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Well, the BEST SUMMER EVER is hitting the home stretch, so I figured it was time to check back in with the greatest city you can go to if you take exit 38 off the Garden State Parkway.  This time, we were off to see one of my favorite bands, the Killers, playing at one of the casinos I’m least familiar with, the Borgata.  Sure, they played the night before at Prudential Center, which is much easier to get to and the tickets were much cheaper.  But what fun is it going to Newark?  All my memories of the Prudential Center involve watching Devin Harris lead the Nets to 20-ish win seasons.  Whatever – this isn’t the god damn Newark Diaries!  Anyway, yadda yadda, and OB and I are at Port Authority…

1:00PM – I’m telling you, the time is right for someone to come in and usurp Greyhound’s stranglehold on buses from New York City to Atlantic City.  The price for Fridays has been raised up to $44, which is really taking a bite out of the value of the ride.  Also, Greyhound has now instituted a policy where you can only go to the gate area if you have a ticket.  While this does crack down on the number of bums meandering the facility, it makes it really inconvenient if you buy tickets for a friend, knowing that said friend will be showing up later (a situation that happens to me all too frequently, as you may recall from Chapter 9).  So we are paying more money for worse service, but there’s really no better alternative at the moment.  Basically, Greyhound is the Netflix of bus lines.

2:00 – Aboard the bus, I am drinking like a fish.  Unlike last time, when I was nursing a hangover, I am ready to party, fully prepared for all the negative consequences – terrible gambling decisions, lack of memory inhibiting my ability to write this diary entry, vomiting and pooping at the same time, etc.  OB is not intimidated, however, making my drinking efforts look amateurish by downing a water bottle full of Jim Beam.

(Just a side note with my man OB: he is returning to Atlantic City for the first time since July 4th.  In 2012, he went down to Revel on July 4th, and won a staggering amount of money, which led to the circumstances of Chapter 4.  This year, he went to Showboat, but kept the winning alive.  He now has a handler at the Boat of Show, and the room and our meal would be complimentary.  It should also be noted that I was not with him during any of his large wins, but I have been present at all of his large losses.  Yeesh.)

Anyway, on the ride down, we had one notable conversation about statistics.  OB mentioned learning about the “gambler’s fallacy” in college.   In layman’s terms, it basically means that past random events do not predict future events.  For example, if I roll a 7, it isn’t less likely that I roll a 7 next time – the odds remain the same.  Surprisingly, OB tells me that he thought his professor was wrong, that it WAS less likely.  Unsurprisingly, he told me that he had to take statistics three times in college.  I do my best to explain the fallacy again, and he reluctantly accepts my argument, but I hear lingering doubt in his voice.  How this man has won more money in Atlantic City than anyone else I know is, literally, one of the biggest statistical anomalies.  It’s a case that would probably make Nate Silver throw up his hands and go “Fuck it, I quit!”

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In last month’s Atlantic City Diary, I made the bold mission statement that I wanted to make this the BEST.  SUMMER.  EVER.  And, to accomplish such a grand task, there will have to be a lot of trips to the Lost City of Atlantic.  However, taking a three-hour bus ride to go get drunk and lose money does need some justification.  As explained in my guide to Atlantic City, I usually go down to see a concert or comedy show.  However, a good 90’s band or horribly offensive comedian does not come to Atlantic City every weekend.  You’ll have to invent excuses to go down.

This time, we celebrated my buddy Finn’s “birthday,” which was actually over a week ago, and involved the usual crew of drunken vandals.  The cast of characters this time involved Keith, OB, Finn, my girlfriend, Polar (making his debut for the AC Diaries) and yours truly.  The setting – the Boat of Show, also known as Showboat.  Let the adventure begin!

12:00PM – The previous night, my girlfriend and I both proclaimed that we would not get drunk and stay out too late.  We split up to hang out with our respective friends, and, of course, found ourselves coming home at 3:00AM and nursing killer hangovers the next day.  At noon, we headed for the subway to Port Authority, and she was asking me how I got home.  Struggling to recollect the experience, I say, “Well, I think I said goodbye to my friends, left early, and walked back by myself.”  As soon as I finish this story, I hear my name being called.  It is the friends I hung out with last night.  So, my girlfriend asks them how I got home last night.  The answer:

“We walked you home!  And you kept drunkenly shouting, ‘Are we there yet?’ every block!”

So that was my Friday night.

2:00 – We reach Port Authority, where we meet up with Keith and OB.  Unlike previous experiences, I’ve learned to eat heartily before the trip.  OB grabs a sausage-and-egg sandwich, which the master chefs at Port Authority stick in a microwave and nuke to high heaven.  OB tries to stuff the scalding hot sandwich in his mouth, his hand shaking the whole time, nearly breaking into a sweat.  Some may call it an impressive feat, but those people must have a very low threshold for being impressed.

On the bus, we are immediately treated to an argument between passengers.  One guy is playing a video game very loudly.  A man shouts from the back, “Could you turn it down?”  The offender retorts, “Mind your own business!”  The complainer explains, “I’m on the damn bus!  This is my business!”  Nice.  The man continues to play his video game, albeit at a quieter yet still audible level, then turns it off, and eventually borrows Keith’s newspaper.  What a guy.

During all this, my girlfriend and I are sitting out on the typical “drinking on the bus down” festivities, due to the previous nights activity.  OB, however, is engaging what I like to call “pregnancy drunkenness” – he’s drinking for two.

5:00 – We arrive at Showboat, with OB two flasks lighter.  I haven’t been to Showboat in a while, but the bus center has taken on a distinctive cheese smell.  Like all the world’s problems, this problem too can most likely be traced to the Earl of Sandwich.

Keith and OB have rooms next to each other, so they go up together to the Orleans Tower.  As my girlfriend and I check-in, I inquire to see if there is a room available on their floor.  The person checking us in is very polite, and taps away vigorously on the keyboard, searching for rooms that fit our criteria.  Unfortunately, she can only get us a room in the NEW Orleans Tower.  That’s fine, we say.  However, little known fact: the NEW Orleans Tower and the Orleans Tower are, you know, the same tower.  We’re a five-minute jaunt from Finn’s room.  Gotta love that customer service you get in Atlantic City.

While my girlfriend takes a nap, I go and pregame with the gentlemen.  However, before we can gamble or drink more, it is decided that we are all starving and need something to eat.  We don’t want to do the buffet, and Scarduzio’s is too expensive.  So what do we decide on?  A little mom-and-pop joint called Jonathan Rockets.

Keith Stone: While OB and I were walking to the room, we happened upon a rambunctious family that was having trouble deciding where everybody should stand for a group photo. OB settled the argument by walking right into the middle of the shot and becoming part of the family. Now they can tell everybody about their crazy Irish cousin.

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When we arrived at the room, the real drinking began and we were joined by Finn and Polar. For some beautiful reason, Polar had with him three Million Dollar Man tuxedo T-shirts, so OB, Polar, and I threw them on, and began laughing like only Ted DiBiase could. Because I am an idiot, I decided to wear my shirt for the night of gambling, and that, ladies and gentlemen, was the beginning of the end.

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I must say, I have recently become a huge Bachelorette fan.  It is something my girlfriend got me into, and it simultaneously makes me laugh, makes me cringe, and makes me pause the television and go on extended rants.  While I watch it with my girlfriend, I believe this show should be required viewing for all single straight men.  Basically, every single man needs to find a competitive edge over their fellow single men.  Watching the Bachlorette takes very little effort – it takes two hours a week, and you barely have to pay attention.  You can do chores around the house, work out, or even write a blog post while watching it and not miss much.  By doing this, however, you will gain a competitive edge in the dating scene – you will be able to talk to women about the Bachelorette.  Now, I’ve heard the objections, such as “Won’t women find me less manly if I admit to watching the Bachelorette?”  Well, if a woman came up to you and started talking football, would you be turned off because she was less “woman-ly”?  Of course not!  There’s nothing hotter than a woman who knows her sports.  Not every woman will watch the Bachelorette, but it is a small investment with a potentially huge payout.

Anyway, how did the Bachelorette find itself in the Atlantic City Diary?  Well, the episode this week sent the Bachelorette and 13 of the finest bros to your favorite city and mine.  I’d be remiss if I couldn’t share their misadventures.  Anyway, as a departure from my normal diaries, here’s the breakdown of the whole ordeal, from start to finish.  Pour yourself a glass of white wine (the only way to read a Bachelorette recap) and dig in.

8:00PM – We start as many reality shows do – with a preview of what’s to come, and a recap of everything we’ve already seen.  There are 13 men left, and if they get roses we see them next week, and if they don’t, they have to leave.  You still following me?  Do you need me to repeat this?  No?  Good, let’s move on.

(Side note: the Bachelorette shows random tweets along the bottom of the screen from fans and former Bachelors/Bachelorettes.  There are fairly distracting, and I won’t be commenting on them.  However, there is a tweet in the beginning from Arie, one of my favorite suitors for Bachelorette Emily last season.  In it, he bashes New Jersey!  And that dude is from Arizona!  Only Jersey bros can bash Jersey!  Shame on you, Arie, you are dead to me).

Anyway, upon learning they are going to Atlantic City, the boys reach the level of excitement they are contractually obligated to meet.  The next two hours will be a shameless tourism commercial for my dying city, and these dudes sell it with all the muster 13 fame-whores can muster.  The most excited is Mikey T., a meathead who reminds me of Jersey Shore Ronnie’s drunken uncle.  He will henceforth be known as Drunken Ronnie Uncle Bro.

Bachelorette Desiree says in the most strained voice that she is “very excited to be there.”  The Atlantic City tourism board may be regretting the money they paid for this.  A bro named Kasey (to be called Hashtag Bro for his tendency to speak using the word “hashtag”) declares it “Las Vegas on the ocean.”  Hashtag I wish.

After the boys arrive, they receive the first date card.  Some random guy named Brad gets it.  I’ve been watching the show all season, and I don’t know who Brad is.  Apparently, neither do the other bros, as he is described as the quietest bro in the house.  By the way the other guys describe him, his odds of coming back from this date with a rose look worse than hitting a hard 10.

Desiree and Brad Bro walk the boardwalk, go on some rides, and eat some taffy that is cut to fit the mouth.  Meanwhile, Zak W. (aka Shirtless Bro) is glaring down on them from a suite in the Revel.  He wrings his hands and fumes in anger.  I worry about Shirtless Bro. Commercial!

8:11 – And we’re back!  Brad Bro and Desiree go to a sandcastle, and Brad lays down what he wants in a relationship, which is, quote, “nothing specific” and a “great mom.”  Glad we cleared that up, Brad Bro.

They go to dinner at a lighthouse, and Brad Bro turns up the charm by saying he hates people who “can’t be serious.”  Yeah, doesn’t laughing suck?  He spends more time examining his food during the date than talking to Desiree, and has difficulty describing the rides they went on that day.  So Desiree brings him up to the top of the lighthouse and gives him the old “It’s been a lot of fun” speech.  And Brad Bro hits the road.  That’s one less name to try to remember.  For some reason, Brad Bro cries in his goodbye interview.  I guess he truly hates not being serious.

8:23 – Now it’s time for the group date.  Eleven bros head to Boardwalk Hall to compete in a Mr. America contest/commercial for the Miss America pageant (coming to Atlantic City on September 15th – get your tickets today!).  On the way over, Shirtless Bro seems to be falling hard for Desiree, calling her a “shining light.”  Brooks, one of the more likeable bros, compares her to a “unicorn.”  Brooks always seems stoned, so I’ll be calling him Stoner Bro.  Michael G., however, is easily the deepest-in-the-closet bro, so I’ll simplify his name to Closet Bro.  Upon learning he will be in the Mr. America contest, he proclaims that he has dreamed of being Mr. America since he was a kid.  My girlfriend remarks, “He’s kidding, right?  He’s kidding?  He’s got to be kidding.  He’s kidding?”

The bros have to grab random props for the talent show.  A Latin hearthrob named Juan Pablo goes to work with a baton (Juan Pablo shall be called Hermano, FYI).  Juan Pablo has a Tony Parker-esque creep quality about him, in that you don’t want him within thirty yards of your girlfriend.  As my girlfriend said, “He’s the type of guy you fuck before you get into a serious relationship.”  Chris, the funny one who reminds my girlfriend of me (aka Rory Bro) immediately puts on high heels and prances about.

8:33 – We’re back into the Mr. America pageant.  The bros stress how embarrassing this will be to them.  For those new to the show, the bros complain about being embarrassed by every group date, whether it be being in a rap video, pretending to be cowboys, or playing dodgeball.  Basically, if they have to wear shorts, it is the most emasculating event of their lives.

They begin by asking the bros Miss America style questions.  Would you rather be fire or water?  The bro answers fire, but I would’ve answered water – you gotta make the girl wet (hey now!).  Stoner Bro gets a question about which animal he’d be, and without hesitation answers “Lion – he’s the king of the jungle!”  Rory Bro reminds me of me, by overly explaining his answer to comedic effect.  Drunken Ronnie Uncle Bro goes on an epic rant about how women don’t respect men’s feelings.  Good show, Drunken Ronnie Uncle Bro!

Next, they move on to the talent show.  Hashtag Bro does a terrible tap dancing routine, which Stoner Bro declares as “genius.”  Stoner Bro follows up the performance by singing a song on a ukulele, then smashing said ukulele.  Shirtless Bro seems surprisingly competent, with limited guitar skills yet a surprisingly strong singing voice.  Stoner Bro finishes in third, Shirtless Bro in second, and Hashtag Bro takes the top prize.

8:47 – After a tough day for the bros (especially tough for Closet Bro, who saw his childhood dream crushed), they hit a pool in Revel (which did not quite look like the pool I went to, but whatever).  The bros make several romantic overtures to woo Desiree for a much-coveted rose.  Rory Bro shares his poetry, while Bryden (aka Army Bro) uses his time to bitch about Ben (too many B-names!  This guy is Dad Bro, because he brought out his son in the first episode).  The producers have been trying to paint Dad Bro as the villain all season, and it seems like a stretch – all he does is talk to Desiree, and the other bros immediately get mad at him.

Shirtless Bro decides to use his time to continue his song from the Mr. America pageant.  It is a cringe-worthy scene that reminded me of Nick Andopolis singing “Lady L” to Lindsey Weir (how’s that reference for you?  I do watch good TV shows, too!).  However, this works for Shirtless Bro, and he comes away with the rose for the group date.

9:00 – After walking around in a robe and drawing himself a bubble bath, our final bro, James, is ready for his one-on-one date.  James shall henceforth be known as Nice Ronnie Bro, for he seems like the Nice Ronnie that Sammy Sweetheart and America fell in love with.  Here, however, the episode takes a serious tone.  Instead of a crazy, over-the-top date, they decide to tour the ravaged coast of post-Sandy New Jersey.  The latter half of the episode becomes an advertisement to help Sandy victims — not that I’m against this by any stretch of the imagination (my mom was displaced by Sandy, and finally moved back into her home last weekend after 7 months away), but it put a damper on the lightheartedness that comes along with every Bachelorette episode.  Oh well, it is nothing more white wine can’t solve.

9:09 – Nice Ronnie Bro and Desiree meet up with an old couple in Seaside, and “generously” give up their Atlantic City date to them.  Yes, what better place to send a couple that has lost everything than to a city whose mission statement is to make people lose everything.

9:20 – Instead of going to the Revel, where all the bros and previous dates were, the old couple is sent to the Showboat, so apparently the Bachelorette didn’t want to spoil these Sandy victims too much.  In a show with tons of fake, manufactured romance, however, we are actually treated to see two people in love, eating in an undisclosed location in Showboat.

Meanwhile, Nice Ronnie Bro and Desiree are getting pizza in the most upscale dive bar in Seaside Heights.  They share an awkward kiss, Nice Ronnie Bro describes the mortal sin of cheating on his girlfriend when he was a freshman in college, but proclaims he is ready for commitment.  Desiree is engrossed in Nice Ronnie Bro, for some reason.

9:30 – We go back to our favorite old couple in Showboat.  It is a sentimental date, but I’m kind of itching to see them do what all lovers in Atlantic City do – play slot machines for 12 hours.  Eventually, they are treated to a private concert by Hootie from Hootie and the Blowfish.  You have to love that Hootie became the most popular African-American country singer of his generation.  Nice Ronnie Bro and Desiree barge in on the date, and start making out in front of the old couple.  Nice Ronnie Bro earns the rose, and you are reminded that you should be giving to the Red Cross, you cheap bastard.

9:40 – Now, it is time for the Bachelorette staple – the rose ceremony.  Before there is a cocktail party, where the bros make their final statement to try to stay on until next week.  Army Bro feels doubtful about the process, and I can’t imagine why – everyone knows true love is only formed on reality TV!  He tries escape, but Desiree’s eyes bring him back in, and he’s around for another week.  Closet Bro’s overly-romantic overture is to spell out things that he loves about Desiree using all the letters in her name.  She is slightly impressed and slightly confused, and they share an incredibly awkward kiss.  Rory Bro gets her to pinky swear that they’ll be friends forever – a total Rory move.

9:51 – The roses are given out.  In order: Rory Bro, Stoner Bro, Hermano, Drew (aka Arizona Bro, since they always have a bro from Arizona on this show), Closet Bro, Dad Bro, Hashtag Bro, Army Bro, and Drunken Ronnie Uncle Bro.  The poor bro eliminated?  Some guy named Zak (not to be confused with Shirtless Bro aka other Zak).  I didn’t know he was on the show.  This Zak takes about 20 minutes to go down the escalators in Revel, attempts to cry, and makes a forgettable disappearance into obscurity.  Thanks for playing.

This concludes my first, and most likely last, Bachelorette recap.  I hope you all enjoyed reading about it as much as I enjoyed watching it.  And by that, I mean, I hope you drank a lot and feel slightly worse about yourself.

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As a young lad growing up in New Jersey, summer was my favorite season.  Not so much because of the weather, but really because of the all the free time I had.  I loved the freedom from the regimented school day, and used this new-found autonomy in the most efficient way possible: playing video games and reading comic books.  However, as I’ve become older and more grizzled, summer is dropping down in my season power rankings.  I’m sweating in the subway to work, all vacation spots are increasing their prices, and I spend 20 minutes putting on sunscreen to go out and check the mail.  And yet, even as the glory days of summer become a thing of the past, I still love Memorial Day weekend, as it signifies the start of what will assuredly be the greatest summer ever.  This year, things kicked off the way my younger self would have whole-heartedly approved of: a Third Eye Blind concert.

The crew for this adventure consisted of the Atlantic City veteran and man of leisure, OB, and good-friend-but-Atlantic-City-novice Steve.  Like many of our trips, this tale begins in the subterranean basement of Port Authority, waiting at gate 80….

3:30PM – OB and I are waiting on an ever-growing line for a bus to Caesar’s.  As it is Memorial Day weekend, the crowd is more numerous and more hostile.  Behind us, a crazy women dressed like Stevie Nicks is monitoring the line, yelling at people she suspects may be cutting in (when in reality, they are just asking if this was the right gate, or they had been in line already).  We are slightly nervous, as Steve has been unresponsive so far, and sneaking him into our spot in line may prove difficult.  However, another bus to Atlantic City shows up at the adjacent gate, and the crazy lady hops on it.  The first crisis of the weekend has been averted.

4:00 – Due to the excess of people, there are two buses waiting to take people to Caesar’s at the scheduled time.  We begin to board, with Steve still incommunicado.  We have to pass up the first bus, and things are starting to look dicey.  The next bus is the “last of the Mohicans,” a strange Greyhound worker tells us.  As OB and I try to unwrap this baffling piece of information, Steve makes a dramatic last minute appearance, and we are able to get the second bus.  Second crisis averted, and we are off to Atlantic City!

6:25 – At our estimated arrival time, we arrive….at exit 102 on the Garden State Parkway.  The traffic is bad but not unexpected – it is Memorial Day Weekend after all.  However, the concert starts at 9:00PM, and I still do not have a ticket to the concert.  Just to explain the situation – OB was given two complimentary tickets, but the seat location was not set.  I would like to get a third complimentary ticket, but failing that, I would like to buy a ticket near where they are sitting.

Anyway, this bus ride was not as booze-filled as our usual trips.  Since it is just the Friday of a three day weekend, we are all playing the long game – you don’t want to get too drunk too early.  We pass the extended bus ride by playing a “top 3″ game, where we name our top 3 songs by particular artists, or top 3 movies by particular actors.  We are cool.

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As you can tell by the title, this AC Diary will be a bit different from the rest.  Today, rather than recounting a raucous tale of alcohol-fused rabble-rousing, I’m going to compare Atlantic City to its older, more ruthless brother: Las Vegas.  Now, a bit of personal history: Las Vegas is where I popped my gambling cherry.  I was last there back in 2007, before finding a steady gambling partner in Atlantic City.  It was closer and more familiar, and I ended up developing strong feelings for the city.  However, Atlantic City and I have never had a monogamous relationship.  When I’m out of town, it is clearly fucking tons of other people.  And I’ve yearned for six long years for another lost weekend with my first love.  This past weekend, we were reunited and it felt so good.

Everyone already knows a plethora of things that Las Vegas can offer that Atlantic City can’t: sports gambling, incredibly cheap gambling options, dozens of performers and shows going on every night, incredibly expensive gambling options, etc.  What you can do in Vegas is only limited by your imagination, while Atlantic City is much more regulated and strict.  It doesn’t have the same Wild West feel that Vegas has (save for the Wild Wild West casino).  These are just the surface differences, though.  There are some differences between these two meccas of sin that can only be spotted by keen gambling veterans by myself.  So, let’s start with the beginning of each day:

Mornings: For some reason, after a long night of partying, I only end up sleeping for a couple hours, waking up usually around 8 AM or so.  As most of my friends are dreaming of hard 8’s, I usually go for a walk around the casinos to work off my hangover.  In Atlantic City, this walk is usually like a bucket of ice water to the face.  You are bombarded by happy faces of people just starting their day.  There are people checking into the hotel, getting breakfast, jogging on the boardwalk, etc.  It just makes me want to yell at them “DON’T JUDGE ME!  I WAS ONCE LIKE YOU!”

In Vegas, I had one of these 8 AM walks again.  However, this time, I was greeted by….no one.  It was a ghost town.  I walked up and down the strip for about an hour, and it was sparsely populated the whole way through.  Seeing a deserted casino is an unsettling experience, like catching my friend OB in the bathtub with a bottle of vodka floating around like a rubber ducky.  Why is there a stark difference in the morning routines of these towns?  The answer was fairly obvious: old people.

In Atlantic City, you have senior citizens pouring their life savings into slot machines one nickel at a time.  They rise at the crack of dawn, hop on a bus, sit at a slot machine for hours, then hit the early bird buffet special.  At night, you have some young folks, but they are mostly locals – they’ve done Atlantic City before, and they’ll do it again, so there’s no need to chase the night.  In Vegas, it is all young tourists who are mainly rookies to this type of party scene.  They will stay out to all hours of the night and early morning, leaving the breakfast buffets mostly vacant.  It’s a small difference that many might not catch, and, overall, I appreciate the bustling mornings of Atlantic City.  Seeing Vegas empty is just downright creepy.

Respect: Atlantic City is insanely disrespected, and that disrespect has been duly earned throughout the years.  However, people are still enamored with Vegas, as its bright lights and drunken revelry are still seen as glamorous.  When you come back from Vegas, people ask you where you’ve eaten, what shows you’ve seen, etc.  When you come back from Atlantic City, people ask you how much you lost.  Heck, just check out Bruce Springsteen singing about Vegas and Atlantic City.  Now, Vegas is definitely a less seedy and much more reputable place to vacation, but not as much as you’d come to believe.  I believe the respectability gap should be closer.

Blackjack: Now, I haven’t done any scientific testing, but based on my blackjack playing experience in both cities, there is definitely something sinister going on.  In Atlantic City, everybody knows how to play blackjack fairly competently.  If you make a mistake, be assured that there will be a crotchety old man yelling at you or an Asian business man sighing and throwing his hands up in disgust.  And even when everyone plays correctly, you, the old man, and the Asian dude will all lose.  It’s undeniable.  I’ve been going to Atlantic City for nearly six years, and I can barely remember any good blackjack runs.  Meanwhile, in Vegas, everyone plays blackjack terribly.  People stay with 14’s and 15’s against 8s!  People have to ask how to double down!  It’s insane!  But the thing is: everyone wins!  I was nearly falling-down drunk last Saturday, and ended up winning over $100.  My girlfriend lost $40 immediately, so I lent her $10, and she got two blackjacks in a row and worked that $10 into $75.  There is only one logical conclusion: Atlantic City is rigged.  Period.  And that’s why, despite the dead mornings and too much respect that Vegas gets, all gamblers should go there.  You will win.  Sure, you’ll spend the money on crazy Cirque du Soleil shows and $12 margaritas, but it is worth it to feel like a winner.  But I still love you, Atlantic City – and just to prove it, I’ll be there next month to test my “rigged blackjack” hypothesis.  Stay tuned…

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It has been far, FAR too long since the boys and I have putzed the night away in Atlantic City.  Our last adventure, featuring Finn, OB, Keith, and myself, was way back in September.  Well, this time, the same crew reunited, heading down to see the Anti-Social Comedy Tour, featuring Jim Norton, Amy Schumer, Dave Attell, and Artie Lange.  I have to tell you, having gone nearly six months without a hit, spin, or roll of the dice was giving me the shakes.    The night before our trip, OB and I got into the right frame of mind by watching “gambling” episodes of our favorite TV comedies, such as Futurama’s “Viva Mars Vegas,” The Office’s “Casino Night,” and South Park’s “Red Man’s Greed.”  Needless to say, I could already smell the extra oxygen they allegedly pump into the casinos.

Our game plan was simple.  We had a room in Bally’s, which, fortunately, connects to one-and-a-half other casinos (Caesar’s and what is left of the Wild Wild West casino).  With this as our home base, we would have an ample area to putz about, without having to face the elements (it was freezing cold out).  The comedy show was at The Borgata at 7:30, which would help break up the night.  After that, we’d gamble until we rebuilt Atlantic City’s economy.  Like I said, the game plan was simple.  So let’s see if we stuck to it.

12:00PM – Our 12:30 bus arrived 30 minutes early, and left 10 minutes early.  I must say, this was a pleasant surprise.  Our bus driver was a friendly man with a thick accent who reminded Keith of his priest.  I didn’t drink much on the trip, using it to catch up with Keith and OB (Finn was driving down to meet us later).  Also, the light was out in the bathroom.  Not much to say here.

Keith Stone: Hey, what can I say? I went to church to absolve myself of my future sins, which may or may not include peeing all over the bus toilet seat. I also kept my streak alive of drinking Bandit wine on the trip down. I drank it out of a Gatorade bottle. Gotta keep hydrated.

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“Sometimes a winner is a dreamer who just won’t quit.”

Who better to take us into the Golden Domes vs. mobile homes matchup in the BCS National Championship Game tonight than Rudy Ruettiger? Poor Rudy was too small and didn’t have the grades to play at Notre Dame, they said. But, golly gee, he worked hard and said his prayers and he made it. So basically Rudy is the exact opposite of every player who’s going to see action tonight.

These two teams might actually represent the worst of college football’s programs and fanbases. One the one hand, there’s Mr. Popped Collar Notre Dame. “Excuse me, we don’t need to play in a conference with other teams. How could any team be listed in the same standings as a fine Catholic institution such as Notre Dame? Our alumni and hangers-on are so crazed with goodness and reverence that they will gladly spend all the cash they made in the market to help our team win. Also, the past 20 years never happened. WE ARE BETTER THAN YOU.”

Then, on the other hand, there’s a lot of missing teeth. “Yeeeeeeeeeeeehaw, we gon drink Natty Lights and play cornhole all day. I just gotta make sure not to pass out before the big game. Y’all think Rudy is a classy feller? Well, Coach Saban is such a classy feller, I named my first born son after him. Daggone right, and when little Coach Saban Billy Bob Schrader turns 18 or learns how to read, he’s gon go to the University of Alerbama. Coach Saban will definitely still be coaching the team then! Now where did my cousin, I mean, wife go? Roll Tide!”

If there was a douchebag fan scale, these teams wouldn’t be on the scale, they would be the scale. But yeah, Saban is a dick, so there’s only three words to say tonight: RUDY! RUDY! RUDY!