Tuesday, October 03, 2006

Seinfeld, Superman, and Wilfred Brimley: Our Day in AC

On Sunday, Mike, Rusty, and I made yet another journey to Atlantic City with hopes and dreams of monetary gain that would inevitably be crushed by game show-themed slot machines and overpriced rest stop food. Fortunately, we got our pricey "eatins" out of the way early, plopping down $6 apiece for an 8-piece Chicken Tenders and medium drink at the Burger King on the AC Expressway. To their credit, they at least had food this time; it wasn't that long ago when I watched them dump an entire vat of fries out right in front of me because they were no longer serving dinner. I won't lie...I shed a tear that late morning (and said a lot of words of the four-letter variety).

As we exited "el stop de resto", we began plotting what has become an AC tradition...completely f***ing with the toll booth collector. Generally, our "conversations" usually consist of putting two unlikely celebrities together in...shall we say...compromising situations. In the interest of not frightening my friends and readers away from ever associating with me again, I'll spare the exact details of the discussion. All I'll say is this; I'm willing to bet good money that the attendant will never look at Sherman Hemsley or Wilfred Brimley the same way again.

Finally, we arrived in AC, opting to park at Trump Plaza for the sole reason that it was free (thanks to the mystical powers of my Trump Card). Once we arrived in the parking lot, Mike again made a comment not fit for print (yet had Rusty and I laughing for a good five minutes); I know it was inappropriate because the people who parked next to us did not get of the car until we were fully in the elevator, which was roughly 200 feet away.

Once we got out of the elevator, I decided to unbutton my polo shirt to reveal my newly-purchased Superman shirt underneath. I can't deny the fact that I felt quite Clark Kent-like, especially when the passing-by janitor screamed, "Superman" as if I truly were the Man of Steel. That euphoric feeling lasted about five whole seconds before reality sunk in that I truly am a dork. Plus, I don't think Superman felt the same desires to throw a hard object at his admirers like I did.

Our first stop on our money-bleeding excursion was to check out the new two-freaking-story candy store inside the mall formerly known as Ocean One. We were downright giddy as we speedily walked (some would say galloped) our way to what would surely be a sugary Utopian paradise. However, giddiness turned to what-the-frigness when our eyes immediately came upon the following visual...


Ok, so we apparently stumbled into the bastard child of Chuck E. Cheese and Showbiz Pizza Place. "Surely", we thought, "It can't get much cheesier than 'The Candy Rappers'". Yeah, then we looked over at their lead singer...


Suddenly, I legitimately wanted to obtain the aforementioned superpowers so I could x-ray vision the lemony bastard into a puddle of pulp.

As we perused the rest of the store and its insanely overpriced merchandise (i.e. $2.50 for a pack of Bazooka Joe), we came across what can only be described as "seriously f***ed up." Apparently, some marketing genius decided that candy and fecal matter make for a great sugary snack. Thus, I present to you...

Seriously, I couldn't Photoshop that if I tried. Bear in mind also that there were also defecating cats and dogs, but I have a very strict "One pooping animal per memory stick" policy that I just simply will not violate. Sorry.

Having gotten our fill of sub-zero poopin' heroes for one day, we ventured down to Bally's for our true intended purpose of the trip...to piss away our money at the slots. I was off to a great start in the pissing-away process, as my arch-rival Price is Right Slot gobbled up twenty of my hard-earned dollars in relatively quick fashion. In return, I uttered completely inappropriate comments about Rod Roddy's status as a celestial being. Hey, hell hath no fury like a sore loser scorned.

After making little progress in the pursuit of not losing money, we exited Bally's and headed down to Tropicana.

"Hey Dan?"
"Yeah?"
"Why are you walking down to a casino that is...like...really, really, really far away?"
"To see the Tic-Tac-Toe-playing chicken. Duh."

About three years ago, Mike and I were walking through Tropicana when we came across a previously unimaginable sight: a gigantic line of people waiting to play Tic-Tac-Toe against a chicken. I don't remember the exact logistics of how the game was played...I just know that there was a freaking chicken playing Tic-Tac-Toe. So with a faint hope that the chicken wasn't digested by yours truly earlier in the day, we made the long trek to the Trop. However, an impassioned walk through the casino quickly drained our hopes that the little clucker was still kicking some major human ass in some TTT. Those hopes were dashed altogether once Mike asked a security guard a question I never thought I would hear asked in my lifetime: "Is the Tic-Tac-Toe chicken still here?" Frighteningly enough, the guard knew exactly what we were talking about. However, he broke the sad, depressing news that no chicken has been gainfully employed by the casino in a good three years. That was enough to convince me that the Trop would never see another quarter for me again...unless they get an Uno-playing pig. Then...and only then...will I reconsider.

We then made the long walk back to the rest of Atlantic City "civilization," lamenting the loss of our bird buddy. It was at that moment that our frigged-up day got even more frigged-upper. As we walked past the cavalcade of cart pushers begging us for business, one cart pusher in particular looked right at Mike and screamed, "Seinfeld! Seinfeld!" This was strange for two reasons:
  1. Jerry Seinfeld wasn't anywhere near us.
  2. Mike looks absolutely nothing like Seinfeld.
We pretty much blew it off, though we wondered what the hell that was all about. Fast forward to about two hours later, as we walked past another pleasant cart-pushing crew. Yet again, Mike was accused of being the comedian-in-question. And yet again, my faith in humanity dropped just a little more.

After losing some more money, we decided to blow off some steam with a little Go-Kart funnery. Although I held out hope that the cars would be decked out Mario Kart-style (complete with projectile turtle shells), one look at the "vehicles" told me that I'd be lucky if these bastards even ran period. Those fears were realized rather quickly, as a J'Lo lookalike stalled out about five seconds into the race, requiring a push from the ride operator. Meanwhile, Mike (who started out in front of me, mind you) maintained his lead for a good portion of the race, with me and Rusty trailing not-too-far behind him.

Eventually, J'Lo caught up with Mike, nearly running him off the track in the process. Being ever-the-opportunist, I eeked around the two of them. And by eeked, I mean, "came back from near-insurmountable odds to overcome my opponents' driving onslaught." From there, I never looked back until the very end, when I looked back at Mike and said, "You lost." There is a high likelihood Mike will post a comment below this blog with his explanation of why he feels my win was not valid. Just remember...I crossed the finish line first, which is all that matters.

Oh, and I neglected to mention that as we passed by some of the carnival games to get to the place where I eventually triumphed over all, I was once again "outed" as Superman, this time by a carny. At that very moment, I realized why the poor bastard became an alcoholic in Superman III.

Eventually, we decided to call it a night. Naturally, the ride home meant more toll booth collectors would have stories to tell their spouses when they got home. Again, the specifics of our twistedness don't really matter persay. I'll just leave it at this: those poor souls will never want to look at a $100 bill ever, ever, ever again.

We met up with Melanie and Krissy at Denny's afterwards, where we were quite amazed at our waitress' ability to memorize five people's ultra-picky orders without the benefit of pen and/or paper. Unfortunately for us, this meant that any threat we made after the words, "So help me God if she f**ks up my order..." was all for naught.

Mel and I also finalized the terms of Mel-Dan Bowl VI (our twice-a-year bet on the Eagles-Cowboys game):
1.) If the Cowboys win, I must walk around Cape May holding a cardboard cutout of Jack Sparrow all day.
2.) If the Eagles win, Melanie has to wear a Superman cape around the same location.

Suffice to say, this is, without hyperbole, the biggest football game in the history of the world. I sincerely hope that the Eagles follow my example in my stunning Go-Kart victory and drive themselves straight to victory.

If not, my arms are going to be really, really sore.

Until next time...
Dan

2 Comments:

At Thursday, October 05, 2006 8:23:00 AM, Anonymous Mike V said...

I haven't heard the name Wilford Brimley in the longest time, except for on The Colbert Report. Stephen has this running bit that involves him. Stephen says he records all his phone calls and will sometimes play the 3am conversations he has with Wilford Brimley. It wouldn't be so damn funny if he didn't at least mention his diabetes at least once. I assume the whole thing is made up, but it's definetly him on the other end of that phone.

 
At Thursday, October 05, 2006 3:28:00 PM, Blogger Dan said...

Hell, I was shocked to learned the old bastard was still alive!

 

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