Are You Ready To Rumble?

First thing, I regret to report that I WILL be going to work tomorrow, having not won a fortune at the casino. I did not win a single penny by the time I had fed all my winnings back into the gaping maw of the collective one-armed bandit. But I had a pretty good time, what with staying up until 5:30 a.m. giving away my easy-come, easy-go dispensable income. The boys were in hog heaven with high-speed internet. Yes, we had to pay for two sessions, because The Pony doesn't have some kind of card thingy. But with it being only $10.97 per 24/hour session, that was the least of my worries. Not that I had any worries.

But there IS something stuck in my craw. Remember how People Piss Me Off? Uh huh. The saga continues. I almost got into a rumble around 3:00 a.m. with an inebriated young man who must have just turned 21. His mama should have left those apron strings attached. I know you're dying to hear about Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's virtual cage match. Let me set the stage.

I had gone from the Mardi Gras side of Harrah's to The Island. I normally do not like The Island. I never win there. The older style slots are junky. Like, the colors are all faded out of the Wild Cherries so they look like they need to ripen in a paper sack on the kitchen counter for two days, and the Hot Peppers look merely warm. But I had tired of my surroundings at the Mardi Gras, and took a jaunt over to The Island. It was a big mistake. It was hotter than H*ll, and not quite as pleasant. The ashtrays were overflowing, leftover cups of melted ice were at every machine, and the ventilation system must not have been working, because smoke permeated every cranny of that Island. I tried a few machines, 10 spins each, and cashed out when I was not rewarded. I eventually settled down at an old Wild Cherry machine at the end of a bank of oldies, across from the back aisle. The Cherries and I go way back.

After warming up to each other, the Wild Cherry and I were getting along sweetly. He even gave me $75. I was firing on all cylinders, a Mountain Dew by my side, switching denominations, counting out my little pattern before betting max, alternating intermittently among the Play One Credit button, Play Max, and the crank. Then it happened.

A young man staggered up to me and got all up in my bidness. He must have just turned 21 that night. He had that obnoxious way of a frat rat about him. There I was, minding my own business, somewhat like Gizmo playing with the toy bugle under the Christmas tree in Gremlins, when Spike decides to turn his life into a living H*ll. There was nobody on my row of 5 slot machines. There was one lady in the row behind me. And here comes Punky Drunkster right up to me, unsolicited, and says, "That's it, that's whatcha gotta do, uh huh, uh huh, right there, grab that, pull that thing right there, that's it, yeah." He made a reach for my bandit's only arm. He didn't touch it, but he feinted that way. I was lost in thought in my little system, and did not take kindly to this intrusion into my own little world.

In case you are new here, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not a people person. She is not warm and cuddly and touchy-feely. She is bristly and abrasive. She does not suffer fools gladly, but begrudgingly, and only when it is required by her career. I must say, this little dude really PISSED ME OFF! His interaction was totally unwelcome. First of all, Punky, you're not cute. You're not funny. I don't give a rat's a$$ about your tender self-esteem. This is the real world. This is not your frat house. A casino is not a place for Pinto and Flounder to earn their pledge pins. Nobody is sporting a toga, nobody is singing about giving his love a chicken that has no bones. Mind your own freakin' business and don't be a drunken nuisance. I am a hillbilly. I am not an animal! Do not rattle my cage. Go to the zoo and find your own tiger to taunt.

When he got all up in my space, blabbering, I pulled back. I was startled by his over-familiarity. I gave him my 'what do you think you're doing?' look, honed from years behind the desk. He went on behind me up the aisle, giggling like an idiot. I just might have said, as he passed, "Go to H*ll, you f---ing m-----f---er." Maybe. Because I really can't be held responsible. I was startled, you know. And I do not suffer fools. AT ALL. Don't mess with the Mom, or you get the Mouth. That's all I've got to say about it. His little companion, Drunk Girl, said, "Oh my God! She said something back at you!" Like I'm supposed to be their entertainment for the evening, taunted but not heard. I was just trying to prepare them for life. The world is a cold, hard place. Especially Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's Casino World.

Hey! That's a grand name! Maybe I can open my own casino! You must be 30 years old to enter, or show your Not-An-A$$hole card.