Ungrateful Mother Fucker

As I mentioned before, this past Friday and Saturday pretty much blurred together. Nothing really exciting happened to differentiate one day from the other. Things I thought I did/said on Friday could very well have happened on Saturday, and vice versa. The only worth while story to tell is that I spent a lot of money. I don’t even know how much was spent. If I had lost it gambling (heaven forbid) I could tell you the exact amount; things like that are retained in my memory for years (like that Golden State Warriors game that I had $300 on the under and it went three overtimes to put the total over by, painful, two).

Side note: by the grace of the gambling gods I still remember my greatest three hands of blackjack ever. The FA and I discovered that if you went on the Bellagio’s website you could play free casino games and earn points for free rooms and buffets. You didn’t actually have to play the games strategically, just click the mouse and make the reels spin. The system would let you earn 1,500 points a day which took roughly three hours of mouse clicking to earn. Since I didn’t have much of a life back then (please, no comments, too sad), I managed to accumulate 150,000 points (doing the math = 300 hours). I think one nights stay at (owner related) New York New York was 35,000 points. The FA and I spent a three day vacation there and the old roommate and I went on a separate trip. All we had to pay for was the flight.

The first night there with the old roommate we were sitting at a $25 blackjack table. “Getting my ass slaughtered” wouldn’t begin to describe the climate. So I decided to throw a black chip out there ($100). Winner! I was doing so horrible (ready to sell my return flight ticket) that I said “fuck it” and doubled up ($200). Winner again! Hum, it worked the first time, might as well ride the streak, right? I doubled up again ($400) drawing looks from the dealer and the other players (I hope just because of my bet and not because I was drooling drunk and grabbing my crotch). The first card out of the shoe was a king. The old roommate, sitting next to me and not playing (pussy), declared “I will you a blackjack!” (unlike some other quotes, that one is word for word, the FA was complaining about some previous posts). The second card out of the shoe: an ace. Black mother fucking jack! I turned the initial $100 bet in to $1,000 in just three hands. I basked in the glory for all of 5 minutes till the dealer continued his anal rapeage (why doesn’t Word accept that as a word?) and stuck it to me till I had $40 left in my pocket and went back to the room to ball my eyes out in the fetal position in the corner, but boy was I a happy camper after that third hand.

Every Vegas trip I’ve taken has cost me at least $3,500. Multiply that by five trips. All in one year. I’m still paying it off $300 a month (at 3.9% interest), kind of like a second car payment. I’ll never go back. Unless Jasmine calls again. She could do this thing with her, um, ah, nevermind.

While I’m on this topic I might as well tell you about the $3,000 day at Mandalay Bay. This one was with the FA. We met one of his California friends out there for a weekend getaway. As usual, the first night I dropped a boatload, met up with the Cal friend (who later commented he’d never smelled that much booze on a person (me) before, and that was prior to going out), hit some club and called it a night at 3:00 am. Noon the next day we’re all at Mandalay Bay. The FA is watching the Packers playoff game (sucker always bets on the home team and no, they didn’t cover) so I decide to hit the tables. Starting with $1,000, I drop $500 at one table and get up to walk around. I sat down at another table and started playing two hands. Let me tell you, what a fucking streak. I started out being the only player at the table but when I got up the table was full of high-fiving little Oriental guys (well, I was trying to high-five them, think I caught a couple of them off guard and accidentally knocked them off their chairs with my elbows). I had so many black chips in front of me that I had trouble keeping track of them. After a while I had no idea what I was betting, didn’t even care. I just took whatever green chips ($25) I had and divided them between the two spots, keeping the black ones out of play. I sat at that table for the whole Packer game. The cocktail waitress, while not exactly young or cute, performed like the perfect wife (sans blowjobs). She brought me bottles of Miller Lite before I had finished the previous one. I found myself slamming half bottles just to keep pace with her. And I tipped her well (see, I’m not that cheap). Ok, I am cheap. When all was said and done I had $4,000 in front of me. $4,000 on the dot. Not wanting to break a hundred I left the dealer nothing. Zilch. Nada. I walked up to the cage with my four pink chips ready to cash them in. The cage person looked at me like I had robbed someone or had made them with my counterfeit chip maker in my room. I had to go back to the table where I had left nothing for a tip and have the pit boss call the cage confirming my stellar play. Just a little embarrassing. But I walked out of there with $4,000 in my pocket.

Only to lose it all to another casino a couple hours later.

This weekend I spent money on beer, shots, cigarettes, gasoline, and food, more so on the beer and shots than gasoline and food. I spent the two week allowance that I give myself to spend. I even went through a stack of ones 70 deep (I told you, once they’re wrapped they don’t get touched, unfinished ones are fair game). Monday morning I was down to $7. I could have just gone to the bank and gotten more cash, but that would have negated the whole “allowance” and “budget” and “saving money so I can retire when I’m 50 and can still get it up” thing. No, I was going to stick to it. I could survive for two weeks with the gas in my car, but every other facet of my life would have been hindered, no, decapitated. I still have 20 or so beers in the fridge that are about three months old, but what am I going to do while I drink beer at home, write stupid shit to put on my blog? (Yeah, again, no comments please.)

Monday night at the parents’ house, mom says she found something in the safe deposit box that I might find interesting. She had to get my sister’s car title out of there or something, I don’t know, mom’s weird. I walk over by her and she’s making a list of these treasury bills on a sheet of paper. Why she wasn’t doing it on Excel I’ll never understand, besides the fact that would mean she’d have to turn on a computer, but… She has 29 $50 treasury bills, all from 1977-1979, all in my name. The story goes that when I was born she’d buy a treasury bill once or twice a month in my name. She added up the totals, $1,450, and told me they might be worth a little more than that by now. You see, mom isn’t all that great with numbers and investing. A certain financial advisor has tried to get her to “juggle” her funds a bit, rebalance them to fit the current market trends. At least once every three months she asks me what she should do about this or that and my response is always to call the certain financial advisor. But she doesn’t, scared that she might make the wrong move while doing nothing certainly doesn’t help. When I got the bills back home I went on the internet to find out their values. $5,710, or, as mom would put it, just a little more than the purchase price. $5,710! Sweet! Tuesday I went to the bank right after work and met with the personal banking associate. 35 minutes later I had $5,710 more in my account (for a grand total of $5,728).

You would think stumbling upon that much money would make anyone happy. Well, I was happy, but I was just happy about the idea getting free money. I came away from the ordeal with a number of complaints. First off, think about all the time that was spent in the investment process. Trips to the bank, standing in line and getting the bill printed out had to have taken at least 20 minutes for each one. Granted that wasn’t my time but it was still someone’s time. The 35 minute redeeming process (which included three signatures and two stamps on each) was very archaic now that we're in the 21st century. All it takes for me to convert or change funds is a five minute call to the FA. Having to actually go in to the branch and wait for 35 minutes didn’t sit well with me since I’m accustomed to wireless telephones (look mom, no wires!) and the internet. Second, the actual bill itself was just a piece of paper. What would happen if it would have been lost at some point over the last 30 years? Again, not to complain about the $5,710, I’ll never complain about free money (or free sex). But didn’t they have mutual funds and stocks back in 1977? Had that money been invested in the market, assuming an average rate of return of 8%, it would have been worth three times that much ($15,800). I don’t even know what actual return was over the past 30 years, might have been closer to 10% for all I know (which would have totaled $28,800). I sat at the banker’s desk shaking my head after realizing the loss of potential gains had it been invested properly. The safety of the treasury bill cost me $10,000 to $23,000. What’s so safe about giving up $10 K to $20 K? Safety sucks as much as wearing a condom during sex (but I still do of course, or I should say would when the next opportunity arises, hopefully some time before I die).

The banker wanted to know if my address was current so she could send me the tax documents. Taxes? I’m an accountant, not a banker, but wouldn’t you think a treasury bill would be tax free? I have to pay $1,100 in taxes next year for the interest earned. I’m an ungrateful mother fucker (funny, just like the title of this post).