So Joe and I took Jammer to Vegas last weekend. Outside the normal gambling and general debauchery, there were a couple of instances that I feel the need to inform the internet of.
At Mandalay Bay we were witness to an older man hitting on a reasonably attractive young woman, likely less than half his age. In and of itself, this is not an unusual occurrence. The man was perhaps in his mid-forties, shiny bald on top with, shall we say, an expansive waistline; a jolly girth if you will. In the normal course of things, a man might slide closer to a woman he is courting, provoking more intimate conversation. Unfortunately for Fatty Baldman, his beer gut got in the way. Perhaps he thought it in some way seductive brushing his swollen belly against her midriff, but I assure you that from the sidelines, it was simply side-splittingly hilarious.
An extremely inebriated fellow who claimed to have been in some branch of armed service approached us in a swayingly drunken fashion. He proceeded to show us an (apparently) expensive pinky ring that he received for his distinguished performance. Aside from my being more than mildly skeptical that the Air Force has ever handed out pinky rings for any reason at all, I have fond hopes that our freedom and security do not depend on folk such as this man. Though he was spitting on himself and mightily slurring his words, I believe he said something to the effect that we should get ourselves such rings, and then bet them on various gambling pursuits (as witnesses have attested he had attempted at the craps table). He accompanied this by leaning forward several times, thrusting his gem encrusted pinky at our faces, waggling his finger, and expounding his point with a resounding, "Bam!".
As we were walking to Denny's for some fine Vegas-breakfast-at-dawn-after-gambling-all-night-long, we passed a bearded, unkempt gentleman who smelled faintly of garbage, and much more overpoweringly of fortified wine and cheap liquor. He asked us a fairly straightforward question, though it did come out as mostly a drunken growl, "You guys like the Mirage?" (The Mirage is a casino that we were presently directly across the street from, home to homo-erotic white tigers, and even more homo-erotic Germans.)
Since my natural response to any inquiries by drunken strangers is either, "No, thanks" or "I don't speak English", I went with a "No, thanks, we're all right."
He naturally replied with an, "Ah, whatever, the Mirage fuckin sucks anyway." He trailed off his sentence with yet another liquor infested snarl and proceeded to continue his ambling stumble on to his destination (which I can only assume was a job interview for an executive position in a high powered investment banking firm).
That's all for now, stay tuned for a rousing review of Deaf Midgets on Ice: The Musical.