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You know, I've got this friend who's a compulsive gambler. I mean, he'll bet on anything and everything. I walked into his house the other day, and he's there, staring at his goldfish tank. I asked him what he's doing, and he goes, "I bet you five bucks the orange one swims to the left next." I didn't take the bet, but now I can't look at goldfish without thinking, "Come on, lefty, make me some money!
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Playing poker with a compulsive gambler is like trying to have a serious conversation with a clown. I can never tell if he's bluffing or genuinely concerned about his hand. He's got this permanent poker face that says, "I might be holding a winning hand, or I just realized I left the oven on." I've learned one thing, though—never lend money to a guy who can keep a straight face while going all in on a pair of twos.
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So, my friend's idea of therapy is hitting the slot machines. He says the sound of the coins and the flashing lights calm his nerves. I told him, "You do realize that's not therapy, right? That's just the casino tricking you into thinking losing money is fun." But he's convinced it's therapeutic. I guess we all have our coping mechanisms. Mine's telling jokes; his is losing money with style.
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My buddy, the compulsive gambler, he's always telling me about his wild experiences at the casino. Last week, he said he went to a casino and bet everything on red at the roulette table. I asked him how it went, and he said, "Well, the ball landed on black, but I convinced the dealer it was just a really dark shade of red." I'm starting to think he's less of a gambler and more of a magician. "Ta-da! My savings disappeared!
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