The
winds of change
No
longer is this site just craps dealers. Yes,
we are expanding, opening up new avenues of knowledge and entertainment. Craps
dealers, don't panic. Please deposit riot gear at the rope and read below.
Shuffling and spinning. It’s been there all along.
Every time the shelling stopped and you got two welcome minutes to raise your
head and stretch your weary spine, you could see it in front of you,
mirage-like. You viewed it as you would a tea party on the embassy lawn from
your foxhole in the war torn land of Sixenate.
The ball-butlers elegantly
dusting and straightening a minimum of chips before summoning the strength for
another spin. (Surely those somber gentlemen should be wearing white gloves?)
The mute players busying themselves with the task of placing their own bets to
dealer-imposed deadlines.
The solemn injunction delivered that the drones should
turn their collective attention to the wheel; bodies petrified, eyes and heads
looping the loop. And finally, the polite applause as the dividends on
investment are announced and distributed. A dusting, spinning, straightening,
waltzing, “cucumber sandwich” world just out of reach of the “apocalypse
now” horror that is yours.
A bizarro Crapsland where bent-double players toil
in green fields and grinning dealers offer apologies for physical injury caused
by wayward ivory spheres. Oh! Stogie-less sanctuary of peace and quiet! That’s
for me one day, you thought.
Well that day has arrived my
hunchbacked friend. Rumors of wars have left many of your old adversaries
running for cover and red cube mercenaries are being forced to adapt and
overcome. Weekend warriors can keep the wolf from the door by becoming midweek
snappers and chipper champs, they say.
Don’t worry that stormy night widows no
longer delight in your stick work; age isn’t a factor at this carrefour of
career development. You need not worry that you look forty; what matters is
whether or not you can feel twenty. Indeed, an old boy pushing eighty is not an
unusual sight on the street corners of this 666ity.
True, you will unlock the
potential of the double zero using different keys than you are used to, but this
should prove no problem for the ancient wizards of bend-over-and-multiply
mathematics. The real question is this: During your tour in the field of broken
dreams, did you retain enough gray material in order to swap your fatigues for a
suit back in the world?
Now that we are inviting all
dealers, you will have to reinvent your image. For one, you’ll have to start
walking upright. That’s a tall order for some but today’s chiropractors can
work miracles, I’m told.
You will also be limited to English as the sole means
of verbal interaction with the cobwebbed historians of ball drops and snappers
past. The use of Anglo-Saxon, Stickish, Cusmumbel or those handy-dandy comebacks
you picked up in Tijuana will no longer be tolerated as a means of self-therapy.
They’ll be able to see your lips move now. Boxcar willies who find that their
jaw jones is too difficult to overcome cold-turkey, may wean themselves off the
wisecrack by liberal use of method one: The empty winner. Marking that
“handicapped parking space” on the board of short ladders and long snakes
will be one of the few pleasures left to you now.
Lastly, this will be a one-man
mission to a lonely place where a person may easily become forgotten in the
bureaucratic tangle of civilian life. Since you may no longer count on your
platoon buddies for a twenty-minute section VIII, you will have to maintain
strong communication links with ‘big brother’ to ensure your timely
bringing-in from the cold.
Although there is much you must
learn, Comehopper, there is also much you must forget. You will have to forget
the horrors of war. Shell-shocked deerhunters screaming, “You can do this!”
in lieu of “Place your bets please!” will definitely be frowned upon. This
is after all, American, not Russian, roulette.
Battlefield romance will become a
thing of the past and attempts at giving “short dolly” will only result in
confusion and little or no real satisfaction. You must also bid a fond farewell
to even the limited spoils that you came to expect when you were a prop jockey.
George has never been known to partake of the “little wheel” and has
reportedly filed his desire to be barred from all such areas with every gaming
commission in the land. Not to worry though, you will continue to receive your
usual cut of what the BJ specialists score.
So, it’s onward to a bright,
brave new world of highs and lows. It is hoped that the war over baby’s new
shoes will someday be a thing of the past and that peace will reign in all
Casinoland. You should remain ever on alert though and be ready to respond when
the platoon leader sounds the customary call for reinforcements:
“Get back
over there and push those *&#!*$# lumps out,
NOW!
