Don't be a pussy all your life.

I just realized that this stupid blog thingy published chronologically, so this Part II of the "Day that made me think if there is a God, he's probably an asshole, and hates Me," will appear before part I. Well no matter.

Previously on DaubvonDaub:
We just found out that Tommy, George's child hood friend and partner of ten years on the NYPD, was taking money from an Iranian terrorist in order to facilitate the safe arrival of terrorists in to New York. Tommy thought it was just drugs from Cuba. Trying to set things right, Tommy went after his benefactor in order to bring him in. George followed him, but arrived too late. Tommy was already tied to a chair, drenched in gasoline, seconds from burning alive....with no backup, and nowhere to turn George must save his friend from certain death, without killing them both! We also found out that Tommy was fucking George's daughter. She is 12, and likes ponies.

So, I get to work. Things seem to be nominal. A normal Sunday night/Monday morning. Bored to tears, hearing stories about the cute things people's children do, "He can't say 'noodles' so he calls everything 'sgetti!'" I laugh and feel warm inside, and a little sad that I will never know the joys of reering a child.

I notice on my peripheral radar that an enormous albino man (later I would find that he was simply a pale red head) has entered the casino, on what I have named the "Avoirdupois Chariot." You may call them a scooter, or some such, but you know what they are. They are a conveyance for people who have become incapable of bipedal locomotion, for any reason, be it age, or laziness. This guy happened to be tha largest non-aquatic mammal I have ever witnessed.

He also had the entire cast of the Flinstones tattooed on his legs, that were bare to the knee and could have easily been used to show an Imax film. He attempted to play black jack and I put him out of my mind, with a forklift! HA!

I work in a small, shitty casino, and there is not a lot of space. I came around a corner and saw this dude at one of the slot banks. He looked confused, like arnold Swzarzenager(sp) at a spelling bee, perhaps. I walked passed him, trying not to attract his substantial gaze.

I made it by him, and then I heard the one thing no slot attendant ever wants to hear.

"Sir! Excuse me sir!"

I walked a step.

"Sir!"

I walked another.

"Sir, Excuse me!"

I stopped and turned around. The bastard had been yelling the other direction, he hadn't even turned around. I walked up to the land-leviathan and managed my best "What can I do for you?" smile, that usually comes out as a "What the fuck do you want...asshole?" smirk.

"I would like to play one of theses slot machines, this one actually," he pointed at a machine with an arm bigger than a howitzer.

"Ok," I said, nodding my head.
Awkward silence.
"Do you want me to move the stools?" I asked helpfully, my arms spread in mock helpfulness.

"No, I need your help getting off my (I shit you not) rover."

He called it his ROVER! Like the thing we send to other planets to pick up scientific samples of alien shit.

"Your rover?" I said.

This is when I really notice that his "rover" loks like a tricycle under his immense bulk, and he is spilling over it in every possible place. He is absolutely wedged into this thing. So I told him what I tell any "guest" when they want me to do something unpleasent.

"I don't think so. I'm not allowed to do that."

"Why not?" he was almost petulant.

"Well, uh..if one of us were to get hurt..or if you fell on m...I'll call securtiy."

Which I did and promptly fled the scene. It took three security guy to get this guy onto a stool. He looked like a melting scoop of ice cream on top of a four legged toothpick.

Then he got bored and wanted to change machines. Though, i tried, I couldn't avoid him (the casino is very small) and he wanted to cash out. His machine ran out of coins, and I had to open it and look. He was so immense that opening the machine would be impossible, so I told him he needed to move. There was much protest and grunting, sweat and tears, but he finally got onto another stool, but he was so fucking big he was still in the way. I told him to hold on and ran.

It was my lunch so I left and the problem became someone else's.

Enter the homeless deaf guy.
Long Story Short...35 minutes later, I still don't know sign language, and now he's mad. But it was the end of my shift, so I told one of the philipenos that the guy needed some help. Revenge, since I can never tell waht he's saying either.

Another day in paradise. Scoreboard: Drunk Strippers-1 Crazy Drunks of every description and dissability- 109

End Transmission