Sure, why not?
I’m up and will probably be hungry at some point. But she was bringing some dude and you know my aversion to strangers, so I tried to get more people to come. But Vinnay was asleep, Caity was AWOL and F-train had “work to do.”
“Aw, sucks to be him,” April replied when I rattled off the myriad excuses to her later.
“At least I’m not black,” he texted back after I sent him April’s comment.
(Get used to this construction, there will be many F-train texts guest starring in April day.)
We met outside of the Bellagio cafe and I upbraided her for not being at the Hooker Bar the night before.
“It was the worst hooker bar EVER. No one was there! No Al, No Jen, No Change100, there weren’t even any hookers!”
Just as I ended my hooker-filled rant, I noticed a child, about four, looking up at me.
“And now she’s going to run to her mommy and ask all about what a hooker is and her mom is gonna be all ‘and that’s why we don’t expose Caitlin to black people.'”
“Dude. You don’t bring children to Las Vegas unless you want them to know what a hooker is,” April countered.
Her friend hadn’t shown up yet, so we chatted about something or another until he showed up.
He had been playing craps.
“Oh, I want to learn to play craps! A Canadian “taught” me once, but he was terrrrriibblleee and I lost all my money!”
“Oh, I’ll teach you, but you’ll probably still lose your money.”
Ha! New guy funny.
“Oh, I’ve been here before,” I said upon entering the restaurant and vaguely remembering that I didn’t like it.
“Oh, I come here every trip! It’s one of my four must do things,” April said, “Eat at Bellagio Cafe, Have a fancy dinner, go shopping and steal a cop car.”
Wait…maybe she only has three must do things and the other one is from the Hangover…
I figured I’d just order whatever April got since she keeps coming back.
“Omelette with American cheese,” she said.
“I’ll have the same thing, but with extra American cheese because I’m more patriotic than her,” I told our waiter, Mario.
Jason ordered French toast. I emailed President Obama immediately.
I recounted my harried tale of getting to the airport and almost getting murdered the night before, April shared how she was almost not able to come because her legs were all bruised and swollen, but then she wore grandma hose on the plane and they were fine. She expressly told me to mention that in my post.
Mario brought April the fruit platter that she ordered.
“How’d you get bruised and swollen,”
(That’s what she said! Jason is tutoring me in the TWSS art…I’m still learning…are literal uses acceptable? Because literally, “how’d you get bruised and swollen” is what I said! I being she.)
Anyway, April apparently got caught up in a Hawaiin meth lab sting and she and her Columbian boyfriend took off into the Hawaiian volcanoes on mopeds, while the police followed in hot pursuit. Her boyfriend was killed in a hail of gunfire, she escaped, but crashed her moped and got all bruised and swollen. Which, just so you know, kicks the ass out of Ken Wheaton’s “I went to Hawaii and got caught in a tsunami” story ALL OVER the place!
Texas: 1. Louisiana: 0.
You should also know that everything I have thus far recounted took about an hour and forty-five minutes in real time. But we have still only gotten April’s fruit plate to eat.
And now, only the crappy fruit that no one eats is left.
“What the hell?! Who ate all the good fruit,” I angrily demanded to know.
“Well, I had the banana and the melon,” April said all apologetically.
“No, I hate bananas and melon! I mean the pineapple and the strawberries!”
Yeah, pretty much I had eaten them all and should only have been yelling at myself, but as that would be crazzzyyyy…
Let’s yell at Mario!
Sensing danger, Mario brought out our dishes JUST in time!
As he finished putting down our plates, he checked on the table next to ours: an elderly couple also eating breakfast, but the woman was also drinking pri-tee heavily.
“Oh, I just hated it, Mario. I couldn’t eat a single bite!” The woman said proudly showing off her empty plate.
We ate our breakfasts. Turns out, my stomach isn’t quite as patriotic as my mouth, and I started feeling queasy from all the cheese.
I told April about how Caity had disappeared and abandoned her chips at the table and she said “maybe she was kidnapped.”
(SEE? I TOLD YOU, VINNAY! Casinos are DANGEROUS!)
“But then why would her chips be left behind,” Jason queried.
“Yeah,” I agreed, “kidnapping is expensive! You’ve got to buy rope and duct tape and gags…plus lots of different magazines to clip letters out of for the ransom note!”
Not that I have any first-hand information on the subject…some older girls told me…anyhoo…
(Later that night, after Caity had been missing a good 17 hours, Vinnay was certain that she was dead, April was certain that she’d runoff and an Elvis had married her to a rodeo cowboy, Jason posed that perchance she was locked on the roof of Caesar’s getting sunburned! White people.)
Then we made plans for the rest of the day. The process went like this:
April would say: “Well, we could go to H&M!”
Jason and I would whistle and look away.
“Fine. I’ll go to H&M myself!”
“Yes! That sounds like an excellent plan! Now let’s go to the Hooker bar!”
Mario brought the check, awesome April gave him her card and the waiter was all “Thank you, Ms. Kyle.” And I laughed and laughed and laughed.
Then the drunk octogenarian at the table next to us, rattled the ice in her empty glass and said, in a sing songy voice “Maarriiiooo, I need another!”
And I was like “that’s SO you in sixty years Mizzzz Kyle!”
Having successfully dodged a shopping bullet (or so I thought) we headed over to the Rio to give the hooker another go.
Let’s go find F-train!
“He’s probably working, we shouldn’t bother him,” said someone that was clearly not me.
“Bollocks! A visit from us isn’t a bother, tis a boon!” said someone sounding much more like me.
I used my magic F-train spotting powers to spot F-train again.
We waved. He gave that head nod of acknowledgment, but did not come down off his podium to greet us.
I tapped my foot the number of foot tapping times I allot before I refuse to continue being ignored. Soooo…once…maybe twice.
“You come down here right now and say hi or else April will make a scene. Something about unpaid child support payments.”
F-train replied with a crude, altogether unrepeatable text, which led me to reply “really? Geez…gay guys have absolutely NO idea what you’re supposed to do with women, eh?”
AND since we handily invented the verbal, in real life hashtag, I added in a singsong voice “gay F-train joke.”
With “bothering F-train,” checked off that day’s todo list, it was onto the “have a serious talk with Erik Seidel about his failure to win a bracelet this year so I can dominate my fantasy pool” item.
Actually, *I* planned to leave Mr. Seidel alone.
The man is a professional with enough incentives to excel in his field that go way beyond my $20 prop bet. However, Jason insisted he wanted to meet as many poker pros as possible, so, I figured if we’re already stalking them…
Sadly, the only pro we saw was Cloutier. I was later told that Phil Ivey was at a table right behind me, but then I fainted and so it’s possible I just dreamed that.
Anyway, once again all the Vegas people were working, so they said they couldn’t do any hookering till 5. That gave us two hours to kill.
I decided to take advantage of my hard earned diamond status and find the lounge. Jason, April and I approached the diamond elevator, but the Knight at the door drew forth his sword and said only two may enter on one card.
He wanted to send up the two hot people, but I protested that it was MY card and I’d be damned if I was forced to wait downstairs.
So, I got to accompany April.
April, who, evidently has never ridden in an elevator before, because she was all “wheee they have buttons!” And “Oh the boxcar is going up!”
When the doors opened, however, the bloom promptly fell off that particular rose.
Unlike Atlantic City diamond lounges, which are designed to foster a diamond player’s smug sense of self satisfaction (I think my keyboard is stuck on alliteration today.), the diamond “lounges” in Vegas are designed to send the degenerate gamblers back onto the casino floor as quickly as possible.
This place sucked!
The bar was lame, the food looked gross and there was only one working internet computer! We pretty much surveyed the scene from the elevator and hit the down button.
“That was fast,” Jason said.
“Well, we felt really bad about abandoining you.”
“Yeah, that wasn’t right.”
We still had two hours to kill, so they said they’d teach me craps.
However, “craps” apparently involved sitting on bar stools drinking DISGUSTING combinations of sprite, quinine and vodka, while watching scantily clad, unhappy waitresses do modern dances on stage.
You could actually see the despair and regret in each flail of their arms.
“Stripper or classically trained?” April would ask as each performer ended her number.
We befriended Edward, the bartender who explained if we played $20 of video poker, our $8 drink would be free.
Hmm…maybe “friend” is quite the right word.
The cavalry arrived around 5, we started dial-a-shotting by 5:15 and the make fun of Dawn’s Liberace sneakers was in full swing by 6.
F-train joined us for dinner at the Indian place and that was when we learned that Vinnay was merely a Harrah’s corporate shill! Want a complimentary room at the Rio? Enter bonus code: “Vinnay” or “Superbowl appearance.”
And Caity FINALLY reappeared!
I bet you want to know what happened, don’t you?
Well, sorry, folks what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.
And a little known corollary to that?
If Al takes Vinnay to a strip club, Vinnay stays at the strip club.