Vegas is in my pants
Calling in sick to work used to mean I was in Vegas rolling around with a beautiful girl on dated, synthetic fiber comforters at the Flamingo. Poor girl wanted to dance, dance, dance and I countered with tales of adventure at the Star Trek Experience. Our common ground held cheap drinks and nickel slots from which I would mimic the artificial coin drop sounds and Texas Tea oil well strikes to her amusement. I introduced her to her first 7.99 lobster and steak dinner at 3am, ensured the required viewing of the Bellagio waterworks, ended the night with kisses and laughter among the perfectly lit banks of Slingo. Vegas is in my pants and I don't know what I mean by that. She swore that the Chop Suey Chinese Kitchen Fortune Cookie slot was her game. It loved her, it was going to make her feel all warm and happy inside. I feel the same about the godfather, the seven and seven, the crackwhore and Adios MF I consumed last night in under two hours, it wasn't love (will I even want it