The Story of a Luxury Romantic Get-Away Paid for by Comp
Chris Zasada March 7, 2005

I write these words while I’m relaxing ten stories up in a five-star hotel, located in a foreign country. Bustling below me are hundreds of thousands of busy people having their dreams realized and shattered. Below me, there are literally millions of dollars being freely given, taken, or settling idly about, with no merchandise or service being granted as compensation. Sleeping peacefully in the bed mere feet from me is an extremely cute girl that has devoted her entire day to me, exhausting herself in the process. I sit here writing these words, relaxed after my long day, sipping on a reasonably-priced Arbor Mist as I thoughtfully gaze out the window behind me, looking back at the country of my birth, with the city lights brilliantly lit as if to pay tribute to my leisure.

Actually, I’m making that up. I’m not really sipping on an Arbor Mist, because you can’t pay for alcohol on food comp, and it would probably be $15.26 a thimble if you could.

If you hadn’t guessed, I’m currently staying at the Casino Windsor hotel, located in Windsor, Canada, just a scant five minutes from Detroit (or five hours coming back, thanks to our vigilant border patrol). I’m currently staying in a room that supposedly costs anywhere from $200-$500 Canadian a night (here's proof), on the tab of my mother, with my girlfriend, Christy. It’s Spring Break, but instead of heading south with everyone else, where it’s warm, we did the opposite and decided to head north, where it’s theoretically colder. Not that that’s necessarily true, but since the valet keeps shooing the penguins away from the cars, it’s probably a little nippy out there.

The reason we’re here in the first place is because my mother is a compulsive gambler, and to pay off her debts, we’re forced to work in the casino cleaning hotel rooms. But since this is her problem, Christy and I decided to crash in one of the rooms. I’m not sure how long I can keep writing, though, since the hotel manager is really working at that door right now, because the couple renting this room really seem to want to be back in here with their stuff, for some reason. It’s not like it’s that good, anyway.

I’m, of course, kidding, except for the part about my mother being a compulsive gambler, therefore allowing us to be here. Unlike most compulsive gamblers, however, she actually wins money, which I suspect throws a major wrench into the casino’s system (more on that later) Anyway, we have two rooms, one on her tab and one on her friend’s, which, as I said, would cost an average loser $200-$500 Canadian per night, which comes out to… let’s see… carry the three… ah! $1084 American. Because of their gambling, however, they get both rooms for two nights for $49 a room for two nights (which comes out to be about $40 American, since I used the Calculator application this time). To explain why they (and therefore Christy and I) have the privilege of staying here for so little, I must talk about the wonderful concept known as comps.

The concept of a casino is a business practice that’s so obvious that it’s surprising that anybody ever thought to actually try it. The entire business involves customers coming into the place and willingly giving the casino money for nothing in return. It’s genius! All the money, none of the hassle of producing something, and no law enforcement breathing down your neck because you beat up someone and took their money because, for whatever reason, since they brought it in with them, they thought it belonged to them.

Okay, I know the point of a casino is to try and win money, but let’s be honest here. How would that make a business work? Think about it: who would set out machines and games that would easily give a thousand dollars to anyone who put in a nickel they found on the floor? No, this is a business that takes money away from any who are foolish enough to test them. It’s kind of like the insurance industry, except the casino at least lets you quietly hand over your money without having to make a fuss. You can even put it into machines if you’re too embarrassed to make eye contact with another human being.

Since this is a business designed to take money for nothing in return, casinos can afford to be generous in other areas, because they sincerely want you to come back and give them more money. This is where the comps come in. By giving them some much money by playing, you receive in return bonus points, cash back (which, if you’re lucky, can be as much as .0000001% of what you originally spent!), food comps, and other special offers designed to show you that the casino cares about you and your wallet.

The food comps are what get me up here. Because my mother plays so much, she constantly maxes out her food comp money. Being the loving son that I am, I try my best to spend this comp for my poor mother. This is pretty easy, since Casino Windsor food costs about three times as much as its equivalent would in the rest of the world. A lone sandwich can cost as much as a five-star meal, except instead of a snooty waiter, you get a bitter server that doesn’t know what the food actually contains and just wants to keep the line moving. I get more exasperated stares at the cafeteria than a parent who insists on taking their child to Michael Jackson’s Neverland every year.

The food is tasty, though, and that motivated me to spend part of my Spring Break at a casino. Being such a logical and gifted thinker, I know what gambling is idiotic, which means that I can’t win if I had four leaf clovers growing out of my ears, a herd of rabbits’ feet chained to my ankles, and a lucky horseshoe stapled to my forehead. It just doesn’t work out.

I think it’s because I’m onto them. I’ve always been suspicious of the video blackjack machine in particular. I mean, what kind of software designer would consider it a good career move to make products that cause their paying customers to lose money? These damn machines are designed to beat you every time, occasionally feeding you a bone to keep you from leaving. Meanwhile, the software programmer sits back at the lab, thinking of other ways to smite the customer’s customers.

I also hate slot machines. I’ll put a coin out in front of me and it disappears all of a sudden. The reels move a bit and stop, displaying three different pictures whose meaning alludes me. This usually means that the machine wants more money. Just like that, my money is gone, and I have a fifty-pound nightlight beeping and whooping, begging me to give it more money, like some radioactive musician.

I can’t stand the tables because of how expensive they are and how fast the dealer moves. I’ll lay a five dollar chip down and the dealer, moving at the speed of sound, tosses two cards at me. I fumble for the cards and don’t even get them turned over when the dealer fixes me with an exasperated look, as if I’ve been napping on the table all day and just decided to wake up. He demands that I recite a secret codeword, either “stay” or “hit.” Judging by his scowl, I pick “stay,” because it sounds the least fatal. Before I finish the first letter, my cards and money suddenly disappear, and the dealer deals again, glancing at me with a look of contempt for not getting my money ready, because he knows I’m going to give it up anyway.

So I only come here for the food. We arranged the trip and decided to leave on a Monday. The fun part was, the casino, IN ORDER TO SERVE US BETTER, decided that they would disable the machines that give out food comps the day after we arrived. Since food was the only reason I was going on the trip, this was seriously distressing. We worked out a plan to draw all of our food comp out the night before and save it for the next day (more fun: it’s only good for twenty-four hours), storing the slips up like a chipmunk stores nuts in its cheeks.

Another concern was the weather. Windsor seems like a neat town, so Christy and I wanted to walk around and take in the sights (that didn’t involve the elderly cursing at slot machines and blowing plumes of smoke with the same vigor as a semi-truck). The problem was, it was still early March, and we were still experiencing below-freezing temperatures. I prayed that, by some miracle, it would be nice out, and when I woke up on the day we were going to leave for the casino, I looked outside and saw the neighbors beating away a polar bear.

Kidding. Actually, it was really nice out, so nice, in fact, that I decided, amidst the chaos of packing, to helpfully slip out and go for a bike ride and tie up a few loose ends before the trip. When I came back, I threw the rest of my things together and lugged them to the car, which almost collapsed under the weight of my necessities for the two-night trip, such as a laptop for writing informative articles.

I’m by nature an over-packer. On this trip alone, I packed three-to-four day’s worth of clothes, my laptop, my Palm Pilot, my Playstation One (with a power inverter purchased on my biking trip that day, for the car ride), my Gameboy Advance, and roughly a dozen games and DVDs, not to mention enough food to feed a frat party for three seconds (that’s a lot of food). While everything else was packing one bag apiece, I was answering every bag of theirs with one of my own.

After the usual tension-laden packing-loading-checking before the trip, we left, late, to pick up my mother’s friend. After that, we made a brief stop for maps and headed to get Christy when it started to rain. I had not factored rain into the equation. Fatal cold, yes, but not rain. We set out north, me wondering how we were going to be thwarted.

The answer came when we were entering Canada, when Christy announced that she had forgotten her birth certificate, one of the stringent requirements for leaving the country. The general consensus was apathy, since we knew that we could get her into the country with no trouble. Canadians are extremely lax about tourism, mostly because they don’t do anything to anyone and believe that the crazy psycho terrorists will leave them alone. Maybe that or the people working the toll booths are Americans and couldn’t care less about who gets into that other country.

Getting back into America, that’s the tough part. While most of the cars are waved through at the check point with the proper papers, some motorists are subjected to brutal car and person searches, based on the simple criteria that the booth tellers hate you. Christy definitely didn’t have the right papers, so by the time you’re reading this, I could be dating a Canadian. But before you laugh, maybe you should consider what it would be like to walk a kilometer in her moccasins, eh?

(my apologies to Dave Barry for ripping off his joke. As for the Canadians who were offended: tough. You sent over Celine Dion, so if you think you’re getting any sympathy from me, you’re sorely mistaken.)

Anyway, we got through without any problem and headed straight for the casino, where we encountered something else I hate: valet parking. Ever since I was forced to listen to a certain Limp Bizkit music video time and time again in high school, I’ve never trusted valets. What do those guys do when you give them your keys? I imagine they take the cars to some deserted field outside of the city and hold the weekly Valet Demolition Derby. If your car is chosen, you aren’t going to be getting it back. When you come to claim it, they make up some excuse. “Sorry, Mr. Zasada, but your car was abducted by aliens. Here’s ten dollars in food comps to make up for it!”

When I got out of the car, I was distressed to find that it was actually cold out. While I shivered, a couple of guys kept asking if we needed help with our bags. Because I brought the most stuff, I insisted on it. Since this is a five-star hotel, the bag handlers believed that we were too stupid to be trusted with their expensive luggage carts. Actually, they didn’t trust us with our luggage, since the handler that led us to our room refused to let me touch the bags, as if I would drop it out the window and sue the hotel for letting me near my own stuff.

As Christy and I settled in to our room (or, since it was, officially, my mother’s friend’s room, for the benefit of any Casino Windsor employees reading this, we stayed in our assigned rooms and each left three-hundred dollar tips in front of the door, which I’m sure you got), my mother pointed out that she ended up tipping two guys that handled our bags five dollars apiece.. I shrugged it off and noted the room, which, to my amazement, was a piece of crap.

No, it was nice and clean, but when they said “five-star hotel,” I imagined something a little bigger and fancier, with a hot tub, personal waiters, and all the pillow mints you could eat. Instead, we got a normal-looking hotel room that had a few neat features, like a closet light that activated when you opened the door (saving precious milliseconds), but the room seemed smaller than most hotel rooms.

The bathroom, though, was really cool, with a shower AND bathtub and a nightclub-style feel that made you think that a young couple would come in while you were lathering your hair and talk about their expensive trip to some place you’ve never heard of while criticizing the champagne (just check out the pics here and here. The bathroom also had an amusing sign plastered on the wall). It was way better than my bathroom at home. I guess the bathroom was five-star, so when they went to rate the room, they took the halo effect into account and marked that down before returning to more important tasks, such as shrinking the room to the size of a foot locker.

After relaxing for a bit, we went down to an all-you-can-eat, comp-covered pasta dinner, where we were waited on by a woman who didn’t wish to be bothered with us wanting things. She took our drink and pasta orders, and after a while, plopped a salad and breadstick on the table and took off, returning later with our main course. We nearly had to tackle her to make any special requests, which was clearly above and beyond her duty. The food was good, though, and soon my mother and her friend were off to give the casino their money while Christy and I decided to see the sights.

Then, Canada decided to throw another curveball at us. When we got outside, icicles immediately started dangling from our ears. The wind whipped the frozen air from the nearby river straight at us, and we managed to make it halfway around the building before we decided we would have more fun inside not freezing to death.

We went to look at the pool and fitness center and ended up back at our rooms. After returning to our room and hanging around for a while, Christy decided that she would rather sleep than hang out with me. That’s when I thought it would be a good time to start writing about the trip, and after making some good headway (up to just past that polar bear remark), I figured I should take a dip in the pool, but first, I would check up on my mother to see if she pulled off our comp scam yet.

I slipped into knee-high shorts, a long-sleeved, denim-ish shirt, and sandals and made my way into the casino. The staff probably thought it was odd that a guy dressed as a grudge-rocker-rapper-surfer guy was parading around the casino, but they figured since I was probably there to give them money, they would leave me alone. I went to the blackjack tables were my mother usually spends hours being compulsively compulsive. To my surprise, she wasn’t there.

Then I did something else that was stupid: I went to look for her in a casino the size of a small country. I thought I knew my way around, but that didn't help matters. The casino is arranged in such a way that you can never get your bearings and can never leave. There are probably a few wandering souls still out there, lost and disoriented, surviving on free drink cart drinks and hard candy dropped by old ladies who lost it while desperately rummaging for more money to give to an enraged slot machine.

Another problem was that they seemed to have rearranged everything. I can go to the same grocery store for years and everything is basically in the same place, but I leave the casino for six months and they change absolutely everything. I guess when your business is getting free money from customers, you can afford to move your stuff around on a weekly basis, too.

But I persisted, thinking in the back of my mind, “How hard could it be to find an out-of-shape, middle aged woman in a casino?”

Answer: really easy, assuming you aren’t looking for any particular out-of-shape, middle-aged woman. The casino is swarming with them, as well as aggressive old ladies, intense young men from eastern Asian descent, annoying college students who are giving up their college funds to the casino, but not their alcohol money, and thirty-forty something women who think nothing of casually sticking cigarettes far from their faces and directly at you, in case you want a whiff.

I eventually found my mother, who decided to give Spanish 21 a try, and seemed, no surprise, to be winning. I confirmed that they had successfully carried out the plan, so I mentioned I was going to the pool. My mother informed me that they might close at ten, and it was closing in on eleven-thirty. I said that I didn’t notice a closing time, so I went there anyway, and wouldn’t you know it, I was right.

So was she, because they were indeed closed. I noticed the hours imprinted in a faint white on the glass entrance door near the floor. Frustrated, I went up back to the room, where Christy was still sleeping, and decided to grab my laptop and find a nice place to write.

As I left the lobby, I was concerned that security might have some issues with me bringing a plain black case near the casino. Even if they knew what it was, I heard cameras weren’t allowed, so I figured a computer that was way more cunning and evil than the blackjack machines (I’m running Windows XP) would be less welcome. I didn’t have any trouble, though, and plopped myself down and picked up where I left off (the over-packer comment).

As I was working, one of the employees, a manager, probably, came up to me and commented that this was a nice place to work on a laptop. I agreed, and she asked me what I was doing. Told her that I was writing a humor column for the site, but before I could plug it, she managed to escape. I continued on, when another odd thing happened.

I group of people walked by, trailed by a woman that was CHRISTY, DON’T READ THIS PARAGRAPH kind of hot was about to pass by, but stopped at a vacant table that had some leftovers on it. I swear that these leftovers were produced by an older man who had nothing to do with this girl (I may be wrong, but I didn’t see them together, nor did I see any way she would have seen him eating there, as the food had been long-abandoned), but that didn’t seem to bother her. She reached down, plucked up a French fry, and went along her way.

I stared for a few moments, doubting what I saw, when the group passed by again, the girl trailing behind, and she stopped at the table and proceeded to eat more fries off of the supposed-stranger’s discarded plate. She even offered the rest of the group some. After they refused and demanded she hurry up, she left, leaving the remains of the leftovers and me dumbfounded.

Not that I’m judging her or anything. Maybe she just got out of the Casino Maze of Death and was on the brink of starving to death. Desperately out of food comps, she resorted to eating the remains of someone else’s meal. At least that’s what she should tell her friends, who were probably ready to throw her back in the casino maze and take off before she had a chance to follow them.

Exhausted from my writing for my ungrateful audience, I decided to relax with a bath and a hard glass of Power Aid (Artic Shatter). Christy was still asleep, so I figured I wouldn’t be interrupted with random personal girl problems, like the compulsive need to paint her nails, even though I don’t notice them. Actually, I do, but it makes no difference to me. It’s paint on nails. Whoopee. I can paint my whole body and run around naked, and I doubt many people would find that cute.

In retrospect, I was probably annoyed when I wrote that.

As I filled the tub and laid back, the thought occurred to me that the bathtub I was relaxing in stark naked probably contained many other stark naked people at some point. Perhaps there was more than one stark naked person at one time, and these two stark naked people were doing things in this tub that stark naked people do together when they are together and stark naked. I was briefly jealous, because I was stark naked, but it was just me and my Power Aid, and it didn’t seem to be in the mood.

I soon realized that due to the size of the bathtub, it was not likely that anyone could do stark naked people things in this tub except fight for air. The exception here may be Clasita Flockhart and her identical twin (and I mean completely identical, right down the same amount of body fat, which is negative infinity), but that’s a stretch. It seems in the hotel staffs’ best efforts to shrink the room but keep the bathroom five-star, the tub somehow got caught up in it, because it was about half the size of a normal one.

I suspect there is some kind of water conservation conspiracy going on here. As I crammed myself into the tub, I added an estimated two cups of water, and suddenly it was full. I sat there in my puddle for a while, occasionally shifting my weight so maybe I could get my back a little wet, when the water suddenly disappeared. When I settled back down, it shot up, a massive tidal shift on the tenth story of a five-star hotel. I’m sure this left the local meteorologists scratching their heads. The water conservation theory is ironic, though, and you’ll find out why later.

Not wanting to sit in a mostly-empty tub anymore, I decided to get out and walk aimlessly around the casino, where I elected to track down the infamous drink cart. In order to keep customers from getting up for drinks and suddenly stop giving their money away, the casino provides free drinks delivered right to the machines. The problem is, there is one cart for the entire floor, and it goes on scheduled routes that are designed to meet up with customers when they suddenly snap out of their gambler trance and realize that they’re kind of thirsty.

Unfortunately, this happens about once a week, so locating the lone drink cart while navigating the inescapable casino maze is a matter of pure luck. There isn’t a shortage of money carts, though. There are, on conservative estimate, a thousand of these things puttering around, providing tokens and Canadian money for the zombie gamblers in exchange for real, American money. This pretty much assures that customers won’t be leaving until the casino staff has bled every last resource out of them, including key internal organs, before granting them their freedom, penniless and ashamed.

I did manage to be in the Monday section of the drink cart route and managed to get a drink. Satisfied, I allowed myself to reflect on the casino itself, taking in all of the lights and dings and clangs and excitement. In some bright, phony way, it’s a comfort to be in such an energetic environment, feeling all of the exhilaration of the customers as the orchestra of sights and sounds play on all through the night, even if this exhilaration is usual the horror realized when the gambler just lost his children’s college fund on a “sure bet.” Then again, I grew up in America, so maybe I just like that sadistic stuff.

I left the casino after some aimless wandering and a few sessions of bothering my mother at the Spanish 21 table, much to the irritation of the other players and the dealer. The amount of concentration at these tables dwarves that required for major brain surgery, and all those involved in cards did NOT want anyone interrupting them. After receiving a few fatal stares, I decided to turn in for the night, dawn mere hours away.

The next day, I freshened up and we all went down to the cafeteria for another comp meal. Before I get to that, however, I have to point out the sign in the bathroom that begged us to re-use our towels to save water. To indicate towels that were to be reused, we were supposed to fling them over the rack, which we did. Despite this, our towels still disappeared when we got back later. After cramming me in a tub the size of a spit basin and sending me on a guilt trip for wanting to use towels that were clean to clean myself with, they went ahead and took them away anyway. You can bet that I took the extra roll of toilet paper for that one.

Anyway, we got to the cafeteria, where the selection is fairly extensive, with nearly every food type represented. You could get steak or lobster if you wanted, though it would cost an estimated $15,432 in real money to build the comp to afford it. We had more than a hundred dollars of comp with us, so the possibilities were endless. That’s when I went out on a limb and got a hamburger.

I have the keenest sense when it comes to hamburger-related matters. When I’m at a nice restaurant , I immediately locate the most low-brow, common place food in the country and order that over Fillet mon Caviar with Lobster Eye Stalks. Back home, we occasionally visit a rather nice restraint called J. Alexander’s. I always order the burger, but in my defense, it’s one of the best burgers in the world. If you come to Toledo, go there and order one yourself. Tell them I sent you. It will do you no good, but you may get a sympathetic smile from one of the cute waitresses.

After lunch, we decided it was time to see if our car had been an active participant in the Valet Derby. Apparently it hadn’t, so we wrested the keys from the valet and decided it was time to see the sights. Windsor is a town rich with historical sites and museums, so it was clear where we were going: shopping.

We went straight for the nearest mall, which reportedly had roughly 175 stores. Along the way, I noticed one of the best slogans for a store I’ve ever seen. It became clear to me that Canada was a little more liberal than its neighbor to the south, which spends its time talking about how free it is, but shuts down those who dare come up with something that might offend a lot of people. I guess that makes Pocky Box revolutionary, but we don’t think about it that way. All we care about is the entertainment of our readers and their wallets (speaking of getting money for nothing).

Anyway, we get to the mall, and it becomes painfully clear that Canada is getting the shaft when it comes to American merchandise. I went looking for bargains on anime’ and video games, only to find prices that were above those in the US, even after the conversion. And since I didn’t feel like paying one-hundred-and-twenty-five converted dollars for forty-five minutes of hentai, I decided to head over to the one beacon of hope that knows no international price hikes: the dollar store.

Across from the mall was a little dollar store that I immediately noticed when we were coming in. After first stopping at another electronics store where the prices were ridiculous times two, we went in. My intentions were to search for Iron Nerd material, but this store came up short in that area (it did have a weird ninja targeting game, but it looked too stupid to waste the money on). I did manage to find a laser pointer, however, which cost just under a dollar after the conversion. Not to worry, I don’t plan to follow the way of the idiot and shine it on movie screens and at State of the Union addresses, but if an airplane ends up going down for no apparent reason around Toledo, don’t blame me.

We went back to the hotel, where Christy, in addition of being tired of me, was also getting sick of me, as evidenced by her throwing up. Caring boyfriend that I am, I made sure she was feeling all right before I ditched her and went to the pool. Before I went, though, I wanted to see if I couldn’t get any medicine for her. The whole thing started out as a headache, so I asked the hotel security guard if there was a nursing station to treat that sort of thing. He said that they don’t give out Aspirin, but did tell me where the nursing station was and recommended I buy some in the gift shop. I was all right with that and returned with the over-priced bottle of Aspirin.

Then she got worse, so I set out to find some medicine for nausea. Remembering what the security guard told me, I went over to where the nursing station was supposed to be, which was in the far corner of the first floor of the gaming area. After navigating the death maze, I made it back there and didn’t see said station, so I asked a bartender. He informed me that the nurse’s station was actually on the basement level, so I charged into the maze again and went down there. Big surprise: nothing. I asked another security guard, and he said that it was indeed where I thought it was.

Wondering if there was some sort of rivalry between the bartenders and the security team over dispensing information, I told the security guard what I was told. He explained that the nursing area in the basement was for employees, and the one for patrons was upstairs. I raced up there and searched little more, and I eventually found a small, almost unmarked door that was no more than fifty feet from the bartender I questioned. I didn’t care at that point, I was just glad I found the thing.

Of course, it was locked, and a sign instructed me to contact security. Not wanting to cause trouble, I caught an employee, explained my situation, and asked if there was a security guard around to let me in. She told me to go to the security guard station, which wasn’t too far off, and, thankfully, didn’t have any slot machines standing between me and it.

The security station itself was a hole in the wall of the casino, with a large, courtroom judge-style podium that placed the security officer on duty way higher than me. I looked up to him as if I was in prayer and explained my situation. He replied that they don’t dispense medication, but there was a nice selection in the gift shop. Already in the hole from the Aspirin, and knowing Christy hated nausea medicine anyway, I decided to let her sleep it off. Hey, it was a principle thing, cut me some slack.

Well, Christy got better and I left her to rest. I managed to get my dip in the pool, where I opted to hang out in the hot tub and pretend to be cool. Later, I went to dinner (hamburger, just to be safe), opting to write some more afterwards. I sat down in the same spot as the night before, typing away, when I noticed the water show display, which was playing on dutifully as casino patrons gawked.

Right in the center of the atrium, there is a very large water fountain that hosts a musical water show that plays every half hour. Because of this miracle of modern engineering, visitors can, firsthand, see how water fountains are really boring, even with lights and music going along with them. Maybe it would be more exciting if they tossed a few casino chips in there and had customers battle the vicious water spouts as they launched overweight tourists majestically into the air. I’d give them my money to see that.

It wasn’t long before I decided to call it a night, because the next day was check-out day, and we had to be up bright and early (11 AM) to get there in time. The next day, it was the standard check-out day hassle of making sure you didn’t leave something critical behind, like hotel soaps. After lunch (hamburger, may as well keep the streak up, I thought), we were off for home. Or at least my mother and her friend were. I had to stay behind for Christy’s Canadian citizenship ceremony.

Just kidding. We made it across the border with no trouble and were on our way back home. Overall, it was a fun trip, excluding the weather, the illness, and the idiocy. Okay, that doesn’t leave a whole lot left, but since I’m trying to put a positive spin on it, I’ll just say (Casino Windsor management, take note) it was the best vacation ever, and I’m sure the staff appreciates my praise for their wonderful establishment, preferably in the form of large cash gifts, or at least a lot of food comp.

If you’re interested in more information on Casino Windsor, head over to casinowindsor.com. I highly recommend that you head up there and check it out. Better yet, get a friend or family member addicted to gambling, send them up there a few times, and before long, you’ll have a vacation on a budget! Theirs!

So go up and have fun, but remember that there is a danger in gambling. Fortunately, Windsor advertises a gambler’s helpline, so if a friend or family member starts to become a compulsive gambler, keep them away from this number, because you need to get that free comp. Thank you.