Monday, December 29, 2008


It doesn't take much to make me happy.

A few laughs.

A healthy bongload.

Butter. Chocolate. Pepsi. Lemons. Free food.

Well, Ma Mere, La Babs gave me a free lunch buffet at The Orleans.

It doesn't take much to make me happy. The buffet at The Orleans didn't.

By no means.

By the by, "Ma Mere" is "our national heroine was a sweaty little prostitute down by the river Seine" for, Barbara Carol Mason McClanahan Washington.


So, Babs gives me this free buffet ticket and off I wobbled to The Orleans. I drove to The Gold Coast instead. Both ugly. Both tacky. Both the scenes of some pretty unpleasant memories in the old cranium.

I lost a tooth from bowling at The Orleans. Well. It might have been the twelve beers I might have downed between innings.

Or whatever they call whatever you do while throwing the pretty pink ball.

Never mind.

So. I call up Christopher Miller to join me. He had already eaten (lucky bastard) but said he would join me.

Chris owns "Engayging Introductions". He'll "Send you on your last first date".

Clever, no? Quite.

My rule on restaurants is pretty basic. Look for fat people. Fat black people are extra points.

You see. Fat people mean that the portions are going to be huge. Fat people are cheap. The fatter the ass, the cheaper the bitch.


I swear.

Now. When you see fat black people you know that the portions are gonna be huge (black people are cheap.). There's also a decent chance that the food will be pretty good because black people don't eat nasty food ("I KNOW you didn't just give me this and expect me to pay for it!?!").

There is a variable in all of this.


Old people, especially old white, will eat anything.

The Orleans was full of old white people.

I didn't realize that Hover Rounds could fit between shrimp and salads.

At full speed.

They can.

I went to the first US Festival (I was sixish. What?) and by the time I came home two days later ( I was dating the son of the Venezuelan Defense Minister. We used to do it on the football field of my High School. "Oh Hugo. Oh Hugo! Oh Hugo, why does it make a sharp left?!? WTF?!? But. I digress.) what was I on about? Oh yeah. Long story short, I ate some chicken that had been out on the counter (it was August). Turns out when I bit into it even though I had stopped chewing, the chicken in my mouth was still moving.


Nurse Cuntillia at Queen of The Angels Hellspital (Oh yeah, I went to emergency) explained to me that in some poor countries maggots were considered a source of protein and were actually a delicacy.

Yeah. And this one guy told me the same thing about splooge.

I couldn't swallow that either.

Well. At The Orleans I saw something I had never seen in a buffet in The LV before.

No, not the oxygen tank attached to the turbo scooter chair. Not the stretch polyester flower print shorts on the 300lb Asian chick.

No. There it was. As plain as day.

A stack of dirty plates! In the plate dispenser!

Bitch, that is NOT how we roll in The LV!

I could forgive the veggie Lasagna and the cheese Enchilada that tasted exactly the same. The Shrimp that seemed to have been born in the same pond they kidnap those poor Sea Monkey families from. Why I could even forgive the Rihanna remixes playing in the distance.

But a dirty plate! No. PLATES!



Did I mention that Chris Miller didn't eat at The Orleans?

Clever, no? Quite.

The Orleans Hotel

4500 W Tropicana Ave
Las Vegas, NV 89103
(859) 426-5196

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