Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Above the Law
Today I'm writing about a subject that has absolutely no effect on my life, nor the lives of my friends and loved ones. Even though it doesn't concern me in the least, it still pisses me off.

Why are Lindsay Lohan and her underaged friends allowed to get drunk in public with no repercussions? I've known people busted for underage drinking and they were in a public park late at night, trying to hide their illegal activities. Bars back in Louisville have been shut down because they served a twenty-year-old who had a convincing fake I.D.

But Lindsay Lohan, who everyone on earth knows is under twenty-one, gets VIP treatment at the swankiest clubs in New York, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, and Miami. She goes into these places, gets stinky-twat drunk, and has her picture taken a thousand times as she stumbles out at dawn. The clubs not only don't get shut down, they get free publicity as the place America's favorite Disney alcoholic tied one on. Where are the police to arrest this inebriated minor? Where is the Alcohol Control Board to close the doors of these multi-million dollar nightclubs? I'll tell you where they are: They're lined up to suck the perfumed, saline-enhanced tit of celebrity. This is nothing new. Drew Berrymore used to get drunk at the original Studio 54 before she had her first period.

I'm going to borrow someone's baby and try to get it into a nightclub. This saturday the baby and I are going to Pure at Caesar's Palace. I'll walk up to the VIP attendant and say "You do recognize this baby, don't you? He played newborn Luke in the latest Star Wars movie. We'll need a table near the dance floor, a fifth of single-barrel bourbon, and a baby bottle filled with Red Bull and vodka."

Back to Lindsay Lohan, how skinny is she going to get? Did she run over a gypsy's kid and get the "Thinner" curse put on her? Remember when she was hot and voluptuous, way back in late 2004? She and Nicole Ritchie used to be hot chicks with meat on their bones. Now they look like they're competing for the lead in "None for Me, Thanks: The Karen Carpenter Story." Eat, ladies, eat.

Monday, May 30, 2005
And the Wind Cried..."Beth."
I've already written a little about Beth, the woman who used to work at the liquor store with me; the same Beth whose mom traded to an uncle for a TV set. That story, sad and depraved though it may be, is but one dimension of this truly original American character. Allow me to fully introduce you to Beth. Be prepared to be taken to a world you would never visit voluntarily.

When I knew Beth she was in her mid-to-late forties, stood about 4'10", and weighed in the neighborhood of two-hundred fifty pounds. She looked like the runaway boulder from "Raiders of the Lost Ark" had grown arms and legs. You'd think these factors would eliminate spandex from her fashion equation, but god damn mother fucking tragically you'd be wrong. In the summer Beth would wear spandex shorts I'm surprised didn't turn to pillars of salt all who gazed upon them. Seeing Beth in those shorts I had to question the motives of a God who would allow my eyes to witness such an atrocity. My very faith was tested far too many times for me to remember until store management posted a new dress code that 86'd all fat-hugging garments. We called it the Beth rule. That's the day we took our GM out and paid for his drinks. Hell, if I'd had the money I would have bought him a house.

Despite suffering from asthma, Beth was a heavy smoker. Her inhaler would never be too far away from her pack of Camel filterless. Yes, filterless; Beth wanted nothing to stand between her lungs and pure smokin' sassisfaction. I'm surprised she didn't just mix tar and cigarette butts in a blender and spread the resulting goo on burnt toast.

In order to smoke as many cigarettes as humanly possible during lunch, Beth would SMOKE AND EAT AT THE SAME TIME. A bite of low-rent luncheonmeat sandwich, a draw off a cigarette. A spoonful of off-brand chocolate-flavored pudding, a draw off a cigarette. It made me want to sit in the dumpster out back and fight rats for my food.

Every payday Beth would buy two 1.75 litre bottles of the cheapest vodka on earth. This shit was made in a flophouse in Newark and strained through old socks. The label featured an artist's rendering of a diseased liver wearing a hat.

Weight Loss
In a noble attempt to lose weight in a fashion that in no way involved diet or exercise, Beth began taking weight loss pills. Unfortunately, a pesky little side effect of the pills was anal leakage. If my road to weight loss passed through the sleepy New England town known as Anal Leakage, I'd have to get off in Fat City. I'd rather be so fat Oprah would put me on her show and pay for the airlift to a weight loss clinic than have a drippy derriere. After a few horrific incidents, Beth made the same decision.


Of course, Beth reproduced. Twice. She was a widow and I can only guess her husband's best day was the day he passed on. He probably willed the heart attack to be fatal. "Oh God," he most likely exclaimed, "if I survive she'll take care of me morning and night. Take me now!"
Her son was a squinty-eyed little pixie with a tiny body and giant oversized novelty head. He looked like a lollipop. We used to call him "All-Day Sucker."
Her daughter was somehow someway attractive, but stump-ass stupid as aquarium gravel. She was, as we liked to say in the liquor industry, a few bottles shy of a full case. She got married the same day she graduated high school to a guy who either spatula'd road kill off of Kentucky's highways or tore tickets at underground cock fights...I don't recall which.

One day several of us were in the break room when someone started reading horoscopes out loud. Normally this would annoy the piss out of me but this time it led to the funniest moment of my life. As everyone was having their horoscope read to them, Beth said, in her patented four-packs-a-day rock quarry voice, "Read mine. I'm Cancer." The room exploded with laughter.
I almost died. Whatever I was drinking at the time shot out of every orifice on my head. I finally composed myself to say, "You certainly are cancer, Beth. You're cancer on the cusp of tuberculosis, with emphysema risings."

In Closing
I'd like to say I miss Beth, but I don't. At least she wasn't twins; that's all I can say in her defense.

"A changing moment in my life came the day I first laughed. That was when life took a new form and my sad visions were cleansed by humor and from that day on I paid homage to comedy. From that day on I studied with the zeal of monks lost in religious rapture, the works of the comedy masters. For I loved comedy and I loved those who loved it. I loved those who gave their lives to find the perfect laugh, the real laugh, the gut laugh, the healing laugh." -Bill Hicks 1961-1994

Friday, May 27, 2005
God and Me
The other night I had a dream about dying. It fell into the realm of a fantasy dream, because I went to Heaven and had a conversation with God.

Where: Heaven
When: Seven Years From Now

Heaven isn't the way it's depicted in the movies. It's not all white. "Too hard to keep clean," an angel tells me as I'm led to God's corner office. It has an ultralounge vibe. A few of the more nubile angels are dancing on tables. There's bottle service in VIP.

"God, your four o'clock's here."

God looks up from a pile of paperwork. "Send him in."

I'm a little nervous. "God, I'm Todd Smith."

"No shit. I'm God. I don't have to google search every dumb s.o.b. who stumbles in."

"What happened to me?" I ask hesitantly.

"You died of a heart attack," God replies. "Age 46. Nice goin', lardass. I created vegetables, you know."

"Why didn't you make them taste better?" This question is a mistake.

God stands up. You don't want to make the Lord of Heaven and Earth stand up.

"I put your ungrateful ass in one of the few countries on earth with an abundant supply of food and you dare complain about the taste? Does God have to smite a bitch?"

"Of course not," I say apologetically. "Uh, do I get to stay up here?"

God thinks for a moment. "Well, I saw you eyeballin' VIP; you can forget that. It depends on my mood in the next few minutes whether you get in...general admission, of course; or I cast you down to Hell and you get to be Satan's dingleberry harvester."

"General admission will be fine," I say. "Why should this be any different than earth?"

"Let's take a look at your file," God states, ignoring my comment. "Wow, from 1997 till 2002, lots of strip clubs."

"I can explain..."

"It's okay," God interrupts. "If I didn't want men to look at breasts I wouldn't have made them so beautiful. I would have made them horribly unpleasant to gaze upon, like I did with the scrotum."

"Yeah. Mission accomplished there." I add, "Can I ask you a question?"

"I swear to Myself," God says, frowning, "if you ask 'Why do the good suffer?' I'll cover your whiny ass in boils the size of half-dollars."

"No, I just want to know why you'd send someone to hell if they weren't really evil?"

God sits back down and buries His head in His hands. "You liberal Christians, always with the 'God loves you no matter what' horseshit. There's something called the Old Testament, you know. If you would have bothered to read it you'd know that I'm not afraid to fill streets with the blood of non-believers and choke rivers with the dead."

"Yeah, but didn't Jesus say..."

"SILENCE!!" God commands. "Jesus isn't even a blood relative; he's my second wife's kid from a previous marriage. I just didn't think Step-Son of God would have cut it. He had enough problems down there."

"I never voted Republican," I say out of left field, trying to get on His good side.

"That's the only reason I'm even considering letting you in," God states. "I can't stand those pious fucks using my name to scare people into voting for them; like that miserable George Bush. That's why I gave him a hare-lip in '07."

"That was a good one."

"Okay," God says, smiling. "You can come in, but I'm putting you on a diet. And you have to wear a training halo for the first ten thousand years."

With that, I woke up. I immediately decided to do whatever it takes to avoid dying young and having to face a slightly perturbed and surprisingly foul-mouthed God.

The diet starts Monday.

Thursday, May 26, 2005
I've been getting a lot of bothersome e-mails from reunion.com asking me if I'd like to "reconnect" with my high school classmates. Doesn't "reconnect" suggest there was once "connect"?

Frankly, I'd rather star in a pay-for-view event in which I'm ass-raped by the Oakland Raiders than write to, speak with, or think about anyone with whom I went to high school. Why would I want to relive the nightmare? Even if it was a pleasant time, and it most assuredly was not, I haven't spoken to these people for a reason. This decision was based not on hatred but on overwhelming indifference. "Hey, remember Bob from Homeroom? He's a merkin-weaver now." Wow...I don't care. I don't care about Pubic Wig Bob or any of them. I don't give a ferret's fly-buzzed fuck-cubby about their loveless marriages, soul-slurping occupations, prescription drug-addled children, or knee-jerk opinions. I don't want to reminisce with Eddie the football player or Betsy the cheerleader because they're now Eddie the thrice-divorced unemployable meth addict and Betsy the adult stuck with a teenager's name.

Thinking about the potential conversations with my long-lost acquaintances chills my very soul.
"Todd, you haven't changed a bit," a woman will say to me after reading my name tag to remember just who the fuck I am.
"Yeah," I'll reply between sips of my fourth Manhattan. "Pretty sad since I was eighteen the last time you saw me."
She's flustered, but recovers. "Uh, I mean you look the same."
I'll nod and say, "I set the bar pretty low back then by being a fat lump of dough, so maintenance hasn't been a problem for me. You, on the other hand, were attractive in high school. Aren't you at all suicidal now that you look like the editors of Southern Living gave Linda Tripp a makeover?"

I could have fun at a reunion taking a Sharpie and drawing boobies on the domes of all the guys who went bald, but it wouldn't be enough to offset the horror of rediscovering banality.

I decided to put my profile on reunion.com just to shut them up. I told them I moved to Las Vegas to fulfill my dream of being a flesh-peddling gentlemen of leisure, went by the name Pimptasmo, retired a millionaire, and now have the coveted title Pimp Emeritus. They posted the damn thing. I guess they'll post anything as long as you avoid words like "shit" or "fuck" or "monkey vulva."

I haven't had any responses as of yet.

Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Tag...I'm It
My blog-buddy Evil Petting Zoo tagged me (without even buying me dinner, I might ad) so here goes.

1. Total volume of music files on my computer: Zero. I'm not a tech guy. Note the lack of visual stimuli on my site.

2. The Last CD I bought was: Shipping News, "Flies the Field." Already mentioned in a previous post, I'm still liking it.

3. Song Playing Right Now: I'm listening to "Lovely" by the Primitives. It's either that or gut-wrenching sadness.

4. Five songs I listen to a lot (in no particular order):
The Sundays - "Here's Where the Story Ends" When Harriet Wheeler sings "I never would have thought / those books that you bought / were all I loved you for" I get chills. Yeah, I know..."Harriet." Give her a break, she's British.

Veruca Salt - "I'm Taking Europe With Me" I love the catchy pop verses and the incompetently screamed choruses.

Slint - "Good Morning, Captain" Why? I don't have to explain myself to you.

Helium - "Sportscar" Sample lyric: "That was just a joke about the money / you're gonna pay me with your life."

Nirvana "Serve the Servants" The best opening line in the history of music is "Teenage angst has paid off well / now I'm bored and old."

I have to tag people now. How about Ms. Hellion, Dr. Chingasa, and Dena. Answer the above questions. Please.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005
And Now a Word From Our Sponsor...
There's a radio commercial I hear almost every day driving home from work and I have to vent my anger about this abomination.

The commercial is for a luxury condo development being built in downtown Las Vegas. City leaders are trying to encourage monied people to move away from their gated suburban communities and buy a glorified apartment at the corner of Crack and Drive-by.

That's all fine, but the commercial itself makes me want to plow into innocent pedestrians. It features two women meeting for drinks, presumably at one of those trendy little bistros which exist in cities that, unlike Las Vegas, don't have to co-opt their culture. One of the women insipidly lists the features and benefits of living in the "new" downtown; while the other one ignores her and loudly complains about not having a drink. It's all just a ham-fisted, half-assed Sex in the City rip-off, complete with the petty, witless bitchiness that stupid people mistake for female empowerment. At one point the complainer whines, "What do you have to do to get a Cosmo around here?"

Oh, that is so witty and hip. The late-nineties called and wants its cocktail back, you shrill, overpriledged cuntpouch. I don't get the point of this commercial. Am I supposed to want to have these horrible people as my neighbors? I wouldn't want to sit near them at that bistro, never mind share the same building. In fact, I want to live at the point in the Las Vegas valley that is furthest away from these two women and anyone remotely like them.

Our city planners want to charge people a quarter of a million dollars to live in a new building surrounded by abject poverty and this is what they come up with?

Monday, May 23, 2005
White Trash Hullabaloo
Beware: The story I'm telling is not only true, but so white trash you might see Moon Pies and RC Colas before your eyes after reading it.

A couple of aunts on my dad's side of the family live in northern Ohio, near Cleveland. My Aunt Midge's daughter, a cousin I've never met and whose name escapes me, popped out a few unwanted kids from different fathers and took off, leaving Aunt Midge to raise them.

Aunt Midge is annoying like a lot of aunts and most likely votes republican, but she did the right thing and raised the dim-witted bastards as her own. A decidedly white trash tale to be sure, but that's only the beginning. When the children were twelve and ten respectively, my cousin returned to kidnap her abandoned children and force them to work in a traveling carnival. Jesus, I heard banjo music just typing that. A TRAVELING CARNIVAL!!!

If there could be a happy ending to such stupidity it occurred when the carnival came to Houston, Texas, where my Aunt Alice lived. The kids made a daring escape - I'd like to think in one of those cute little clown cars - and called Aunt Alice for help.

As my dad told this wretched tale to my brother and me we both fell to the floor in fits of convulsive laughter.
"There's nothing funny about this," dad said. "What's wrong with you two?"
"Did they guess people's weight?" I managed, gasping for breath. "Or did they take turns barkin' for the Yak woman?"
The louder we laughed the angrier my dad became. He was concerned about the kids, no doubt, but I'll bet what really pissed him off is he had to pay for their flight from Texas to Ohio.

For years I thought this was the most white trash story ever, but it was challenged when I worked at the liquor store and met a woman named Beth. Beth deserves her own post and will get one soon, but for now I'll stick to her entry in the White Trash Sweepstakes. When Beth was about nine or ten her mother traded her for a television; and given Beth's age, it was a black and white set. Yeah, her mom gave her to an uncle for a god damn appliance. I always told her we were going to trade her to Wal-Mart for a cash register, but I digress.

According to Beth, her mom was horribly unfit (duh) and her uncle, a kind and decent man, wanted to raise the child so she wouldn't have to eat Crisco on Wonder Bread for dinner every night. The mom said something like "Okey dokey but I want that there magical pi'ture box,"
and a deal was struck.

Trying to decide which story is more white trash makes my head hurt. Any opinions? Any unsavory tales of your own? Let me know.

Sunday, May 22, 2005
You Can't Spell "Sucks" Without UK
In my native state of Kentucky, college basketball is a religion. I guess that's why, as a University of Louisville fan, I've always had a passionate hatred for University of Kentucky basketball.

The thing I miss least about Louisville is the sight of all of those UK car flags. I'd rather watch rats eat a baby than look at one of those fucking flags. I've said it before and I'll state it for the record here: The city of Louisville, to my knowledge the only city in Kentucky with paved roads, should be UK-fan free. All University of Kentucky fans should be forced, at gunpoint if necessary, to evacuate the Louisville Metro area.

I don't live there anymore, but remaining Louisville residents should demand their expulsion. How dare these treasonous ne'er-do-wells take advantage of Louisville's fine affordable restaurants, abundant drinking establishments, lovely parks, and other things I'm sure are great about the city but I can't recall right now; and at the same time badmouth the beloved Louisville Cardinals?

This is my FINAL SOLUTION, and we don't have to build concentration camps. They already exist in the form of towns with names like Pikeville and Hazard and Rineyville. Make the UK hillbillys live with their brethren in run-down little shitholes where the only place to find a decent job closed five years ago, everyone over forty-five is dead of black lung, all the teenage girls are pregnant with their own siblings, and the nearest place to buy liquor is a hundred miles away. Make them rot there until they come to their senses or hang themselves from boredom.

Also, to be a fan of college sports shouldn't you have at least seen the inside of a college?

I Wasn't Invited to the Family Reunion
The Scene:
A distant cousin's wedding reception, circa 2001.

The Question Asked by Every One of My Female Relatives:
"Todd, how come you never got married?"

My Answer After One Drink:
"Well, I just never found the right person."

My Answer After Three Drinks:
"I'm married to my job."
"Don't you work at a liquor store?

My Answer After Four Drinks:
"I'm as queer as a football bat, Aunt Jennie."

My Answer After Six Drinks:
"Go fuck yourself you cow-cunted harpy!"

Friday, May 20, 2005
Brushes With Greatness
Las Vegas is quickly becoming the new Hollywood, with celebrities streaming in on weekends and pre-buying luxury condos on the strip. Famous-folk sightings are commonplace for the well-connected, but since I'm rarely on THE LIST, my brushes with greatness are few and far between.

I was having a Thai chicken pizza at CPK when my meal was interrupted by a bright orange orb in my line of vision. I hoped it was the sun crashing into the earth to bring me sweet relief, but it was Carrot Top. My first holiday season in Vegas and this was the city's gift to me, the celebrity sighting equivalent of getting a Chia Pet. It turns out the Top is really buff. I guess when you're the worst comedian ever you get a lot of shit for it, so why not get all muscled up and kick some heckler ass.

I was working at the retail Hindenberg also known as Organized Living when I was approached by Teller of the comic magician duo Penn and Teller. Teller's the little guy who never speaks, and he's become very attached to the persona. All of his requests were relayed to me by his swishy personal assistant, and to top it off the name on his credit card and I.D. read simply "Teller." When I moved I had to wait three hours at the infamous Henderson DMV just to have my address changed, and this guy gets away with having "Teller" on his driver's license. One of the perks of celebrity, I suppose.

Rob Lowe filmed an episode of his ill-fated TV series "Dr. Vegas" at the Green Valley Ranch Casino and guess which disinterested passerby saw him? "Oh, look, it's Rob Lowe. Let's get a Fatburger and some rings."
"Dr. Vegas" didn't last long. Really, would you want a guy who went by "Dr. Vegas" operating on you? I saw part of an episode and the dialogue went something like this:
"I'll be honest with you, Susan. You have cancer, but we did catch it in the early stages."
"What shall I do, Dr. Vegas?"
"I prescribe a limo ride to Mandalay Bay Resort. Begin the evening with dinner at the award-winning Aureole restaurant and then dance the night away at rumjungle."
"Oh, Dr. Vegas, you're too much."
The episode ended with Dr. Vegas placing lilies on her grave.

I waited in line for Jenna Jameson to sign a copy of her book. She was at the Virgin Megastore, of all places. She was quite nice and put up with a lot of porn-guy shit very good-naturedly. She even wrote in my book, completely unsolicited, "Todd, it was way too big for me. Love, Jenna."
Which proves that in addition to penning her autobiography she has a future as a writer of fiction.

I've only been to Rain nightclub twice and both times led to celebrity sightings. The first time Shaquille O'Neal stuck his head out of a private skybox and waved to the crowd. That was the night, I later read in a gossip column, he was denied entrance to the vastly overrated Light at the Bellagio because he didn't meet the dress code. I've been to Light before. I got in wearing my best Casual Male Big and Tall ensemble. Any club that would let me in over Shaq Diesel should be burned to the ground.

My biggest celeb encounter, and most horribly disappointing, came the last time I went to Rain. A group of us were celebrating a friend's birthday when someone said "I think that's Britney Spears." I turned around to see her entourage, led by her bodyguard, who is so large a small moon orbited three feet above his head.
I've never been a fan of complete and utter shit, but I always thought Britney was hot. Wrongamundo, as the Fonz might say. I caught a glimpse of her face just as she walked through a house light. Blessed Mother of Bad Skin did she look like the "before" picture in a zit cream ad. I almost dropped my overpriced, watered down drink. How could she go out in public like that? She's Britney Spears! I'm still mad at her. Thanks, Britney, you non-consealer wearing twat. Way to ruin my middle-aged perversion. I'm afraid to go back to Rain again. I don't want to find out Jessica Alba has a hunchback or Allysa Milano drags her left foot.

Thursday, May 19, 2005
Word to Your Mother
In early 1991, a girl dumped me for someone who looked, dressed, and behaved like Vanilla Ice.

At least she didn't leave me a note that read "I lost the zero and got with the hero."

Wednesday, May 18, 2005
So Many Wasted Opportunities
I had to use the public restroom again today. While I was sitting there, three people came in to use the urinal and all three of them - ALL THREE I TELL YOU - made a low, disturbingly guttural, almost orgasmic sound; not a regular orgasm but a hushed, shameful one. Shameful like when you're being blown by a slow-witted girl with a lazy eye who, during the summer of 1987, worked at the Burger King across the street from the Kentucky State Fairgrounds. Oh...forget I said that.

Back to that sound: It's not one I've ever made while taking a piss. Urinating doesn't do that much for me; I just stand there in silence. What am I doing wrong? Think of all the peeing pleasure I could have experienced had I known what they know.
Maybe those three guys are members of a freestyle uringasm club and they're having their convention in Las Vegas. I hesitate to think about the initiation.

Tuesday, May 17, 2005
The Smut Peddler Saga
When visitors to Las Vegas are surveyed, one of the things mentioned as a negative about our fair city is the endless sea of smut peddlers up and down the Strip. Smut peddlers are illegal aliens hired by owners of various escort services and paid slave wages to stand along Las Vegas Blvd. and attempt to hand tourists various pamphlets, leaflets, and business cards advertising women pretending not to be whores.
No sir, no prostitution here, just "private escorts direct to your room twenty-four hours a day."

These pimps really sell the lie. Obviously, they'll say, when a businessman from Trenton has a woman sent to his room at 3am he only wants a date; a little arm candy to take to the casino's all-night coffee shop. If you believe that I've got a half-scale replica of the Eiffel Tower to sell you.

Escorts? Tourists aren't escorting these girls to the Sterling Brunch at Bally's. Everyone knows what's going on. It's a common misconception that prostitution is legal in Las Vegas. No, it's legal in Nevada in counties of less than a hundred thousand people, which leaves out Vegas and Reno. But prostitution is rampant in this town. If you go to a casino bar late on the weekends you can't swing a two-headed dildo without smacking a whore. None of them ever get arrested. They make so much money they're able to grease the palms of bartenders, doormen, elevator operators, security; everyone's for sale and they all look the other way. A woman could walk down the street naked carrying a bullhorn and shouting "I'm selling my pussy!" and she'd probably be cited for breaking local noise ordinances before she was arrested for prostitution.

The smut peddlers are the only ones who bother the innocent. These people, none of whom speak a word of english, try to give these flyers to everyone. On mother's day I was walking down Las Vegas Blvd. with my mom and every five feet someone would attack me with pamphlet-sized promises of barely legal college gals ready to show me a good time. I told one of the guys, "No thanks. I'm gonna wait till my mom leaves town before I start bangin' whores again." Mom thought it was funny, but the poor smut peddler had no idea what I was saying.

I'm not blaming the illegals. They're obviously being exploited by the owners of the escort services, otherwise known as filth merchants. According to a report published in a local alternative weekly, they pay these people $3.00 an hour. If they work a ten hour shift they get $4.00 an hour. Tourists are harassed, the streets are littered with discarded flyers, the illegals are underpaid, and I don't imagine the working girls being well-adjusted. The filth merchants are the only winners in this game. Oh, and the fifty-year-old shower ring salesman who gets to have sex with the best looking woman he's ever seen is a winner too, until a few days later when he urinates lava.

Why, you ask, does the city stand for this? This is the part I honestly don't understand. The city has passed several anti-smut peddler laws but they've all been struck down as violations of the filth merchant's first amendment rights. What? Where does it say in the first amendment that some sleaze has the right to hire people who can't legally work in this country and pay them less than minimum wage?
Is the first amendment really about someone standing in the desert heat for ten hours a day to make forty bucks? I don't understand the logic.

I saw the smut peddlers again the other night, trying to hand their fuck ads to senior citizens and small children. Viva las vegASS.

A Revelation
Driving home from work this afternoon, it came to me: "My God, they're right. Star 102.7 really does play one great '80's song after another."

Beer List
A nice young lady from New Mexico named jo-anne has requested a list of good beers. Okay, here is a starter list.

Guiness Extra Stout - also known as "The Poop Shake" due to it's dark color.

Bass Ale - Bass is just a good solid beer. Teams up with Guiness for a Black and Tan. If you can find a bartender who can properly build a Black and Tan, tip him well and become friends for life.

Pilsner Urqell - I don't even like pilsners but this is great.

Fuller's ESB - This beer on draft (Ramsi's C.O.T.W.) is beervana.

Sierra Nevada - One of the original U.S. microbreweries, and still one of the best. Try either their signature Pale Ale or the delicious Porter.

Fat Tire Amber Ale - Having a Fat Tire is like drinking a liquid biscuit.

Pyramid Wheat - Try it with a slice of lemon on a hot summer's day.

h.c. berger's banshee red - I can't get this beer in Nevada even though it's made out west, but when I go home I always grab a six pack.

Anderson Valley Indian Pale Ale- every Anderson Valley beer I've had is excellent.

Blue Moon Belgian Ale - Beer snobs don't like Blue Moon because it was bought out by Coors, but served with an orange slice it's one of my favorites.

There are several others that I don't think would be available in the southwest. A quick shout out to Cumberland Brews in Louisville. They have the best beer on earth but it's draft only. They don't bottle it.

I am by no means a beer expert. These are just a few I've enjoyed through the years. If anyone has a beer they think jo-anne should try feel free to comment.

Monday, May 16, 2005
Like the Things I Like
Dear Reader(s) of viva las vegASS:

I've come to the conclusion that I don't waste enough of your time. Sure, you spend a few minutes reading my insignificant ramblings and a few of you even take the time to add pithy comments. I appreciate that, but I want to bother you more often; without actually having to write more stuff, of course. That's why I'm offering this list of things I like and you should like, too. If you watch a movie or listen to a CD that I've recommended, it's kind of like you're doing my bidding. In a sense, I own you during that time. Keep reading and kindly submit to my will.

The Primitives - Lovely - From 19 "back in the day" 88, this timeless classic is a must-own for fans of catchy girlie-vocal power pop. If you don't smile while this CD plays you are one joyless bastard. Be warned, the words are brainless, so if you want lyrical depth go elsewhere. Also, avoid at all costs the dreaded MEDIOCRE FOLLOW-UP, Pure.

Belly - Entire Catalogue- I've mentioned this band before. Buy everything they ever recorded. The b-sides are as good or better than anything that made it to the official releases.

The Breeders - Pod - Only thirty minutes long, you must listen to this from start to finish all in one sitting to fully appreciate its brilliance. If I was forced to listen to the same CD every day for the rest of my life I'd pick this one.

Shipping News - Flies the Field - This is my latest CD purchase and I listen to it a lot. Their 2001 release Very Soon, and In Pleasant Company is also excellent. If your town doesn't have a decent indie record store, you can buy these online at www.quarterstickrecords.com.

California, Arizona, Nevada: In-n-Out
Midwest, Southeast, etc: Steak-n-Shake
Neither where you live: Buy a grill.

Despite being made way back in 1979, Being There may be more timely today than it was when first released. Comic genius Peter Sellers plays a gardner named Chaunce, who despite being simple-minded and functionally illiterate becomes an unofficial presidential adviser. I won't give away any more than that, but it has to be seen to be believed.

Beer is the unquestioned nectar of the gods. To drink mass-produced, watered- down domestic swill is to deliberately anger those gods. Imports, kids. Microbrews, y'all.

Most of the TV shows I've liked (Simpsons, Seinfeld, Family Guy) are widely available on DVD
with the inexplicable exception of WKRP in Cincinatti. Release it, damn you! I really liked a show on Louisville cable public access called Bearded Clambake, but it's long gone and will never return. If anyone from Louisville has episodes on tape, please let me know.

The golden rule involving the world's perfect food is never order from a big chain unless geographical circumstances dictate. Las Vegas has a lot of pizza places, most of them shit-all terrible, but I finally found one I like. Most towns have at least one independently owned and operated pizza joint. Find it, patronize it, and be happier. Life is too short to eat cheese-covered cardboard.

My taste is impecible. Trust me.

Saturday, May 14, 2005
Something for the Kids
May is high school graduation season, so I'd like to take this time to impart a little knowledge on the young douchebags of America as they embark on the pothole-filled, one-way drive down a dead-end street that is the journey of life.

All of your heroes are whores. Don't argue with me, just accept it. Christians will ask, "What about Jesus? He's my hero." Okay, Jesus Christ wasn't a whore and look what they did to him because of it. However, a lot of his followers, especially those with power, are shameless whores to the point that it doesn't even matter that he wasn't.

If they haven't already, your parents will behave in a way that proves they're human. This is a good thing. As soon as you realize they're no better than you, you can break free from their oppresive tyranny so cleverly disguised as parental love. This doesn't mean they don't love you, dumbass. Most of you will one day drown your own children in the icy waters of Lake Tyranny.

Something you love, be it music or art or fashion, will be co-opted by corporate interests and watered down for mass consumption until you don't even recognize it anymore. "Hey, they're using the song that defined the summer after my junior year
in a commercial for wart removal." The business interests in question will expect gratitude for bastardising your passions. Never thank the rapist.

A person you love, maybe even someone you envision spending the rest of your life with, will rip your heart out and give it to someone they decide they like better than you. There's no answer for this one.

Any time you make a decision that falls outside the narrow perimeters of societal norms, society itself will rise up and try to destroy you. You will be pre-judged, labeled, marginalized, and ignored by your intellectual and moral lessers. Just go about your business and hope someone poisons the nation's supply of Budweiser.

Some people hate to see others having a good time and will do or say anything to bring fun to a screeching halt. Avoid these people.

Unless you're blind don't wear sunglasses indoors. It makes you look like an ass.

Most of our nation's leaders, regardless of political affiliation, don't care whether you live or die. A few good-hearted souls make it to political office, but they're always the first ones to be targeted for a vicious smear campaign from the opposition. Think about it; if there existed an animal that went around and tried to heal creatures that were sick or injured, that animal would be hated by vultures.

Every once in a while some old loser will offer advice. Fuck that noise; ignore it.

Friday, May 13, 2005
Mister Personable
I meet a lot of stupid people in my travels around the Las Vegas valley, so when they learn I'm from Louisville, Ky, I get a lot of dumbass questions like "Did you have indoor plumbing growing up?" and "Did you wear shoes?" I usually reply, "You're from Las Vegas, so are you a blackjack dealer or a whore?"

I have a hard time making friends.

Thursday, May 12, 2005
Pooping in Public
I had to use a public restroom today. To be more clear, I had to poop in a public restroom today. What a horrible thing to have to do. It's like the old joke: "Don't go in the men's room; that's where all the dicks hang out." Unfortunately, when nature calls it's a fool who doesn't answer.

The particular stall I chose today had writing on the side wall. It was an anti-George Bush diatribe; and while I agreed with it, I don't like political graffiti in public restrooms. I want my shithouse poetry to be filthy and juvenile, requiring no thought and containing not even a shred of insight. If it's not a crude observation it better be the name and number of a lady looking "for a good time." Simply put, when I'm taking a squat I don't want to read rejected lyrics from the lost Rage Against the Machine recordings.

This is probably a more common occurance for prettier boys, but only once have I been solicited for sex in a public restroom, and it was once too often. I was at a mall and had to drop a deuce in the worst way when my path to the stall was blocked by a man who asked if he could...um, service me orally. I HAD TO TAKE A SHIT! I wouldn't have let a woman blow me at that point, unless she had a serious blumpkin fetish. Please let me crap in peace. I ask so little.

In fact, no sex in public bathrooms at all. Gays, straights, whatever; just stop it. If you meet that special someone in or around a toilet and must have sex with them immediately, at least go out to a car. The next time I see or hear people screwing in a bathroom I'm about to use, I'm going to find out where they live and shit in their bed(s). That should impart on them a much needed sense of perspective.

Worst Date Ever
A few years ago I was having dinner with a seemingly pleasant young lady at one of my favorite restaurants. It was a first date so the coversation was mostly about background and hobbies, but suddenly the woman made the erroneous assumption that since we shared one obscure opinion I'd naturally go along with all of her crackpot theories.

The statement she made went something like this: "I agree, Todd. Belly's sophomore release KING was one of the most underrated post-alternative albums of the mid-nineties. And, I'm sure you'll concur, there wasn't a holocaust."

My first thought was "How can a Belly fan be a Nazi?" Then I realized "Christ almighty, I'm at Ramsi's Cafe on the World with a fascist." I guess her small square mustache should have tipped me off.

I sat in stunned silence, then managed "That Simon Weisenthal is such a liar," before I bolted from my chair and went screaming into the evening darkness.

I don't know what happened to that woman, but I have a feeling it involved the Sean Hannity Fan Club.

Sunday, May 08, 2005
Hair: The Non-Musical
I had to get a haircut the other day. I don't go to salons because it's been my experience that my hair looks like a light brown pile of hay no matter how much I spend. Places named Expressions or Gabriels on the Green give you bottled water and all of the stylists look like models, but it isn't worth the extra cash for such amenities. I usually go to places in malls and shopping centers called Style Shack or Hair Hut or Cut-o-rama. These are the places the bronze medalists of the cutting olympics bitterly ply their trade. There's no bottled water, only broken dreams. At least there are plenty of scissors around to cut the desperation.

I wasn't in the mood for angst, so when I saw an actual barbershop in the upper-middle class neighborhood where I rent, I thought my prayers had been answered. I just had to avoid barbershop pitfalls such as the old guy who'll compare your scalp to Franklin Roosevelt's and the dreaded bald man named Curly who's rumored to have a collection of human ears. I was very surprised when I walked through the door and was greeted by an attractive young lady. She asked me if I needed a haircut and within seconds I was sitting in the barber chair.

I asked for a shampoo and cut and everything went well until the walk back from the shampoo chair. That's when this girl, who stood about 4'11", became fascinated by my height. It wasn't a good fascination, though. It was a "You belong in a travelling freak show" kind of fascination. She actually made me stand next to her in front of a full-length mirror and loudly shouted "OHMYGOD...I don't even come up to your shoulder." The problem was I looked into the mirror and not only saw tall vs. short, but fat vs. skinny and ugly vs. pretty as well. I thought for a moment I saw Brown vs. the Board of Education of Topeka, Kansas, but that was probably due to sleep deprivation.

My haircut didn't turn out so good, maybe because she had to stand on her tip-toes the whole time. She told me the price - fifteen for the style, which is about average - but eight dollars for the shampoo! Eight dollars? What did they use to wash my hair? It couldn't have been water. It must have been Jessica Alba's "love juices" or maybe the Virgin Mary's placenta. What kind of place calls itself a barbershop and charges eight bucks to dampen your scalp? My grandfather, who never paid more than five dollars for a haircut, may still be spinning in his grave.

To summorize, it cost me twenty-three plus tip and I look like Chet the asshole brother from Weird Science. Next time I'll go to The Clip Joint, located between the Dairy Queen and Bath and Body Works. I'll have to listen to details of a messy divorce and/or loveless marriage, but at least I won't have to sell my bone marrow to pay for a lousy shampoo.

Saturday, May 07, 2005
While yournamehere is playing bingo with his mom or whatever, he asked me to fill in and give his three readers an actual Vegas story, not his usual crap. That whiny ass. Have you read that shit? I don't like a comic strip, I don't like bums, I don't like bumper stickers. SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Yourname tried to get me added as a guest but he's stupid and the Commodore computer he uses wouldn't let him so he gave me his passwords and shit. I looked through his email and what a loser. Just russian girls wanting to marry him. He probably will marry one, fucking commie. So I'm writing under his weak ass name yournamehere haha how funny. My user name is pimproller if he can ever get it together.

A Real Vegas Story not girlie shit by pimproller. What?

Last Saturday I was at Tabu, you know the ultra lounge at MGM. I know a guy who bangs the doorman's sister, so I always roll VIP muthafucker! I shove my way past a bunch of tourists. I think Vegas could do okay without tourists, you know? They're all "Hey, we're in line" like I give one. I go up to Mike the doorman and I'm all "Hey, is that albino son of a bitch still plowing your sister?" and he pretends not to hear me, cocksucker. So while some blonde with fake tits is bouncing up and down for him I just walk in. Sneaking in is something yournamehere writes about but I do the shit. That walking building couldn't sneak into shit. Unless he rolls with me, Willie Jeff Clinton style since back in the day, his ass waits in line. He'll have to wait in line at his own wedding to soviet union bitch.

An hour later I'm talking to fake tits, the bitch who got me into the place even though she didn't know it at the time. I bought her a long island and I pretend to listen to something, sick mother, favorite hat, whatever. I'm condo-sitting for my cousin while he's in jail for selling crack to school kids in North Las Vegas so I say to her we move the party there. This condo is tight as shit. Jacuzzi, you can see the Strip, there's an In-n-Out down the way. She stops talking about her shit long enough to say yes so we get in my Jeep and head out.

I knew my cousin would have stash so before long I'm snorting a line or three of his choicest off the flesh mountains of blondie. This wasn't the crack he got caught selling to roundthaway girls, this was good shit and tits just made it better.

After I rocked this chicks world I went to sleep on the couch. She was a bed hog, all over on my side acting like I'd remember her name in the morning. I kind of told her to leave but didn't really say get out, and she was too dumb to take a hint.

I woke up the next morning and that bitch whore cunt had took my wallet. None of the credit cards were mine so charge it up slut. Get pussy cancer, trick ass.

Well, that's the real deal. Maybe I'll come back when yourname is at a wuss convention in Utah or standing in line to get some balls or shoving food down his fat cakehole. For now it's back to more shit about his boring ass life...I got drunk in Looeyvul Kentucky five years ago I'm so wild. I should put my foot up his ass and write about that. He says I'm no good at writing and he's always talking about some shit called harvard commas, but while he was learning that shit I was getting me some pussy.

Thursday, May 05, 2005
Stealing Ideas Can Be Fun
Note: I'm posting more than usual today because my mom's coming to town tomorrow and I might be too busy playing travel guide the next couple of days to get to this thing.

Fifteen Things About Me

Several bloggers have done this little exercise in self-revelation, so since this is my day to rip people off, here goes nothing.

1. Somehow, I'm an honorary Kentucky Colonel, complete with ID card. I tell people the card entitles me to 15% off at participating KFC's.

2. My all-time favorite half-hour of television is the "I thought turkeys could fly" episode of WKRP in Cincinatti.

3. My parents divorced when I was in utero (Please, no Nirvana jokes).

4. Sadly, my milkshake does NOT bring the girls to the yard.

5. I can't say or type the word "butt-fuck" without giggling.

6. I never had to clip my toenails till I reached my early twenties.

7. When I got my tonsils out the doctor promised me all the ice cream I could eat but all I got was a single serving cup of that dreaded culinary abortion, ice milk. But then my first grade teacher brought me a box of plastic army men, so all was well.

8. I don't mean to, but I frighten small children.

9. I've never seen a complete episode of any of the Star Trek series.

10. I'm not a big fan of the Beatles.

11. I saw Star Wars for the first time the day Elvis died. Coincidentally, my childlike belief in the healing power of cinema died the day I saw Phantom Menace.

12. I'm allergic to trees and grass.

13. In 1994, at Bogart's in Cincinatti, I tried to sneak backstage before a show featuring Hole and Veruca Salt by telling a bouncer I was president of the Veruca Salt Fan Club, Louisville chapter. The man's reply: "You must be a very lonely dude."

14. I played little league baseball at age seven and won all of my games because I was the only kid in the league who could throw the ball over the plate. I only played one year and retired undefeated. I couldn't hit or field, though. A designated hitter batted for me and when a pop-up was hit to the infield I was instructed to run in the opposite direction so someone else could make the play.

15. I've been physically threatened by a midget.

Mediocre Tossed-off Hack Crap
I've heard rants about The Family Circus before. Anyone with even a smiggen of taste hates this abominable comic strip, but this is my blog and I'll be an unoriginal piece of repeating shit if I want.

Even the reelection of President Bush isn't as damning to America's rep as is the success of Family Circus. The bad art, ham-fisted moralizing, brutally unfunny punchlines, and the same stories repeated ad nauseum all combine to make me want to poison my morning coffee. Damn, those kids are insufferably psuedo-cute. If I ever have children like that I swear to upper-case God I'll sell them to an overseas slave ring.

The man behind this daily travesty, Bil "with one 'L'" Keane, occasionally pretends the strip is drawn by his seven-year-old son. I call shennanigans on this practice, since Mr. Keane is a hundred years old. His great-grandson might be seven, but not his son. The whole elaborate charade was created for days when Bil doesn't have it in him to equal the strip's already low standard of drawing and needs an excuse to scribble.

The worst part of Family Circus, by far, is the dead grandfather. Dead Gramps is always watching from heaven, his ghostly visage hovering unseen as those fucking kids do something morons find adorable. He sits on a cloud surrounded by his also-dead friends, making comments like "Billy's a real chip off the old block," as they all smile knowingly; voyeuristic spectres the lot of them.

I think Grampa should be burning in hell. That would make the proceedings a lot more interesting. It seems he was a real bastard when he was alive; he cuffed the wife around, he had simulated sex with storefront mannequins, he was a lousy tipper...the list goes on.

And since Gramps is burning in hell, he should be looking at life's dark moments, not just the warm-hearted stuff. This could lead to the following scenerios and grandfather's commentary.
Jeffy is touched inappropriately by his scoutmaster. "Get your meat-hooks off my grandson. Ouch, my insides are on fire."
Dolly has drunken up-against-the-wall sex with a stranger at a frat party. "My granddaughter is a worthless strumpet. Ouch, vultures are ripping my eyes out."
Billy pushes his common-law wife down a flight of stairs. "Billy's a real chip off the old block. Ouch, my feet are being eaten by rats."

Tune in next week for my "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" episode of Beetle Bailey.

Wednesday, May 04, 2005
The Holiday Show and Wu's Magic Afro
I used to work at the largest, best-stocked liquor store in Louisville, the fabulous Liquor Outlet. One of the few benefits of working there was an invitation to the annual Holiday Show presented by our largest local distributor, Southern Wine and Spirits.

By Holiday Show, I don't mean wretched Christmas carols, tacky nativity scenes and a meth addict dressed as Santa; I mean free booze.

Free booze. Are there two more beautiful words in the english language? At the Holiday Show, Southern gave away unlimited free samples of every thing they sell, and they sell everything. It's the drinker's equivalent of a bachelor being invited to the Playboy Mansion. Who knew heaven was a convention hall in Louisville?

I went to the 2000 Holiday Show with my friends and co-workers Tim, Kristen, and Wu. The event always takes place in late October, so Wu decided to Halloween it up a bit by sporting the largest afro wig I'd ever seen. He could barely get through doorways with this thing. I'm sure that, as a group, we brought shame upon the once-respected name of Liquor Outlet for generations to come.

Tim didn't drink all that much since he was driving, but he practically pulled up a chair to the buffet. I think at one point he distracted the guy at the carving station and made off with three-fourths of an entire prime rib. Recently divorced, I don't think Tim had cooked in twenty years and was stockpiling food for the long winter ahead.

Wu did his share of drinking but spent most of the evening telling assorted ladies that he hadn't cut his hair in five years because "I've been in the joint." Most of them seemed more interested when they thought he was a convicted felon.

Kristen, who arrived about an hour after the rest of us, had a plan to befriend the liquor vendors and at the end of the evening ask for any opened bottles. Her low-cut dress increased her odds of making this a reality. Queen for a day, drunk for a lifetime.

I didn't have time to make friends or lie to strangers. I was busy trying one of everything. Beer, wine, scotch, vodka, gin, bourbon, mixed elixirs, frozen concoctions; all of them combined to make me a slurred-speached wreck. Someone told me I proposed to several members of the Budweiser Bikini Team, but to this day it remains heresay.

When it was time for us to leave, good ol' Tim helped me to the exit, with Wu and then Kristen, her arms full of liquor bottles, following close behind. All was well until I heard, "I'm sorry, no bottles can leave this room. You'll have to put those back."

I turned around and saw Kristen's eyes fill with tears. An entire evening of flaunting her ample wares to middle-aged booze peddlers was wasted.

All I wanted to do was go home, but Tim suggested we go to a strip club. The Holiday Show is traditionally an early evening affair so it was only about nine o'clock and Tim, with half a buffet table and very little booze in him, was just getting started. Wu was up to it and I was in no condition to argue, so it was decided we'd go to a place called PT's Showclub, located a few blocks away.

As we walked through the bottom level of the parking garage, Wu wondered aloud, "Where's Kristen?" On cue, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. It was Kristen, crawling out of some opening that looked like an oversized doggie door but was probably the end of a garbage chute. She was dragging a plastic bag filled with liquor bottles behind her.

She never saw us. She got up off the ground, grabbed her ill-gotten treasure with both hands and ran like hell in the direction of her car. At the time, mainly because of my state of shitfacedness, I thought it was the funniest thing ever. I walked along, laughing, then KABOOM
I was flat on my back. I had just walked directly into a Stop sign. I lay there on the ice-cold concrete for what seemed like an hour but was really ten seconds, opening my eyes to see Wu and his freakishly oversized novelty 'fro standing over me. "I'm dead," I thought. "I'm dead, hell is a disco, and this is Satan."

I was only in the strip club for thirty seconds. I walked in, found a seat by one of the stages, and passed out. I fell asleep in front of a beautiful woman who was as naked as the day she was born. That, my friends, is drunk. As soon as my head hit the stage I was given the heave-ho by ten or so bouncers. Why so many? Maybe they thought I'd put up a fight. Whatever; I was so drunk I could have been thrown out by a girl scout with two club feet. My roommate at the time happened to be there, which isn't nearly as big a coincidence as it may seem, and gave me a ride home.

The next year, my last Holiday Show before I moved away, was quite different. Wu left the costumes at home, Tim was engaged to wife number two, and Kristen had long since found another job. As for me, I was a little more selective in my sampling.

Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Venti Half-Caf Low-Fat Hippie Entitlement
I don't need any shit at 5:30 in the morning. That's what time it was when I innocently tried to
enter the Starbucks closest to my place of employment. Oh, and no indie-horseshit anti-Starbucks manifestos, please. If you're that concerned, take some of that trust fund money and buy a hobby. I live and work in the suburbs so there aren't a lot of options, and if I drink gas station coffee I'll blow asswater ten minutes later.

Anyway, standing directly in my path were two unwashed early twentyish guys wearing backpacks and doing for dreadlocks what the Columbine massacre did for the trench coat. Norm MacDonald and Cartman would refer to them as "damn dirty hippies." They were eating pizza from a Papa Johns box, using the top of a garbage can as a makeshift table.

"Hey, man, you wouldn't have any change, would you?" one of them asked.

You probably think I destroyed those jackals with a withering glance and/or devistating comment, but I dug in my right pocket and gave them some change. I don't need any shit at 5:30 in the morning, remember?

A few minutes later, as I emerged with the life-sustaining elixir that is the morning's first cup of coffee, the same guy who asked for change said, "The dumpster's full of perfectly good pizza, man. They throw it out before they close."

"I'm good," I managed, suppressing a dry heave.

"Just thought you'd like to know, in case you're ever like me, down on your luck," was the last thing I heard before I got in my car.

Down on his luck? That fucker was damn lucky I have the no shit at 5:30 policy. How dare he self-righteously imply he's down on his luck? He just got a donation from someone who works for a living to support his lifestyle choice. Make no mistake, these were two kids from upper-middle class backgrounds who one day decided to never hold down a job. Ninety-five percent of hippies come from priviledge. Blue collar and poor people don't have time for such nonsense.

I knew what a couple of parasites these guys were but I still gave them change. But that wasn't enough for that one jerk-off. He wanted my money and my sympathy. He only got one and next time he'll get neither.

I don't care what other people do with their lives. You can listen to String Cheese Incident and eat out of dumpsters till the day you die. Just please don't pretend you're doing me a favor by pointing out the neighborhood hotspot for maggot-infested pizza. Don't allign yourself with street people who won't be welcomed home with open arms the day they decide to come home to mommy and daddy. And most of all, don't guilt-trip me until I've finished my coffee.

Monday, May 02, 2005
Enough Already!!
Why do we still have people who call undue attention to their cell phone conversations? They practically scream into the phone as their arms flail about, saying to the world, "Pay attention to me. My wireless pacifier validates my otherwise meaningless existence." Do they think this impresses anyone? This isn't 1989. No one cares.
Everyone has a cell phone. Right now, as you read this, an illiterate hillbilly is taking a dump in an outhouse while talking on his cell phone. There's a third world villager whose diet consists of rat-ass on roof shingles and cesspool run-off. Don't believe me? Call his cell phone.
Get it, assholes? WE. ARE. NOT. IMPRESSED.

Sunday, May 01, 2005
Things to Do in Vegas When You're Dead Broke
Due to poor career management - I never chose one - I'm usually short on cash. Here are a few ideas to kill time if you ever find yourself in Las Vegas without a lot of scritty.
Note: Some of these suggestions can be used in your hometown, too.

The Gold Rush
This is a dank, pit stain of a casino, but if you're hungry between the hours of midnight and six a.m. you've just found your favorite coffee shop. During that time, you can get a steak and egg breakfast complete with hash browns and toast for $1.99. Warning: If you ask for a copy of their health department inspection, a guy named "Puddin'" will come out from the kitchen and punch you in the face.

Fun at Target
Simply don a red polo and khaki pants and wander around your local Target store. Confused customers will think you work there and that's when the hilarity ensues. There's nothing more satisfying than giving someone poor customer service with no fear of retribution.
Customer: "Can I ask you a question?"
Me: "You just did."
C: "Listen, I..."
Me, interrupting: "You must think today's douchebag day. It's not. It's not douchebag day."
C: "I want to speak to your manager!!"
Me: "I am the manager. I own this fucking place. Get your sweatpants wearin' ass out of my store before I call security."

Soap the Bellagio Fountains
I've never tried this because I don't want to spend several years in prison, but it would be cool if someone did it. There's got to be one daredevil out there. I know it would take a hell of a lot of Mr. Bubble.

Sneak In
To avoid the twenty buck cover and long lines, stand near the VIP entrance to a club. When a large group goes in, go in with them. This will be a lot easier if you aren't 6'6".

Smart Bet
Go to a casino's sports booking lounge and place a small wager on the event of your choice; or better yet bring an old losing ticket with you. Sit in front of the wall of video screens, clutching your ticket and screaming occasionally. You will drink free for as long as you want. But if you don't tip a dollar per drink the karma dogs will rip your flesh off.

People Watch
It doesn't cost a dime to stare at others. If walking down Las Vegas Boulevard intimidates you, well...you're a pussy. No really, just go inside to the Forum Shops at Caesar's Palace.

I hope this helps. Okay, that's a lie. I don't care if it helps or not. I didn't take you to raise.