullshit.
Secondly: What the hell would these people do differently with their lives if they WERE to suddenly hit it rich?
To aid them in their quest to redeem a big payoff ticket, they march out all sorts of "lucky" accouterments- rabbits feet, plush toys, troll dolls, pictures of deceased loved ones, flowers- all to be adjusted in such a way as to make that particular machine pay off big. "If I dance my troll doll with colorful hair two steps to the left, one to the right, a half turn around and blow on his hair, cherries come up on the screen!"
But with all the weird shit being paraded on top of the slot machines lining our hotel, easily the weirdest and most unpleasant luck-finder was the gentleman pictured above, absent-mindedly going about his business playing a slot machine in a lumberjack shirt and no pants. From what I could tell, not even underpants. Just a pantsless old guy at 11:30 AM on a Saturday playing "Gold Mine!" hoping, that having his balls exposed in public will somehow cause the machine to pay off in a major way.
Aghast, we walked to the liquor store, and on the way back passed a group of younger guys coming towards us, one of whom was saying to the others, "Geeze, that dude's gotta wear some underwear or something, bro!"
And sure enough, multiple hours later after hitting a major car show at the Orleans, old Pantsless Jim was still there, rockin' the hot slots.
From then on, every place I sat (and- possibly every place I will EVER sit) I had to wonder if the seat had been kissed with a liberal dose of bare old man ass sweat.
As such, all of the pants from my trip have entirely bleached backsides.
posted by Pete Klockau at 8:15 PM
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