Sunday, May 02, 2004

Post pending - Part Four in the interim:

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Fetish and Losing in Las Vegas - 04

More praise for this series:

"If this stupid crap is what passes for funny, then please shoot me if
I ever laugh again." -- Chris Parker (CPK332@hotmail.com)

"Shut up and Deal was long-winded boring crap, and your posts follow in
his footsteps" -- Pete Roberts


Subtitle: "Fuck the GFE"

(Cue obscure music: Apache, Sugar Hill Gang)

I survive class again, somehow. I weasel out at 2:00pm, somehow, with
another assignment to complete. I spy Spaulding at the bar near the
elevators. He's talking to some real slutbucket. Kind of a butter-face.
You know, everything is good "butter face." I know, that's an old one,
but it's appropriate in this case. I don't approach them, deciding to
just watch for a minute. She's got a reasonable body, but obviously her
odometer has been rolled over. Twice. She's wearing jeans so tight that
if she had a dime in her back pocket I'd be able to read the date on it.
Got the highest high heels I've ever seen. She's smoking, of course,
which accounts for her Yoda-like weathered skin and the Darth Vader voice
("Luke, buy a lady a drink?"). Gives me a real hard off. They head for
the elevators. Oh well. He looked soberish, so this shouldn't take long.
I plop down at the bar and work on my assignment. Having avoided
drinking for an outrageous 8 to 10 hours now, I allow myself three slow
lagers. I complete my assignment in just about an hour, then wander

Spaulding is getting dressed, having just showered. "Dude, I scored..."

"Yeah, I know, I saw her," I interrupt. "In-call ad winner?"

"Not the winner but one of the Final Four."

"Looked like she's spent more time staring at ceilings than
Michelangelo. Not much like the hot pictures on those cards."

"I know. You should have seen the hardwood beav, looked like a gnarled
hot wing. I had to go with Russian and manual."

"Always the discriminating gentleman."

"I gotta get a good one before we leave. I have one more lead. This
internet service where girls advertise – eros.com. You definitely get the
girl from the picture. They're a little pricey though. They advertise as
escorts, but it's pretty clear by the ads that they make the two-backed
beast. Here's something I don't understand: A lot of them advertise the
'GFE,' the Girl Friend Experience. What's that? They sit there and tell
you about all their stupid problems? Fuck the GFE, I want the DHO, the
Dirty Whore Experience."

I change into sweats and crash on the couch for a few hours of much-needed
sleep. After a hot shower, we saddle up and head out for the Mirage.
Surely there will be some pros to be found there. We hit the California
Pizza kitchen for some dinner. I have some kind of pasta-garlic-shrimp,
washed down with a couple of Anchor Steam Ales. It is the only meal of
the trip that I would say was quite good.

We hit the poker room and head for the brush. They're looking for one
more person to kick off a $25 satellite. Not even knowing what game is
being spread, I take it. It is limit hold 'em, and we start with T300,
blinds of 15 and 25, T25/T50 betting. There are two older women at the
table who look like twins. Someone asks them about it. They swear
they're not related. Every single hand, they glance at each other after
receiving their hole cards. When something is obvious enough for a fish
like me to notice, something funny is going on. They both bust out
rapidly. Eight(!) minutes after starting, a timer goes off and we jump to
25/50 blinds, 50/100 betting. What's that all about? After using red
chips for all of eight minutes, we race them off. I do not win a green
chip. I get 99 and raise. It's reraised behind me and I call. Three of
us see the flop, which contains a king and two small cards. Someone bets,
I foolishly raise, and when I'm reraised I'm all in on the first hand I
play, during the SECOND level, before I've seen the frigging turn card. I
lose to KT. Thoroughly disgusted by the format, I decide not to buy into
the $120 main event. Someone now says those two old ladies (they have
left) are sisters at least, if not twins, and they both have WSOP
bracelets. I mutter that we might as well have played bingo or flipped a
coin with that structure, and leave the table. Wasn't there long enough
for my Corona to arrive.

I take a 3/6 seat and look around for Spaulding. He's in a bigger game.
This 3/6 game is worse than Bellagio. Shortly, the tournament starts.
Dammit, the satellite structure must have been so fast because the tourney
was ready to go. I would have bought in to the main event if I wasn’t
worried that the structure would suck. I play tight, as does everyone
else, for about an hour, winning one hand. Realizing I have nil EV at
this table, I pick-up, down 20 bucks, and go to find Spaulding. He's on
the rush that had to come sooner or later, possessed by the ghost of
Dice-boy, and has the whole table on tilt. I decide to sweat him and
drink up for a while.

(Cue music: Hot, Hot, Hot – Buster Poindexter)

He beats top two pair by hanging on with sevens to river a set. The fool
three bets Spaulding on the end, only to get four bet. Spaulding shows
him the wicked-witch-of-the-west laugh, which is absolutely irritating. I
get on the list in case a seat opens at this table, which it never will as
long as Spaulding is sitting. I watch him work the magic that I have
suffered through so many times. He brings out all the home game moves,
like looking at only one card. He loses some, naturally, but the deck is
slamming him over the head and he's winning more than his fair share,
working up a nice stack. The more he wins, the more hands he plays, and
the more tilted his opponents get until *they’re* giving up tons of EV as
well. He wins one with 73o, making a straight, and trots out our favorite
Homerism, "I'll never get my comeuppance! Do you hear me? NEVER!" When
he actually gets dealt a big hand, the chips pour in like a slot jackpot.
To their credit, Spaulding's opponents are very nice to him, with no
bitching about bad beats. Unlike the Bellagio, they're smart enough not
to tap on the aquarium. Eventually he looks at his chips, decides he has
made enough, and announces, "Gentlemen, you have just bought me a Dirty
Whore Experience. Oh yeah." There is a loud outcry from the table,
urging him to stay. They actually ask him where he'll be playing later.

We go outside and snare a cab. "Take us to the nearest adult book store,
my man." Spaulding figured Vegas dirty book stores would be better than
ours. They're about the same. It's kind of comforting, in a way, to know
that how ever far you may roam across this great land, you can always
purchase a prosthetic forearm and fist, should the need arise. Spaulding
is a little disappointed that the store isn't more outrageous. I don't
know what he expected, perhaps snuff films. Anyway, he manages to find a
DVD that fills one of the gaps in his extensive collection. "Dolls With
Balls 4," or some equivalent. Spaulding goes to make his purchase. The
actual DVDs aren't in the display box (for anti-theft reasons, I suppose),
so the clerk has to fish the disc out of these file cabinets. He can't
seem to locate this particular disc. Meanwhile, two cute girls come in to
giggle at the merchandise, and they're standing only a few feet away from
us. Just then, the clerk says, "Ohhhh, that's in the gay section! That
explains why I couldn't find it!"

"It's NOT fucking gay, it's a variation! Your fucking filing system is

Back to the strip. We decide to hit some bars and clubs and, unrealistic
as the idea is, try to pick up some non-professional dates.

(Cue appropriately hip music, Copacabana, Barry Manilow)

Wow, did that not go well. Granted, we were consistently hitting on good
looking women, but most of them wouldn’t even talk to us. It was kind of
an ego blow, even for us. I think we have to work on our pickup lines.
Here's some that didn't work, fyi:

"You don't look like a hooker at all."

"Now there's a quality boob job."

"Would you call this DVD gay?"

"Do stray cats follow you home?"

"You don't get it? Think about it: what kind of smell might attract a

Spaulding couldn't even make progress with the horsey girls. A horsey
girl is a mildly overweight woman who tries to get all dolled up. High
heels, and invariably too much make up. Because of the weight, they make
a clopping sound when they walk, hence the term.

I made this observation: If you approach a woman at a bar, and if you're
coming in from the side, if she does not make eye contact, just give it up
right there. She saw you peripherally, and your silhouette, staggering
gait, and perhaps the scent of stale whiskey which preceded you were
enough for her to make up her mind. By not looking at you, she's hoping
you'll leave her alone. If they won't make eye contact, you have no
chance. Not that we do so well with the ones who do make eye contact.

We visit the Venetian so Spaulding could take a dump. He tips the
cleaning person two bucks, and says "Dude, I totally befouled your stall."
We're looking at the canals, and the singing gondoliers. "What's the big
deal? It's about as deep as a baby pool." We visit a large room where
the ceiling is painted like the daytime sky. Spaulding asks me, "Dude,
wasn't it just dark out?" I hope he was kidding, but it's hard to tell
sometimes. We do not look for a poker room.

We visit the hotel room where Spaulding leaves some call-back messages for
his 'DHOs.' I remind him we have to check out by noon tomorrow, giving
him a very narrow operating window.

Once again, we find ourselves tilting drinks and players in the fabulous
Flamingo card area. I still can't get over the huge difference in player
quality from place to place. We get in a ripe game with several familiar
faces, most of them having never played as of a week ago. There's a
distinguished black gentleman at our table, who speaks like James Earl
Jones. First time player. Unfortunately, Spaulding (now loaded again)
thinks this is the time to lay down his severely white version of ebonics.

"True dat."

"Raise? You be trippin' homes."

"Foshizzle minizzle pizzle."

After that last one, James Earl looks at me and asks, "Is you friend
trying to say something?" I lean towards him and whisper, "He's slightly
retarded." James Earl looks at Spaulding for a few seconds, then nods in

I actually head for bed by 2:00am or so, only to lie there for 20 minutes,
wide awake. The irony. A few Gibsons might chill me out. True dat.
Back down I go, and manage to get back in the same game. We each have a
shot of Rumple Mintz, for the sake of tradition. The nonsense continues.
Spaulding wins a nice hand, stands up and does the Spaulding dance.
Picture Chris Farley doing a Tony Manero and you’ve got the idea. A new
lady near me rolls her eyes and mumbles "What is his story?" James Earl
leans over and whispers to her, "He's retarded, don't upset him."

(Cue music: Enter Sandman, Metallica)

Somewhere around 4 we take one more quick spin on the strip to see if
anything nice is out and about, and have a beer or two. When we get back
to the room, we both urgently need to see a man about a horse. I beat
Spaulding to the head. He'll use the sink, he says, he has to go that
bad. I say no way and slam the door. When I come out and he rushes in, I
notice a palm sized wet spot on the front of his jeans. "Dude, I was
ready to go and you cut me off. I had a little seepage." A grown man
pissed his pants. Nice. Wasn't Stantz in the Flamingo when he had that
'accident' described in his classic trip report? Maybe he was even if
this room. Somehow that seems fitting.

I change into my sweats and fall asleep in seconds.

To be continued.....

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