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The Vegas Plague.

Armed with a shotglass, a magnifying glass, and a non-existent degree in biomolecular research, I have finally discovered the method in which this disease is spread:

A sick person from Arkansas comes to Las Vegas and they leave their cooties on a gaming chip.  That chip is picked up by a sick person from Japan, and he leaves his germs on it.  Then, a guy from Germany buys into a game and transfers his euro-virus to the chip.

As the petri chip sits in a stack, the three germs look at each other, and one of them gets the idea to have a sloppy threeway without protection.  For the next hour the germs roll around, copulate, and produce a three-parented offspring that has dominant genetic traits from all of its parents.

Eventually, I walk into a casino and procure this microscopic universe on a wafer.  By this time, the new bastard tri-continental love child virus has already incestuously reproduced (much like Adam and Eve’s kids), and there now exists an entire colony of inbred super-germs complete with shotguns and “Bush-Cheney” bumper stickers.

As soon as I grab the chip, this new continent of microbes seizes the opportunity, makes a break for it, and they immediately head for my nose, run up my ass, or do whatever it is that viruses do.

A day later I have the ArkanAsianEuro flu.  The symptoms usually manifest themselves by making me want to simultaneously have sex with my first cousin, spank off while watching anime, and partake in the newest dance sensation known as “Disco”.

Since I am always handling chips, pulling a large rod, and also operating the arm of slot machines … it seems like I get a new strain of this illness ever six weeks.

Due to the sheer number of people bringing plagues from their own regions, it is absolutely impossible to build up an immunity to the billion permutations of the Vegas Plague, so I more or less have to concede that I am going to be ill on a somewhat routine basis and accept it.

The Vegas Plague also makes a swell case for online gaming.

I contracted this particular illness yet again this weekend, but I usually don’t let it stop me.  To the contrary, much like linebackers who have the grammatical skills of infants, I like to “give back to the community”.  Thus, I am frequently out and about with a triple digit internal temperature to compliment the triple digit external temperature.

Because I’ve been reticent to sit in traffic or walk long distances in the current heat wave, I’ve spent the last couple of days in the rail transit-rich Bally’s/Paris/Planet Hollywood/Flamingo metropolitan area.

I used the Bally’s station as the starting point for each of my trips, and I was pleased to see that the sports book has re-opened.  When the book was closed, the walk from the rail to the casino was somewhat depressing and empty.  I’m sure the adjacent stores and restaurants appreciate the opening as well.

Bally’s has one of the more cool sports books in Las Vegas with kind of an amphitheater thing going on.  While many books are interchangeable, this one actually has an element of uniqueness.

Unfortunately, there does not seem to be enough business to keep it going when football season ends, but I’m glad it will still be open at least part of the year.

This weekend was not as crowded as I would typically expect for a summer weekend, although there is a perfectly good explanation.  The week immediately preceding a three day weekend is very often the calm before the storm, so I fully expect a packed town in 6 days (The Labor Day Holiday).

It had been awhile since I played the Bally’s Poker Room, so I decided to stay on-property last night and work my magic.

Bally’s Poker Room isn’t much of a “room” per-se, but it’s an adequate setup adjacent to the pit and next to a decent sized bar.  Playing the Bally’s room really makes you feel like you are in a casino, and it adds a little something to the excitement level.  Quiet rooms can be a little sleepy at times, but this is a problem that Bally’s does not have.

They also have a fairly high tourist-to-local ratio, and the competition tends to range from average to maniacal.

I drew a moderately-loose 1/2 table, sat back and bled about 40% from my stack calling and blanking the board.

A-Q black looks swell pre-flop, until the next three cards to hit the felt are diamonds.

A-K in the pocket, 10-8-7 on the flop, 9 on the turn, fold.

Had I been playing Casino War, I would have cleaned up.

Finally, I struck gold with one of my most hated hands.  Jack-Jack.

For me, this hand is historically nothing but trouble.  I always bet it, someone always calls it, and two overcards typically hit the board.

The same thing happened this time, only the lowest card on the flop happened to be another Jack.

Fortunately, a set of low cards still beats two pairs of high cards, and I turned a dismal start into a mild profit.

Given the liberal flow of the game, I considered sticking around to take another stab, but I know full well that looseness giveth and looseness taketh away.

Not only that, but a guy who had taken a seat next to me 5 minutes prior got on my nerves slightly.  Shortly after sitting down, he felt the need to inform my side of the table that he had just gotten a great deal on a Porsche, and had used it to drive from Orange County to Vegas.  It was such a douche conversation starter that I was sure that someone else at the table would burst out laughing.

This did not happen, though.

A couple of other guys starting asking how fast the car went or how many gears it had, and I had one of those “Who am I?  How did I get here?  These are not my people!  Where are my people?” moments.

Honestly, I don’t advocate that anyone be a sarcastic, contemptuous, anti-social prick.  It’s an absolutely miserable existence.  I don’t want to be one of these.  I want to be the happy guy that yells at the screen and forgets all of his troubles when the Raiders are playing.

I want to be impressed by a Porsche.  Hell, I want to be motivated to buy a Porsche.  I want to mow a lawn and be proud of the outcome.  I want to put on expensive clothing and feel better about myself.  I want to be amused by beer.

“Porsche you say?  You must be a financially successful person.  Because I share a table with you, I feel a certain proximal aura of your success.  Let us saturate our mesolimbic pathways with dopamine by discussing this Porsche.”

I desperately want to say that and mean it.

Unfortunately, something is wrong with me.

I really need to investigate The Church of Scientology because I have become more convinced that I’m an alien with each passing day.  Then again, if Tom Cruise is one of my real people, I’m probably better off in exile.  I’ll never be able to get that worked up about Katie Holmes.  I mean, I might nail her if she promised not to speak but that’s about it.

Anyway, I didn’t leave Bally’s with a major financial victory, but a small win is better than a big loss and all of that poker cliché stuff.

I jumped in my Bentley that drives on a single concrete rail (Ask me about it!!!) and headed home.

Another night, another poker session, another 103 degree body temperature.

Such is the life of a degenerate in the making.

As a complete coincidence which furthers the theory of my geolocated trilogies, I’m actually headed back to the Bally’s station once again this afternoon.  I am due at Paris for a dining event.

While attending a “dining event” is certainly no Porsche, it sounds more impressive than “I’m meeting someone to eat”.

As I once again pass the Sports Book, I will be sure to lean over the rail and shout “Go team with the most lucrative merchandising rights!”

At least I’m trying.

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