The past week was filled with the general debauchery of Mark’s bachelor party (somehow we all survived). For obvious reasons, most of what transpired cannot be relayed; this story, however, is peripheral enough to be retold.
It’s late, late into Saturday night (Sunday morning?) and a large group of us have commandeered two blackjack tables at the new Palazzo casino. The free drinks have been delivered in excess and everyone is having a great time, as anyone in earshot would attest. I’m railbirding a table with Mark, Steve, Sean and Greg; at the adjacent table, every minute or two a loud cry of “Monkey! Monkey!” would be yelled out by Jimm in hopes that the dealer would deal herself a bust card. After one such outburst, Mark, who happens to carry a sock monkey as a good luck charm, thought it would be appropriate to toss the little guy over onto the raucous table in hopes of helping their general luck. Hilarity did not ensue.
The monkey took flight from one patch of felt to the next, and landed with a seemingly harmless, silent thud on its new resting place. This did nothing short of startle the dealer who let out a high pitched, “sshhiiiiitt!!” turning all of the heads in the place in our general direction. She started to scold Mark but somewhere amongst the first few words suffered a complete and total breakdown instead. Tears began to stream uncontrollably down her cheeks as her shoulders convulsed. Within seconds, the pit boss escorted her off the floor and she would not be seen again for at least an hour.