by Gene Trimble
'Editors note' - Picture courtesy of John Massimiani and its Archie Black's favourite chip!
I must admit that after 4 months of writing about the Arrowhead Club, I
am drained. I had no time to write or nothing to write about, this month. I
hope you will forgive me for submitting a column I wrote in 1998. It is
basically a true story and I had a lot of fun writing it. It took me about
one hour to write it, after I got the call telling me a chipper was going to
stop collecting LE’s because of the Groundhog chip. I chuckled at myself and
hope you will get a chuckle also.
On The Brink of Being Chipped
It is time to climb out of this hellish place and get on to more serious
matters. The Ground Hog has been maligned and I intend to come to his defense.
I hear through the grape vine that the Hog, even raised some eyebrows at the
powers that be. One misguided chipper sent me an obscene email about the Hog.
It seems that in a weak moment he made the statement “I will stop collecting
LE’s, if there is ever a chip for Ground Hog Day.” I swear by the chip god, if
I would have known you made that statement, the Hog would have stayed buried
in the dark recesses of my demented gray matter. Please do not stop chipping.
I could not live with myself, if I were the cause of any chipper throwing in
the Chip Rack. I promise never to do it again. No Hog II for February 1999. No
Hog III or IV. No Hog ever! I plead momentary psychosis. I maintain the Hog
came into being during a 17 minute blackout. I can not remember anything.
Sorta like the Nixon tapes. I will never resign my position as the Gaming
Times Chief Correspondent for North Las Vegas! But! Does that mean, we have
witnessed the only Hog ever to be issued in the history of chipping? Surely no
other casino would try to top “THE HOG.” Imagine 10 years from now when even
the discount dealers are offering the Hog for $500 each. You read right,
discount dealers, the Wal-Marts of chipping. The hobby has come of age. I will
leave that for another column. Back to the Hog. I refuse to take all the
blame. The mad chipper called one day with this little gem of an idea. By the
way, the Hog, looks like a Teddy Bear to me.
The Hog was not the only option for a chip. I am going to wish I had never
written that sentence. I can see it now, 50 emails saying the correct option
was, not to do another chip. I just could not help it. The beast within, had
to be placated. The other options as I saw them were, the 15th valentines chip
of the month or wait until March and do the 11th St. Patrick’s Day chip of
that month. No one loves me and I am not Irish, hence the Teddy Bear, OOP’s, I
mean the Hog. Then, I says to myself “Why not be different?” Then I says to
myself, “If you don’t stop talking to yourself, the men in white coats (MIW)
are going to come for you.” I actually thought about doing a chip for National
Bob’s Day, but I was not sure how many chippers there were named Boob, err, I
mean Bob. Of course I would have been in trouble with the Jim’s, Bill’s,
George’s, etc. There really is a National Bob’s Day, you know. I bet the MIW
showed up to get the guy that dreamed up that one. I guess I will be in
trouble with everyone that lives in Indiana, for saying that.
Trouble, I am always in trouble. Too many chips, not enough chips. The
designs are great, the designs suck. The pressure is overwhelming. What to do?
Woe is me! The vortex is spinning faster and faster. Where will it all end?
Sometimes the walls close in on me.
So, I says to myself, “The reality is, I am a chipper. I design chips. I
like the Hog. I ignored the knock at the door and grabbed the phone. I would
collaborate with fellow chippers. I valued their opinions. I would get
direction. Yes, they all loved the idea. By the way, I am in more trouble now.
Everyone I called is now taking credit for the Hog idea. OK, they can have the
credit and I will redirect the obscene email to them. So, I says to myself
“This problem is solved.” If only the person beating on my door would go away.
Wrong, the problem is not solved. Every time the chippers get together, all I
hear is, “I love the Hog, I am glad I came up with the idea.” “It was my idea,
no it was mine, I had it first, no I had it first.” The racket at the door is
over powering my thinking ability! Do I dare tell the identify of the real mad
chipper. My head is spinning. I feel I must rat on the culprit. But, I do not
want to be known as the Chip Rat! It boggles the mind. There is no win. I can
not take the pressure. Someone just kicked in my door! Oh no, the MIW! I need
to type faster, I must put the blame where it belongs. Get Back, I say! Stay
away from me! It was not my idea. “The Horror,” I am being blamed for
something that was not my fault. The chipper that really dreamed up the Hog is
-------- AAAAGGGG. NO! Not a gag! I will not be silenced! Help—Help, the name
of the real mad chipper is------
Three months later: As I sit on my cot and think, It just might be better
this way. An unpretentious 6x6 room, a bunk, a wash basin, and a commode. The
decor is plain and the walls are very soft for some reason. What happened to
my belt and shoelaces? The MIW tell me, there is hope. Someday I will write
again. Someday I will be ready to venture out into the world of chipping, once
more. They say, it was not all my fault. The mad chipper was an imagined evil
twin. He was born in that vast void we call the subconscious. I have also come
to understand that the world was not ready for The MOTHER OF ALL CHIPS. The
hog was destined for another era. Sometimes when you are sliding on the
cutting edge of history, the razor blade slips. It can make a nasty gash in
the windows of your mind. I will miss my friends, if I had any. I just do not
remember. My new address is psychotic@asylum.com.
Up to now, I have always
considered myself a reasonably sane person. Lately my mind wanders off into a
deep abyss. Phones, faxes, and emails by the zillions. Do this chip. Do that
chip. Never do another chip. I am not sure what physical existence is,
anymore. Sometimes it is easier to roam the dark crawl way of the inner mind
than face a new aurora. It is hard to tell if the creatures that inhabit this
abominable province of self gratification, are real or fantasized. I have been
accused of creating BoPo out of this nefarious place. I know he is real! “Open
the pod bay door, Hal!” BoPo will return someday and exculpate me of these
ludicrous charges. He will explicate all of you Doubting Thomas’s.
