I shit you not I can sit at a blackjack table for 20 hours without breaking a sweat or taking a dump. Just hit me with some RBV's, a pack of light cigs and a few hundred bucks. I absolutely fucking promise you by the end of my run I'll be up or down $8 while shaving off a few weeks of my natural life. Okay sure maybe sometimes I'll lose everything. But for the most part that's about as exciting as life gets for me in Vegas now 12 years deep into semi-regular Vegas trips and let me tell you something: I absolutely fucking love it. Even as a little bitch fish in a gigantic ocean of whales and fresh trim. I will always love being the simple minded loser who can entertain himself seemingly forever provided the 6'1 cocktail waitress from rural Iowa keeps the booze coming if she wants the $1 chips. No one said I was a big timer.
That said I can't even fathom taking down $3500 much less $3500000 and from here what do you do? Blow at least half in the next 6 hours right? I'm a morally aligned straight shooting married guy with a clean nose and even I can tell you that I'd be knee deep in every piece of exotic ass that would come my way after hitting that bet. Would Mrs. Carl even care? Would anyone? Answer is when you hit $3.5 million jackpots I think you can cross a bunch of bridges after the fact. Like trying to justify that god awful fucking shirt, or drinking a malbec on the casino floor, or dragging your fantasy football friends around with you to the club. All that shit can simply be explained as being the big swinging dick who just grossed 3-months worth of hot dog sales at Wrigley Field in the matter of a single roulette spin. What a fucking moment.
Now if you excuse me I'll be over here working through my 57th case of Miller Lite since St. Patrick's Day.
Don't confuse this with me complaining. Life is very good. Just not as good as that fucking guy.,