Struggling with her sudden return to work, the online gaming
industry’s answer to Dear Abby finds that pretending to care is high on her
first day to-dos.
Hi, diary. Today is my first day of… work.
I’m sitting in my attic office bent double over a desk that
probably belonged to Bob Cratchit, sifting through my first In Tray task:
tackling the backlog of 39-4-Ever’s gambling problem pages. And, boy, do we have
some out-there customers. It’ll come as no surprise that compulsive gambling is
the notorious pimple on the backside of the casino industry and somewhat of a
double-edged sword; it
cuts both ways. So far, Big Frank’s policy on anyone stupid enough to sign up
for our suite of games is to suck every last cent from them as quickly as
possible. But, as I’ve said before, he’s about as subtle as a wet tongue in
your ear.
After
a dash of research, I found some casino in Barbados had recruited Miss Hope, a
recovering compulsive gambler herself, who offered encouragement and advice –
and I thought we needed some empty promises of our own. So, today I start my
role of Miss No-Hope. Because, hey, we can all pretend to care for a living. Here's a few of my favorites, scrapbooked for posterity:
From:
mrluvverman
Subject:
Unrequited love
I am the
online gaming world’s Latino lover. Every lady worships me. Just one flash of
my white suit and black shirt and they’re mine. All that is except ‘The One’. I
met her at this fabulous cocktail party hosted by Ladbrokes to celebrate when
Aspinalls Online Casino closed, but she ignored me totally. Can you help me
turn my considerable charm up another notch?
Dear
mrluvverman: I could be wrong, but I think that was me you were trying to
impress. And you’re mistaken when you say I was ignoring you, as this is
impossible when someone is holding onto your bra strap for grim death. Truth
is, buster, I tried so hard to get away that finally the elastic snapped and
catapulted me into the restrooms. So as first impressions go, you scored nil
points. Bottom line? My body is a temple and I don’t want just anybody poking
around my portico.
Hmm, this is easier than I thought. Seems putting the online
gaming world’s problems to rights is a natural talent. Moving swiftly on...
From: ms
goldenslotz
Subject: Help!
Being a
woman in the 21st century sure is baffling! Just when I found solace in mint
slacks, now the boob is out and the stapled bellyhoop is in. I just don’t know
where I’m going to be injecting the next bag of collagen. Any advice?
Dear ms
goldenslotz: Women’s roles are shifting so enormously, it’s a wonder we don’t
break our hips. I suggest that since fifty is the new thirty, being thirty-two,
you’re technically now only twelve, so I’m putting this down to a prepubescent
tantrum and mailing your mother.
Well, by now diary, it’s midday and I’m pretty pleased with
my progress. So much so that I’ve decided for lunch I’m gonna fly off for a few
days to celebrate a great first morning.
Still, as I’ve previously mentioned, it’s a helluva long
trip to Heathrow, so, suffice to say, when I finally reached the terminal, I
was very, very late.
“Gate’s closed,” the high-altitude heffer announced as I
staggered up to the desk.
“But I can still see the plane. You just have to let me on!”
“No can do…”
“But what about your ‘We Live To Serve You’ initiative?”
“Sorry, we’ve rebranded.”
It was then she pointed out the big sign swinging above our
heads. It read: ‘BAA. We Couldn’t Give A Flying F**k.’
“But– But–!”
“Last bag for Vegas!” the bunchucker called, as I scrambled
up the ramp.
Ah, grannie told me they’d be days like these. Pity she
couldn’t have mentioned they’d be so frickin’ many…
