Wilting in Vegas

I’m walking through a Las Vegas casino with Christine and friends thinking Holy God, what the hell’s happened to the human race?  We’re surrounded by sagging wet paper bag faces so sad in countenance Sad Sack looks like a poster boy for joy.

We see a heavily made-up woman pushing 80 with bleached blond hair and fake eyelashes so long you’d be protected from the rain by walking in front of her. I think if she bats her eyes really fast everyone in her path will be blown yards away from the gust of wind, unless of course the physics of  the thing are different and  batting her eyes sends her flying backwards through the nearby plate glass window.

The phrase what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas comes to mind and I think God I hope so.

Wandering through the casinos and wilting like long ashes on cigarettes left burning in ashtrays are forlorn cocktail waitresses in short black skirts winding around their waists like small umbrellas, and black stocking and heels and low-cut tight-fitting blouses.

There’s signs saying free food and drink for some casino regulars and I think hey, if you drop my place with the sole intention of giving me all your money, hell, I’ll give you free food and drink too. Think nothing of it.

One of our friends is a delightful young woman who will celebrate her 21st birthday in a matter of hours. As we leave the casino area which, by the way is filled with cigarette and cigar smoke, always fun for us asthmatics, I look back at her and say, We just left a room filled with people who didn’t handle turning 21 very well.