I made my first visit to Turning Stone Casino this past Sunday. Before you ask, no, I didn’t come out ahead. I didn’t lose anything, though: I donated that $75. That’s what my tax return is going to say, anyway.

But I’m not bitter; in fact, I’m grateful. In return for my money, I got a one-and-a-half hour lesson in business that’s given me a whole new direction in life. As of today, I am officially changing my major to casino management. I will retain my minor in fry machine operation in case I still want to be a journalist later on.

Some will call me rash, but learning to run a casino is a guaranteed path to riches. Besides, the only thing Newhouse ever taught me is to worship the Almighty First Amendment, Giver of All Liberties, and its Most Holy Component Freedom of Speech, which giveth unto the world democracy, truth and InStyle Magazine. But they’re such hypocrites. My communications law professor swears all speech is protected but still insists I cannot answer my essay exams with interpretive dance. Thanks for the censorship, Comrade.

Journalism is too hard, anyway. Only ace minds like Katie Couric can think of those out-of-the-box questions like, I quote, ‘How does one go about asking the secretary of state out on a date?’ See, if I was interviewing Secretary of State Condoleeza Rice, I’d probably ask some dumb thing about foreign policy or why Rice ignored repeated intelligence warnings and abetted the worst military undertaking of the modern era. Clearly I’m just not cut out for this business (inasmuch as I wear a size 6 and don’t bleach).

So on to my casino. It has to have a snazzy name, like ‘Math Failure’s Delight’ or ‘Deadbeat’s Clubhouse.’ The one thing I noticed at Turning Stone, though, is that all gamblers are actually just old people, specifically, the old people who still crave company but are too addled to follow the plot of ‘Matlock’ anymore. Therefore, they sit in front of video slot machines, throwing away their hard-earned nickels and mumbling about the New Deal.

I think those people deserve better. Instead of stringing them along with empty promises of big cash payouts, I would run a place where the elderly could simply deposit their monthly Social Security checks at the door and then play all the video slots they wanted. What would a 75-year-old do with $75,000 anyway? Squander it on Werther’s Butterscotches, ‘talking picture shows’ and ‘diabetes medicine,’ that’s what.

There would be no money prizes – instead, we’d offer reward points. Trade in 50, and we’ll mail your 18-year-old grandson a one-dollar bill for you on his next birthday. Trade in 500 and we move you up on the waiting list for that kidney. And if you hit the 500,000-point jackpot, our team of ninjas will kidnap your family and force them to visit you for a whole weekend.

That’s right, kids: the next time you find yourself tied to a chair listening to another rendition of ‘And in my day, animals could talk! And they had better manners!’ think of Lucky Seamus’ Slot Machine Emporium and Grave Plot Registry. Our motto: ‘You were just going to leave it all to the cat anyway.’

Published on October 2, 2006 at 12:00 pm