The Pennsylvania state gaming control board sent out a notice last week bragging that “since the introduction of the Self-Exclusion Program late last year, 52 self-described problem gamblers have voluntarily requested” that licensed gambling facilities refuse to take their money.
Once a person is on the list, gaming hall operators also may not cash that person’s checks, or send advertising mail.
The GCB didn’t say what happens to the operators of a, say, slots parlor who allow a person to gamble who has voluntarily asked to be prohibited from contributing financially to the facility’s profit margin.
But it did mention that “any self-excluded individual who violates the ban will be charged with trespass.”
One might expect to simply telephone an 800-number or drop on over to the local slots parlor and say to someone, “I don’t want to play anymore.”
And the someone would say, “Cool. Henceforth, you’re not allowed in.”
And then two or three former Steelers linebackers would toss one out the door.
It is more difficult than that.
First, you download a form from the gaming board’s web site. You answer all the questions, and set up an in-person interview with the board. “You will be photographed and you may be fingerprinted,” the application says.
It also says, “You are acknowledging that you are a problem gambler.” Placing myself on a government list that says I’m a problem anything is a problem for me, but that’s the rule.
Another note on the list says I must select a period of one or five years, or lifetime.
But that does not mean I’ll be on the list that long and deleted. If I choose the one or five year option, I cannot ask to be removed until that term has expired — but if I don’t ask, I stay on the list forever. And if I select the lifetime option, I’m not allowed to ask to be removed — ever.
What amazes me is the government eagerly supporting the voluntary taxation created by legalized gambling, and then offering as a service its assistance in preventing people from participating.
And I’m even more amazed that anyone would voluntarily tell the government they have a problem with anything.
Soon we could have a signup list on the door of the Wine & Spirits Shoppe, and a list at Wal-Mart to keep me away from the cigarettes and snuff.
I will need a sign-up at every restaurant in the nation. Food is my favorite dish.
I can imagine every store with a sensor at the entrance door, and a camera connected to identification software. I walk in and a horn sounds. A laser beam points a red spot at my chest, and an amplified voice echoes through the establishment.
“Step away from the door and wait for our Personal Responsibility Officer to escort you to the police car waiting outside.”
Don’t misunderstand — I know a thing or two about addiction. It just seems to me if I’m at a point where I’m willing to tell the government to stop me doing what I want so badly to do, I ought to be able to find enough friends to keep me away from the doing place — especially if I know that placing myself on the list is giving police permission to charge me with a crime if I backslide.
Besides, the form makes clear the exclusion applies only to slot machine facilities. I still may buy all the lottery tickets I want.
“It is your responsibility to refrain from gaming activities,” the self-exclusion application form notes.
There’s a thought.
© 2007 Readers may contact John by email at jmesseder@comcast.net.
