I used to love going to Atlantic City.
The last time I went to AC for the sole purpose of entertainment was sometime in 2002 when I took a Chinatown bus with my grandparents. I had a lot of fun on that trip because gambling with grandpa was always a good for my comedic writing, especially when he nearly comes to blows with a pit boss because he thought he deserved more than a “measly $20 voucher for the buffet” for playing craps for four hours. But even back then I could feel that AC wasn’t the kind of place I would want to visit on my own, because everything about it feels wrong to me. Whenever I’m there I felt sad and apologetic, as if I’m watching some desperate social outcast trying to make friends by standing in the middle of the street screaming, “Love me! I’m smart and good looking!”. It embarrasses everyone. However, I went there on Saturday primarily to see Mr. Hentai, and only secondarily to gamble, so I figured my old feelings of distaste for the place wouldn’t matter so much.
OMG, how wrong I was.
First, there was the bus ride there, where I was forced to sit next to a woman who had the most atrocious case of flatulence it has ever been my displeasure to smell. The first time I caught a whiff of her gas I seriously believed the bus’ bathroom had somehow caught on fire. The second inhalation made me revise that belief into wondering if my seat could possibly be made out of the freshly removed flesh of dead leper. By the third assault on my nostrils I came to the understanding that the woman next to me, who not once looked in my direction or apologized, was letting loose rippers that should by all rights have melted the seat out from under her. I am not exaggerating in the least when I say I spent the entire two and a half hour trip doing my absolute best to hold my breath long enough to make myself pass out just so I could stop smelling whatever animal carcass she had decomposing up her rectum.
My eyes are tearing up just remembering it.
Then there was the casinos themselves, which have always felt like poor imitations of their Vegas counterparts, all seemed a bit run down around the edges. And the food, which wasn’t bad really, but cost more than similar food in NYC. And we all know that a frickin pretzel, no matter who’s aunt baked it, shouldn’t cost $4, right? Then could someone out there tell me why my pretzel and drink snack combo cost me $6?
I mean, there wasn’t even a cheap plastic toy to go with it.
At least I got to have fun hanging out with Mr. Hentai. We spent a good 6 hours wandering the Boardwalk, going to each and every hotel-casino there. We played craps in every casino, too. And if you’re at all interested in my opinion, the best two casinos were the Tropicana and the Taj Mahal. That’s where we won the most money and no matter how hard the other casinos tried, they couldn’t break our winning streak and by the time I left Mr. Hentai and I had made quite a bit of cash. But don’t tell HoBiscuit I won anything, because she’d want to spend it on something stupid, like baby clothes or a spa treatment. And that just won’t do.
Because this money has Wii written all over it. Booyah!