Popped My Casino Cherry

My dear friend Sam and I went for dinner tonight, and after sipping through a cloying bottle of white wine hailing from the pretentious region of Aix-en-Provence, I suggested take a trip off the island, toss the keys over to the valet and throw some bills around with someone who might bear an uncanny resemblance to Clive Owen c. 1998.


All of my saccharine daydreams of winning big were dispelled after sharing a table with a slew of 17-year-old boys who doused their hairy backs and purple deep-V's in Axe. Among them, Sam and I played War. Like when you were six and all you had to to was get a higher card than the dealer.

I glanced over my shoulder and was divinely summoned by the flashing lights of the black jack table. A rotund woman with an electric blue-tipped French manicure facilitated my personal gain of $250.

Although Clive Owen was nowhere to be seen, I just doubled my net worth and all I had to do was tap on a felt table every now and again.

EVERYONE SHOULD GAMBLE.

And by this I mean you're better off going to the Casino than buying stock in Nortel or RIM, or any telecommunicaitons corporation for that matter.