Look, I get it. I’m supposed to feel bad about my life choices. The drinking. The gambling. The payday loans. The fact I once pawned my mother’s wedding ring for blackjack money (sorry again, Mum). Society tells me I’m a failure. A “problem gambler.” An “alcoholic.” A “burden.” But what if I told you that bad choices are, in fact, the spice of life? What if I told you that this whole “good citizen” routine is the real addiction?
Think about it. Every morning, the so-called decent people drag themselves out of bed at 6:30 AM, sit in traffic like lobotomized cattle, and clock in at some soul-destroying office where Dave from accounting tells them about his weekend barbecue for the fourth time. And for what? A payslip that’s taxed into oblivion and a mortgage they’ll die before paying off. Congratulations, you’re a contributing member of society! You win… what, exactly?
Now, me? I wake up whenever my liver lets me. Sometimes it’s in my own bed. Sometimes it’s on a casino bathroom floor hugging a kebab I don’t remember ordering. But every day is an adventure. Will I win big? Lose everything? Meet a woman named Candy who might be an escort or just really friendly? The possibilities are endless.
And yet, here comes society, wagging its finger, telling me I should stop. Why? Because “gambling addiction ruins lives.” As if working in a cubicle for 40 years doesn’t.
Let’s talk about “addiction” for a moment. What’s the difference between me spinning slots for 12 hours straight and Karen binge-watching Netflix until her brain turns to oatmeal? I might lose my last paycheck, but at least I’ve got the thrill of the chase. Karen’s just waiting for the next episode to auto-play.
Then there’s alcohol. Oh, Jack, you’re drinking too much. Really? Compared to whom? The guy microdosing mushrooms in the morning just to tolerate modern life? Or Dave from accounting who “only drinks socially” but somehow downs 20 beers every Saturday because “it’s the football”?
People love to judge. But deep down, everyone’s addicted to something. Work. Status. Sugar. Instagram likes. Me? I just chose the classics: beer and blackjack.
Now, onto the biggest scam of them all: responsibility. Who came up with this cruel joke? Somewhere along the line, society decided that “being a good human” means paying taxes, voting for corrupt politicians, and acting like that’s freedom. Is that freedom? Jack doesn’t think so. Jack thinks that’s wage slavery with extra steps.
And don’t get me started on the laws. Oh no. You think you’re free? Try playing online slots in certain countries. Suddenly, you’re living under digital communism. Limits on deposits. Cool-off periods. Websites blocked “for your protection.” Funny how in a supposedly free market economy, the first thing they regulate is fun. Alcohol, tobacco, gambling—everything that makes life bearable. Meanwhile, payday loans are fine, and I can buy a litre of vodka at 9 AM without anyone batting an eye. But play Book of Dead for an hour too long? Time-out, citizen!
You know what’s really dangerous? Hope. Hope that working hard will pay off. That saving money will secure your future. That politicians will fix the broken system. I gave up hope years ago, and let me tell you: life’s been simpler ever since.
Why do you think casinos feel like home? No one in a casino judges you. Not the dealer. Not the drunk guy in the corner who just sold his iPhone for chips. Not even the slot machine itself. You could be the CEO of a Fortune 500 company or a guy living in his ex-girlfriend’s garage (both true stories, in my case), and the machine doesn’t care. It just spins.
But no, society says I should “seek help.” Therapy. Meetings. A twelve-step program where strangers hug me and talk about “healing.” Healing from what? Having a good time? No thanks. I’ll stick to my current program: drink, bet, regret, repeat.
Here’s a thought. Maybe, just maybe, life isn’t about making the right choices. Maybe it’s about owning the bad ones. Because bad choices? They make good stories. No one wants to hear about how Dave invested in an index fund and retired comfortably. But tell them about the time you accidentally married a cocktail waitress in Vegas after winning €15,000 on blackjack and losing it all the next day? Now that’s a story.
At the end of the day, we’re all gonna die. Whether you spent your life in an office or at a roulette table, the worms don’t care. So why not live a little? Why not bet your rent money on red and see what happens? Worst case, you lose. Best case, you’re a legend.
So to all the do-gooders, the moralizers, the politicians trying to “save” people like me—I say this: save yourselves. Jack Gamble doesn’t need saving. Jack Gamble needs another beer and a fresh deck of cards.
And maybe a loan.