I read that the overcompensated swine who operate British Columbia’s coastal ferry system would like to put slot machines on their fleet.
Revenues garnered from such an addition to the general merriment of the journey will no doubt ‘nearly’ cover the costs of their annual bonuses.
“Hey, kids, amuse yourselves by seeing if you can balance on the deck railing while Mommy and Daddy flush away your inheritances to bolster the lifestyles of the rich bastards who run these barges which once upon a time were considered transportation links rather than floating Monte Carlos designed to entertain the rich and famous.
In truth, I have nothing against gambling. If your idea of pleasure is to light your folding money on fire and flush it down the john, that’s your prerogative. The odds of your winning any moolah of substance by doing that are about the same as your chances by playing the slots.
I, of course, do gamble. When I remember to do so I buy a lottery ticket. (See lighting your money on fire and flushing it down the loo). I’ve heard that your chances of winning big on the lottery are about even whether you do or do not buy a ticket. That seems fair.
When we took our recent cruise there was a casino on the ship. We ventured in there on a few occasions. Crossing the threshold into that sin bin was nearly as exciting as a public lecture on municipal economics. But, it’s true, there was sin, and that was the allure. The sin was that which was going on in my mind when I cashed in a larger bill with the delectable Russian girl at the till. I mean, she was gorgeous, and that accent right out of James Bond enticed me royally – Casino Royale-ly fully did the trick in terms of my wantonness. Of course, the idea of a Russkie being in charge of the bucks in a casino did give me momentary pause.
Anyway, we spent a bit of time in the casino. Sometimes as long as actual ‘minutes’ there before both boredom and banknote burning finished my enchantment for that evening.
Word to the wise to the Emirs of the Ferry Fleet: Gambling only appeals to the small percentage of the public that actually likes to gamble, and to chronic gambling addicts who never, actually, should gamble. But, if that is your bent then why not open up a bar for those who are struggling to deal with their alcoholism? Such a move would make the lives of their kids even happier.
The North American Mecca for those who would gamble is, of course, Vegas – baby. In fact, in my in my incipient Puritanism (except as applies to untoward thoughts about Russian casino employees) I happen to think Vegas should be the only place continent-wide that should permit gambling.
Having never been there I reckon I can speak with some authority in suggesting that Las Vegas is possibly the most tasteless urban spot in the history of jaded humanity. Aside from being unspeakably garish (remember, I speak with no small authority about this), it is a place in which tired but filthy rich so-called entertainers like Wayne Newton, Celine and fat old dying Elvis can get a gig and suck in all the grannies who cannot hear enough Danke Schoen. Yet, there’s still no monument to Bugsy Siegel. Somehow that’s just not right. Bugsy was, of course, the kind of George Washington of Vegas.
Wendy has been to Vegas. She suggested we should go sometime just for the experience.
Interesting. I’ve never poked my eyes out with a red-hot needle, so perhaps I should try that as well.