My long-time dear pal Robby came over from LA yesterday, and we went to see Kathy Griffin at Mandalay Bay. Kathy sold out the Mama Mia auditorium. Not bad for a red-headed self-proclaimed fag-hag who likes to tell jokes about Paris, Nicole, Lindsey and Britney.
After the show, Robby and I walked through the casino and we watched one obese woman after another obse woman wearing cropped tops walk by us. Finally, after seeing twenty-seven barely-dressed obese women, Robby asked, “Hey Binx, what’s the tackiest person you ever saw in Las Vegas?”
I told him about the time I was crossing LVB, leaving the Bellagio and going to the then Aladdin. I saw a pregnant woman wearing a bikini top and cropped shorts, smoking a cigarette and drinking a “Yard-long” margarita.
“How did you know she was pregnant?” he asked. Good question. In a town where the obese come to vacation wearing "club clothes," it’s a bit like being the one eyed man in the land of the blind.
“She was fairly thin everywhere else,” I said. He looked suspicious as he eyed two women with asses the size of school busses trundle past us on their way to the dollar Wheel of Fortunes slots machines. They were wearing F-me heels and a micro-minis. Their cleavage showed all-right. In those tops, it is a miracle their nipples didn't show, too.
"Why do women in Vegas show so much breast?" Robby asked.
"Breast are big here," I said, not realizing the pun at the time. "I know woman who invest their entire self-esteem in their breasts."
The next morning, I walked downstairs, groggy, sleepy-eyed, breast smallish yet proud. Robby was already awake, Googling "WHY ARE WOMEN IN VEGAS SO TACKY?"
“Coffee,” I said. With one word, he understood my meaning. We got in my car and drove to the “Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf,” which, I assured him, was “classier than Starbucks, and with better coffee.”
Oh how silly I am . . .
We get there and the first thing we saw were two dog leashes sticking out the door. Robby opened large glass doors, and there was a Pomeranian and a Maltese standing there, panting. Their owner wass standing in front of them, talking very, very, very, very, very loudly. I mean she was LOUD.
“OH MY GOD,” she said. “KIDDING, RIGHT? NO? THAT IS SOOOO FUNNY. OH MY GOD.”
She was screaming. She had a thing in her ear, one of those Bluetooth things that people on cell phones wear when they think they are Jordie from Star Trek.
“NO WAY! OH MY GOD.”
“OH MY GOD!” Robby echoed.
I gave him a look. I have the belief, or delusion, that I have at least one last shred of class left in my body.
“OH MY GOD!” She said again. “HAHAHAHAHAHAH!” Do not misunderstand what I'm saying: she did not laugh. She literally spoke the words, “HAHAHAHAHAHAH!”
Robby continued to mock her. I got in line, and maybe it was because it was so early in the morning and I had had no caffeine, combined with her airport PA voice, but I could not concentrate on what the woman behind the cash register was asking me.
“How can I help you?” the girl asked.
I stared at her, laughing at the loud woman with the dogs.
“Ma’am?”
To her, I looked like the ass.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the coke addict.”
She blinked at me then sort of gasped.
“She is loud,” I said, in my defense.
“What can I do for you?” the girl asked.
“OH. MY. GOD. HAHAHAHAHAHAH! YOU ARE KIDDING?” Coke Addict asked.
“A latte,” I said. “And a bran muffin.”
“Make that two,” Robby said.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAH!” Coke addict said.
“Okay, I’m from LA, and we have nothing this bad,” Robby said.
“I told you Vegas has the worst people in the world,” I said, sounding oddly defensive, as if by admitting that I live in a city where the gutter-fish of the universe live made this woman seem acceptable. I forgot to describe her outfit. She had on a skimpy yoga top and yoga pants. Somewhere, a stressed-out yoga instructor told her therapist, “I have this one student . . ..”
The Coke Addict walked outside with her ice coffee and her pedigree mutts. She sat at a table, and from inside we could still hear her on her phone. Whoever she was talking to was a stitch. She kept saying, “HAHAHAHAHAHAH!”
I looked out the wall of windows at her, and then at the other people outside. They all looked as if they had suddenly smelled a gas leak. Any minute, the place would blow. They seemed nervous, twitching, looking for an escape.
I tried to focus on the slow service. A different girl brought us our coffee, but forgot the muffins. “For here or to go?” she asked when I told her that we had ordered them.
“To go.” Two minutes later she returned with them on saucers.
“To go,” I said, again. She looked at me and blinked. A moment later it registered.
“Oh. You aren’t going to eat them here.”
She walked away, and it took five more minutes for her to put them in a bag. That was okay. Robby and I had the Coke Addict to keep us amused. The Maltese was now standing on her table. She was RUBBING ITS ASS. No lie. Then, she slowly wiped her hand across her face, and STOPPED AT HER NOSE. NO LIE, again. Then she swept her hand over her eyes and her forehead and brushed her bangs away.
“Here you go,” the girl behind the counter said to me, holding up the muffins in two small bags.
I took them from her and turned around to see that the Coke Addict had spilled her drink all over the table. She was shaking a guy’s hand. Instead of cleaning up her drink, they moved to another table. She left the dog where it was, lapping up her spilled ice coffee.
We walked outside, just in time to hear her say, “This is Profit,” referring to the Maltese. She then pointed to the Pomeranian. “That’s Chamomile.”
It was clear that this was a blind date. They had met on Match.com or edatesfromhell.com
“So Robby,” I said, as we got into my car. “You asked me last night about the tackiest person I ever saw.”
“Oh hell, I’m from LA and we don’t have anyone was bad as her,” he said again. It was worth repeating. When LA looks better than you, you have to say it tiwce, maybe a hundred times. After all, it is the land of Paris and Britney.
Lady with the two dogs, loud voice and spilled coffee, you take the cake, you take the bran muffin. You take the latte. Congrats. You are one of a kind. Literally, there is nothing like you anywhere. Not Dallas, not Jackson, Mississippi, not Cleveland, not even, LA, land of Lindsey, Paris, Nicole and, naturally, Britney. Thanks, sugar, for making our town the tackiest. By the way, your ex-husband just won custody of the dogs.
