Through this hot mess, I found a craps table that had my spot open, SL1. I bought in for a messily $100 bucks because this was my first time at this particular casino, and I wasn’t familiar with the conditions of the table.
Three modern dumplings roll up after my buy in, positioning themselves next to me. The ringleader placed his IDs on the felt, which still contained the red stripe gleaming across his driver’s licenses. He wore a thick gold cross and sipped a coke, mixed with something dark, through a thin cherry straw. His flamboyant personality caught the attention of three security guards, who carded him, and then wrapped a wristband around his boney limb. When the dice were out, the ringleader paid more attention to the girls, who were his age, passing by. He turned his back completely to the table, putting the game on hold. One could only imagine the result he produced once he decided to throw the dice.
Up next was a shriveled lady with a shriveled face who made an announcement that it was her first time at the craps table. She asked five minutes worth of questions before she rolled the dice for the first time. A ploppy, who was next to her, suggested the boxcars bet. Shriveled took his advice, surprisingly hitting the 12 three times. One could only imagine her pointless bet progression for the rest of her gambling life.
Following was a semi-prehistoric man with a dusty flannel shirt. He grabbed the dice and flung them down the table as if it were a pinball machine where kids place a quarter in the side and ram the buttons so the silver ball keeps from going in the hole.
It was finally my turn at the dice, and I sucked, to put it nicely. I shamelessly blended in with the rest of the crowed. I established my point of six. Shriveled shouted from across the table, “Throw the boxcars! Let’s see those boxcars! Boxcars, baby!” I guess she learned a new vocabulary word and decided to form it in a sentence as much as she could.
After my monster roll of three, Prehistoric staggered over to me, “Are you from around here?” he spit in my ear. Wiping my lobe, I vaguely replied, “No.” “You have a nice shot,” he tried to whisper. Oh yeah, it was bloody wonderful, I sarcastically thought to myself. He leaned over closer, “I know your problem. Your dice doubled pitch.” I still kept the profanity I wished to say to myself. “I know how to take care of that problem,” as if he was going to tell me the secret to correct my shot, “Come here in the morning because the dice are sharper.”
Now, the twenty year-old me would have told the dunce to shove the dice where the sun doesn’t shine. However, I am thirty-something. So, I did what anyone in my sophisticated age would do, I colored up and left.
I’ll admit; I still have plenty to learn, but I’m not taking advice from a chicken feeder with a comb over. Ploppy players believe their advice is precious since they have been playing the game wrong for an extensive period of time. I am confident the instructors and mentors who taught me are the most talented in the world. Their valuable instruction, sharp eyes, and wisdom of dice control will only help me, and others, become a true advantage player.
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