Dear Mrs. Ploppy

6 October 2015

By Frank Scoblete

Hi Mrs. Ploppy, or Ms. Ploppy, depending on whether you are proud to be married to that blubbery hair-coated guy in the torn, stained wife-beater shirt who obviously doesn’t bathe and really made it impossible to concentrate on playing blackjack. If the tables weren’t so crowded I would have left.

You might have noticed that I had my hand covering my nose due to your husband’s stench. I hate to say this, but you didn’t smell too good either. You know that bathing in this 21st century is an easy thing to accomplish. Your hotel room has a bath and a shower and soap and shampoo. You’d smell sweet and fresh after a long (really long) shower. In fact, if you wanted to shave your husband so that he looked less simian, I even think there are razors in the room. The sundry shop has deodorant.

As for how you played: I really don’t care. Splitting 10s, doubling on a hard 18, standing on 13 against a dealer’s queen up card . . . hey, it’s your money, right? By the way, do you think you should be spending your welfare check in the casinos? I have to admit though that you and your husband have some amazing capacity for booze. I am amazed you didn’t throw up all over the table even sooner.

I did think it was not right that you yelled at the elderly, slightly balding blue-haired woman at the table and called her a skinny piece of slime mold and threatened to take her walker and hit her over the head with it. Thankfully, she was deaf and couldn’t hear you telling her to double on her 17. When the next player received a four, why did you have to pound the table so hard and scream, “You dumb b***h? Don’t you know how to play? Couldn’t you die or something?” When you banged the table, some of my chips zoomed up and ended on the floor.

Finally, after you barfed on that poor elderly woman, I went to the craps table and for some reason your husband followed me. He began to act as if we were old friends and he kept wrapping his arms around me and hugging me really hard. I almost threw up the way you had just done because he was getting his scent all over me.

You really should tell your husband when he gets out of jail that he has to learn the proper way to play craps. Before the cops dragged him out for feeling up the female stick person and power-snotting on the box person, he was throwing bets on to the layout even when the shooter was in the act of throwing the dice.

I know he asked me to lend him the bail money but I really can’t do that, for dozens of reasons all boiling down to “I don’t want to.”

Finally, I think you should reevaluate whether it is a wise idea to leave your five-year old kid in your hotel room while you gamble in the casino. That is not safe. I know you said the little fella was able to stay in a locked car in 100-degree weather but that is not a good thing to do.

Anyway, good luck in your future endeavors and consider not having any more kids.

--Frank

Frank Scoblete's new book is "I Am a Dice Controller: Inside the World of Advantage-Play Craps!"