Las Vegas Trip In Brief

  • Friends Made: Ming the Hooters Casino High Roller who bet $1000 a hand at Pai Gow.
  • Enemies Made: a black stripper from the Spearmint Rhino and a fat pit boss named Bill.
  • Best Quote From Dave: “Right now I have more alcohol in me than sense.”
  • Best Quote From Erik: “When I see you again I will buy you $100 in bourbon.”
  • Seen In Abundance: Wisconsin fans, hooker trading cards and fake boobs.
  • Seen In Scarcity: Street sweepers, museums and my judgment.
  • New Coined Marketing Slogan To Be Sold To The Las Vegas Chamber Of Commerce: Welcome to the Sex Ashtray.
  • Gambling Maxims Proven Correct: Never hit on 13, respect the sixes and a “push” is a win.
  • Gambling Maxims Proven Wrong: No craps game goes seven straight rolls without making the point.
  • Best Casino Game: Pai Gow, which is Chinese for Slow Money Bleed Super Happy Fun Drink Time.
  • Worst Casino Game: Money Drop, or as it is more popularly known “Let It Ride.”
  • Best Run: Six and a half hours at a Pai Gow table on $40 that yielded countless free drinks, death threats from dealers named Gene, screams of free Hooters calendars and chicken wings, continual verbal assaults directed towards a fat pit boss named Bill and eventually, free Hooters T-shirts and shot glasses that Ming the Hooters Casino High Roller charged to his room.
  • Worst Run: Ten minutes at a craps table that took $100.
  • Best Eats: Steaks at Mon Ami Gabi and Bailey’s ice cream shakes.
  • Worst Eats: My bag of Fritos and pack of Starbursts for dinner and Will’s infamous “last breakfast” from Nathan’s which consisted of a chili dog, a handful of soggy crinkle fries and twelve over-cooked chicken wings.
  • Best Sports Bet: Wil for putting it on UNLV to cover the spread versus Wisconsin.
  • Worst Sports Bet: Me for putting $20 on the Colorado Avalanche to win the 2008 Stanley Cup.
  • Years On My Life That The Trip Took Off : Two.
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Fatbacked Girls Make The Rockin’ World Go ‘Round

During my lunch hour I headed to the Super Target to procure a cheap AM radio so I could listen to the NCAA Tournament games in my cubicle (as I post this, I am number two in the office pool. Stanford Cardinal all the way, baby). I follow a young woman (approximately 20 years of age) into the retail superstore and am horrified to witness to one of the most unsettling views in contemporary American society: low-rise jeans, a bare midriff and back fat. Rolls and rolls of mushy back fat. With a butterfly tattoo right in the middle of it. I should have reprimanded the young woman for not only showing off her obesity but also accentuating it with a stupid fucking tattoo. Ladies, if you have a handful of flab hanging over the side of your pants you do not look like Gabrielle Reece. You look like chain smoking gutter trash that takes their dirty bastard children to the flea market to purchase cheap jewelry and black market name brand clothing.

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