Last week's trip to Vegas was enjoyable, possibly the most enjoyable time I have had in the city in awhile, but it was not completely without issue.
For some reason, people at the poker tables seemed a little more surly than usual. Maybe it's the economy, maybe it's the weather (100 degrees for the millionth week in a row), maybe Donnie & Marie were sold out ... frankly, I don't know why people were in such bad moods.
I witnessed a few verbal altercations, and I saw one guy challenge another to "step outside".
Now, when you are in a poker room in the bowels of a large casino like Caesars, and you challenge someone to "step outside", how exactly does that work?
I mean, it takes about 15 minutes to get outside. You have to walk through the casino, past the gaming pits, past the slots, and depending on where you parked -- you might have to take an elevator or escalator.
By the time you have reached "outside" with your nemesis in tow ... wouldn't you have cooled off by then?
I can just imagine the scenario.
Angry Dude 1: "Hey man, wanna step outside?"
Angry Dude 2: "Sure, let's go!"
Angry Dude 1: "Where are you parked?"
Angry Dude 2: "Level 3, you?"
Angry Dude 1: "Level 5"
Angry Dude 1: "You wanna walk me to my car so I can kick your ass there? I'm a little claustrophobic and I don't want to ride the elevator twice."
Angry Dude 2: "Fine with me, but do you mind if I cash out first? I don't want to have to walk all the way back here to get my money. I've got a bum knee."
Angry Dude 1: "Okay, but I need to stop by the Wheel of Fortune slots and let my wife know where I am in case she comes looking for me."
Angry Dude 2: "Alright, I'm so going to kick your ass ... wait ... I just ordered a beer from the waitress and it might get warm while I'm pummeling you."
Angry Dude 1: "Hold on, Cher starts in 20 minutes and I don't want to be at the end of the line."
Angry Dude 2: "Well, fuck it, then ... but I still hate you."
Angry Dude 1: "I still hate you too."
Angry Dude 2: "Oh yeah, wanna step outside?"
Honestly, the whole "step outside" thing has to be macho bullshit because poker fights are a logistical nightmare in a Vegas Strip casino.
On one particular night, I had been playing for about half an hour when a lady sat down at my table. The woman was probably in her mid-30's, of average physical attractiveness (perhaps a 5.5), but what really stood out about her was her style of dress. She had enormous boobs, and she had on one of those zippered shirts, which was unzipped all the way, revealing as much of her cleavage as her particular top would allow.
The woman sat directly across from me, and as she took her seat, the guy seated beside me looked at her ... looked at me ... grinned and gave me "the look".
Now, if you are a male, you know this look. It's the look that says "hey, there is a lady nearby with massive titties, check them out and then get back to me non-verbally if you would motorboat those things until you asphyxiated."
I looked over, checked out the goods, and returned to him with a slight nod which was meant to convey my approval. Specifically, I was communicating "yes, yes I would slap those meat bags around with my taliwhacker until they glistened with white like the morning snow on Christmas morning."
As soon as I had finished my nod, I heard the following words emanate from across the table: "Why don't you take a picture, it'll last longer!"
I looked back over, and the boob lady was glaring back at myself and the gentleman seated next to me. She had caught us checking out the merchandise, and she seemed displeased. While the man next to me seemed quite embarrassed, I, on the other hand, decided to take her up on her offer.
"That's so nice of you", I replied, pulling my EVO out of my pocket, "can you arch your back a little bit?"
Unfortunately, the scowl on the woman's face let me know in short order that her offer was not, in fact, genuine.
"Why don't you grow up?", she scolded me, "everytime I sit at a table there is always some asshole who leers at my chest! I can't believe the immaturity of some people."
"You know", I replied, "I can't help but notice that your shirt has a zipper, and that zipper is all the way down. I find it somewhat disingenuous for you to put your hooters on display, and then complain when people look. Clearly, you want them to look."
"I don't dress this way for men to stare at me, I dress this way for myself!", she said.
"That does not make any sense", I explained to her, "you can't see your own boobs when you are walking around ... and anyway ... why would you feel badly about yourself if you kept them covered?"
The lady responded with some other rebuttal that made no sense, something about her being able to choose her own fashion, and we both sat in awkward silence for the next fifteen minutes until I got up and left.
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