ON THE ROAD TO UNCASVILLE – My job is trying to kill me. You hear it all the time. Regular working stiffs dealing with stress, uncompensated overtime, an abusive boss, dangerous conditions, on and on.
But that’s not what I’m talking about. Rather, it’s that this week my job dictates I spend five days at, of all places, the Mohegan Sun.
I’ve got a conference. It’s being held there. I’m on the hook. let’s be honest: I think I’ll be happy if I still own my house when I leave. Here’s how I envision the week unfolding.
Sunday- Pick up a colleague at the airport in Hartford, then roll into “town.” Not sure if Uncasville really qualifies as a town. Either way, check into the hotel. Grumble that slot machines don’t have arms to pull anymore. Still dragging my bags with me when I place a sizeable bet on Black at a roulette table. Once again, Wesley Snipes lets me down.
Monday- Focus on work stuff. I can do this. I can spend one full day in a casino actually working. No I can’t. Who am I kidding? By lunch I’m at a blackjack table, hitting 14 against a dealer’s 2 based on the misguided premise that the average card is a 6.5.
Tuesday- I manage to do some professional mingling at the continental breakfast. After choking down a stale corn muffin, I find my way to the poker room. I play a lot of poker. For a very long time. Before you know it, it’s . . .
Wednesday- My last full day at the conference. You know, to the extent I’m even at the conference. I pull myself away from the tables just in time to go upstairs, put on a fresh shirt, and come back down for another stale muffin. A fellow conference-goer asks if I liked any of the panels so far. “I’m down five large,” I mumble. “That’s what you get for chasing flushes.” I wander off muttering to myself about the rake being too large on split pot games. “And what’s with that half-kill!” I go find my neglected bathing suit, and in an effort to recharge, I pass out by the pool. For dinner I have a wedge salad, then I go play Pai Gow as an excuse for getting sloshed on free White Russians.
Thursday- Christ. It’s the Thursday. How the !@#$ did that happen? Time to roll the hell out of here with my tail between my legs. Pedal to the metal, and I can make it back to Baltimore just in time for my weekly poker game.
I tell ya. My job is trying to kill me.
Cheesy Bruin kills it tomorrow.
UPDATE: This piece was written before Santana made a soul sacrifice to the Devil in exchange for the Mets’ first-ever no-hitter. Now the mob is demanding a comment. Here it is: What do you think Armando Galaraga would do to trade Jim Joyce for Adrian Johnson? Beyond that, the curse of the Wilpons continues. Everything this team does is tainted so long as those wet willies are in the owner’s box.
How’s that for bitter?
