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Beer and Clothing in Las Vegas (Part IV)
Sunday. D-day. The return. Jeff and I awoke with an awful dread,
knowing a return to reality (Toronto) lay in our future. Not to mention that we
were unlikely to get the great seats on the plane we did on our trip down. There
was snow on the ground and the streets were empty. I guess frozen water must of
made its way into everyone's door to lock them their homes. We had to get up
much to early after a really long day of Mormon-bashing and Shit-kicking
bashing. Check out was at 11:00 am but we had to have our bags ready by 10:30
am, so the bell hop could come pick them up, rummage through them, steal our
underwear and see if he could find some American money (Canadian money is
useless in Vegas). Just after 10:30, a bell hop came to our door and asked for
our bags. We asked him for identification, retinal scans, DNA, semen (just for
my own personal use), urine, a stool sample (for Jeff's use) and then asked for
a deposit, because I had something very important in my luggage, my fancy new
Hilfiger underwear (purchased on sale). We gave our bags to this virtual
stranger, wondering if we would ever see them again, and headed down to the
front desk to check out of home for the last four days (even though it seemed
like four years). Jeff was teary eyed, while I was just bleary eyed as we
checked out. I had to console Jeff, telling him that yes, we would get back to
Vegas, and would stay in Bally's. Just to make him feel better, we headed to our
safety net, 25 cent beers. After a nice breakfast of beer, we tried to gorge
ourselves for the last time, at the trough of freedom. Unbeknownst to us, the
trough of freedom is rather busy on Sundays. In fact, both our hangouts in
Bally's was extremely busy. A line up, if you will. I didn't think there were
such things in Vegas. I know of two things in Vegas. One, cheap drinks. Two, no
one waits in line, because you can go next door and get the same thing. Well, on
Sundays, all bets are off. Rule number one was broken, because the buffet is
more expensive because of champagne. Rule number two was also broken, because of
the champagne bunch. Jeff and I decided to head for greener pastures, Maxim.
Like the Riviera it's time has passed, but it doesn't know it yet. It's what
Vegas used to be, slightly tacky, a lot of lights and noise and no theme. It's
weird to walk into a casino and not see a Klingon, a pirate or at least a
shit-kicker. Maxim's buffet was closed. It figured, since we had a coupon. Much
to easy. We were pissed. So we used the craps tables for literally and took a
crap on the table. Luckily, it was difficult to differentiate our fecal matter
from the seven other people who were taking craps on the craps table.
Jeff and I decided to head back to the MGM Grand to see if maybe the mother of
all casinos (and houser of more over ten restaurants) would have some free
tables to eat. The monorail took a bit longer, thus proving to me that Sunday,
it's topsy-turvy. Down is up. Left is right. There is snow in Vegas. The MGM
Grand buffet line was equally huge as Bally's, except better dressed people. I
was too damned tired to walk, since the casino is about the size of Rhode Island
(for those of you who don't know how big Rhode Island is, it must be at least
100 yards, maybe 200). We settled on the Rainforest Cafe. Another corporate
attempt to raise our awareness about the plight of the rainforest through the
sale of crappy merchandise and relatively decent food. After some crappy service
and decent food, Jeff and I headed back to our home away from home, Bally's
Sports Books to watch football until we left. During that time I realized that
a) the Jets did cheat and Vinny Testaverde did not cross the goal line b) Vegas
is like crack for football junkies like me, because every game was on TV and
they had over 20 televisions going at once c) Bottled water is way to expensive,
almost $2, which is like $17 Canadian. Better to buy a 25 cent beer, or at least
the $2.00 refills Jeff and I had gorged ourselves on the day before.
When the time came, we hopped on the bus, back to the casino cum airport, and
waited for 90 minutes as our plane came. Played some Scrabble. Listened to some
Mexicans complain about the exchange rate, snow, gambling losses, how they don't
get the runs from Las Vegas's water, how the shit-kickers kicked the crap out of
them and how even though they were only tourists, every other person called the
immigration department on them. Kind of sad.
The plane ride sucked. And when I say sucked, I mean sucked in the best way,
if that's possible. Sucked as in, a 6'2" individual sitting in a plane seat
made for a infant midget. Sucked as in, the movie was "The Parent
Trap" with Dennis Quaid (what ever happened to his film career). Sucked as
in, the food. Sucked as in, a condescending and amateur comedian fight attendant
(screw it, he's a stewardess) telling us how uncomfortable Jeff and I look.
Sucked as in, having the duty free cart sitting right beside you for 30 minutes
so you can't get out of your seat to go to the washroom. Not good.
At least when we landed we got through customs, got our bags and got a cab
easily enough, except for that strip search. My anal cavity will never be the
same. Neither will that customs agent. Ended our glorious trip with a trip to
Subway since it was 1:50 am and Belly Buster is closed on Sundays.
As I dropped Jeff off at his house, I told him I never wanted to see him
again, which means, I'll see you on Sunday when we watch the Jets-Dolphins game.
This concludes the tale of "Beer and Clothing in Las Vegas".
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