Am I The Asshole For Ruining A Guy's Bachelor Party Because He Refused To Play Basic Strategy And Fucked Up The Cards For The Entire Blackjack Table?

Shutterstock Images.

Here's the scene: Cleveland, Ohio. Friday night, midnight, at Jack Casino. It's rough, folks. The dealers are unkind, snide, and utterly miserable. Nobody tips, and why would they? This is not the sort of casino that even feigns happiness when players win. It's us versus the house, and there's no confusion about that. 

Mook and I took our seats at a blackjack table. Of the five seats, three were occupied. There was a guy in the first base seat, a guy to his left, then an open seat, then a third guy, and then the anchor seat was open. So Mook and I sat down on either side of that guy on the left, and I was playing in the anchor spot. 

It only took two hands for me to realize how fucked we were. On the second hand, the dealer was showing 10 and the guy to my right—let's call him Ron, short for moron—had 15. He waffled for a bit, then decided to stay. "I'm not feeling it," he muttered, waving off the dealer who was trying, wanting, ITCHING to give him another card.  

I had 12 or something. I hit obviously, and I took a six. That would have made 21 for Ron, and it was the card he should have taken according to basic strategy. Now I stay on 18, and the dealer turns over a six (16! We're golden!!!) and then a five for 21 (Fuck. Fuck you Ron). The whole table loses obviously. 

Because Ron wasn't feeling it. 

I don't have a problem losing in blackjack. But I do have a problem losing when someone directly to my right is playing off some sixth sense, gut-feeling witchcraft that bears ZERO resemblance to basic strategy and subsequently, or at least seemingly, fucks the cards for the entire table. Blackjack is a beautiful game for many reasons, but one of my favorite parts is that typically, the dealer is willing to tell you what you should do according to the book. Hit, stay, split, double… they'll coach you! It's like when you pick up your physics quiz in high school and walk quietly to your teacher to ask a question about something you don't understand, knowing that if you linger long enough with your mouth drooping stupidly, they may just guide you towards the right answer because they're not really paid enough to give a shit anyway and it's May so we're only three weeks from summer break, who cares, you're a nice kid, the formula for acceleration is the change in velocity over the change in time. 

Ron would go on to make a similar play just a few hands later, with the same result: dealer makes his hand, everyone loses. By this point, I couldn't help myself and I started passive-aggressively suggesting the correct basic strategy plays to him. If nothing else, I wanted this guy to know what he was supposed to be doing, and that we righteous few, we knights of the horseshoe table, knew the right plays. I wanted to tug gently at his conscience, make him think twice before playing so selfishly again.

The needle didn't move. Ron is Ron. He plays according to whatever his soul is telling him to do, and his soul is a cowardly ball of bitch. Never once did I see Ron HIT when he should have stayed, or double or split when he should have. It was always some tortured show of hemming and hawing that would inevitably lead to him staying put, where it was safe, where he still thought he had a chance. The man simply refused to go down swinging and WE all struck out, time and again, as a consequence of his timidity. 

Finally, I'd had enough. I asked if he wouldn't mind switching seats. I knew this wouldn't exactly solve the problem completely, given that he'd still be fucking up the cards in the anchor seat for the dealer. But at least I'd be playing in front of him, and my cards would not be subject to Ron's tomfoolery. 

How'd he take it? You guessed it: poorly. Ron initially acquiesced, but then he thought about it and picked up his ball to go home. "You know what? I'm going to play elsewhere," he huffed, gathering his dwindling chip stack and heading off to ruin another table's night. 

I'll say this—the SECOND Ron left our table, the winds of fortune shifted in our favor. Of course! Ding dong, the witch is gone! I had no problem dancing on his grave either, offering table-wide fist bumps for family-style wins, crediting Ron's absence with our newfound winning ways. Even the dealer admitted that Ron had been deflating the air from our tubes and now, things were looking up. 

What I didn't know was that the two guys on the right side of the table were Ron's friends. As we started to win, Mook asked them if they had known him, and they sheepishly admitted that they were, indeed, his pals. I then said I felt bad for him leaving and hoped his night would recover, to which they replied "he'll be fine, it's his bachelor party." 

I had no idea. How could I? This casino sucked ass. They didn't bring drinks around no matter how much you were losing, the dealers didn't flip cards with that crispy smack that comes from a decade of experience, and a pervasive air of sorrow and loss hung over the entire table area like the fog of war. Simply put, it didn't seem like the type of place you'd have your bachelor party. Plus, I couldn't have imagined that Ron's hangdog energy and lack of camaraderie with his two buddies AT THE TABLE were indicators of such a wonderful, celebratory occasion. 

So, to borrow from the Reddit custom, am I the asshole for asking to switch seats with a guy at a blackjack table when he repeatedly refuses to play according to basic strategy and the entire table consistently loses as a result?

I consulted both Dave and Big Cat on this, and they both offered alternative solutions to my severely confrontational approach. Big Cat said I could have scoped the table and watched this guy play incorrectly before sitting next to him, chosen another table altogether, or waited for the shoe to end/Ron to lose his chips. Dave said he doesn't really care either way if someone plays against basic strategy. These two, being our resident gambling experts, certainly made me reconsider my actions. 

I hope Ron recovered and won a ton of money, truly. If you're reading this, I'd love to make it up to you should we ever find ourselves seat-buddies at a blackjack table again. First hand is on me brother. 

As long as you play your cards right.