This past weekend, I journeyed back to my home away from home, which is the reservation of the Mississippi Band of Choctaw Indians.  I wanted to take in some history, some heritage, and view first-hand the unbelievable collection of American History artifacts such as ancient Choctaw craftwork and centuries-old arrowheads.  Apparently, there is also a casino on this reservation.  Even though I had no idea there was a gambling establishment on the sacred tribal land, since I was already there I had no qualms about participating in a little leisurely gambling. 

I decided to take along a gambling companion this time.  Like movies, having an associate to gamble with doesn’t really enhance the experience itself, but it is nice to to have the company.  Although most of my friends are either married or giant vaginas, my buddy Chad agreed to join me on my adventure.  Everyone has certain friends that are great to hang out with, but are equally exasperating.  The Weavers (Chad and his twin) fall into that category.  I always have fun spending time with them, but when I do, a good 10% of my sentences begin with, “Fucking Weaver..” 

The craps table did not work out as well as I’d hope.  It was so cold, I’m convinced there were supernatural forces at work.  Either the table is located directly above an old Indian Cemetary, or the casino was employing a Tribal Shaman as a stickman.  Down a couple hundred, I feel hot breath on the back of my neck.  Good ‘ol Chad.  Slurping away on a beverage like Cousin Eddie, he enlightens me with this nugget of wisdom:  “Well.  The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.  That’s from the book of Job.  There was nothing else to read in the hotel room when I was taking a dump, so I grabbed the Gideon’s Bible.  Pretty good stuff in there.”  Fucking Weaver.  (Incidentally, the Gideons would save a lot more people if they placed the Good Book on the back of the toilet in hotel bathrooms.  Seriously.  You’re telling me that you wouldn’t perouse some scripture if there was nothing else around to read while you handled some business?  The Lord works in mysterious ways.)

After I was robbed blind at the dice table, I followed my friend into the “High Limit” slots room.  I tried to tell him that slots are useless and boring, but he wouldn’t listen.  Probably a good thing, since no sooner had he pulled the lever did he nail the machine for five hundred.  He immediately went into a celebration dance that would make Chad Johnson blush, while flies were lazily buzzing out of my open wallet.  I won’t go into details about his makeshift endzone celebration, I’ll just say it began with The Robot and ended with a slow, sensual dry-hump of the machine.  It’s a miracle we didn’t get laid. 

After my buddy’s victory over the slot machine, we decided to grab some food at the all night diner inside the Casino.  Our waiter, like many workers at the resort, was Native American.  And from the service, it’s safe to assume he’s still pissed about The Trail of Tears.  I like to think the squaw that birthed him gently swaddled him in a blanket and said, “I shall call you Drags Ass While Bringing Water,” or “Brave Who Will Make Paleface Suffer From Dehydration.”   Although neither of those names would’ve fit on his nametag, I doubt his real name was “Phil.” 

After spending twenty bucks and an hour on a dry hamburger (my own fault, should’ve waited for Sizzler), we headed to the poker room.  We both did pretty well over a six hour span, although we were eventually asked to leave.  When a bet is called, it is etiquette to show all your cards at once. Chad let another player think he had won the pot, and then flipped over his remaining hole card to reveal he, in fact, had the winning hand.  He followed that subtle maneuver by stiffing the dealer on a tip and winking at the player he had just “slow rolled.”  Stunned silence at the poker table.  Giving up on him, they turned to me. 

“What the hell is wrong with your friend?”

I just shook my head.  All I could say was, “Fucking Weaver….”