So where does this aspiring George Clooney go? Maybe over to the blackjack table, ordering a vodka Martini en-route; maybe he’ll impress the ladies that are gathered at the end of the roulette wheel with his high-rolling charm; or maybe he’ll just cash in those bills for dimes at the counter, forego the drink and head straight for the slots, to take his seat next to Mildred whose track suit belies her true age, but whose arm flab would equal that of a champion hot-dog eater, minus the excuse, and who can’t lift her arm higher than her shoulder such is her slot machine addiction.

There’s something about slot machines that doesn’t make sense. How can an individual sit before an antiquated mechanical device all day, pumping quarters into it on the off-chance they might line up a couple of watermelons, or on a good day, cherries.

These are the kind of people who watch all the soap operas on TV and show off their knowledge in the workplace. The kinds of people who still live with their parents and think Zanzibar is a snack made by Hershey.
The slot machine could even be a metaphor for these types, as all they do is consume and give nothing back: “look at those slot machines over there...let’s beat on them ‘til gravy spills out!”

On the whole I feel sorry for these ‘slot machines’, as I do lepers. I also would rather not have to interact with them, again, like lepers.