ONLINE GAMBLING AND CASINO GUIDE

After finally getting a small amount of sleep and spending the morning yelling at some customer service guys in Calcutta (long story, but isn’t outsourcing swell?), yesterday afternoon I actually ventured out into the oven that we call our “climate” in order to play some cards in the Venetian poker room.

Since the hotel itself does not have a monorail station, I intended to get off at Harrah’s/Imperial Palace and walk a couple of blocks north.

Sometimes the best laid plans do not work out.

During the train trip, I got roped into a conversation with a couple of tourists about the relative merits of beef jerky providing electrolyte balance on a hot day.  I’m not kidding.  One of our friends from elsewhere saw my bottle of Gatorade, pulled out some beef jerky that looked suspiciously like a turd, and said “this will get you through the heat better”.  I got into a discussion with him about glucose and potassium being my paramount concern, and he explained that what I needed was protein and long story short … I missed my stop.

I don’t usually get to talk biochemistry with tourists.  I usually take their group photographs or give directions, so a discussion about the potential effects of monosodium L-glutamate, on the monorail no less, was a welcome respite.

After coming to no real consensus on the matter of Gatorade vs. Meat Sticks, I alighted the single-railed behemoth at the Flamingo Station and decided to walk the extra couple of blocks.

Sure, I could have turned around and hopped a train in the opposite direction, but then I would have also missed the pleasure of having my flesh balloon glued to my leg with sweat, and really … isn’t that half the fun of going out in 110 degree weather?

After getting off the train, I made my way through the Flamingo casino, hung a right on the sidewalk, and proceeded on my journey to the big V.

As I passed O’Sheas, there was a rousing game of 1/2 NL near the entrance that for whatever reason had drawn a crowd of onlookers.

There was the typical mix of tourists, an ill-placed baby stroller (I don’t have a problem with strollers, please just don’t park them perpendicular to the walkway), and a seemingly homeless guy watching the action.

I approached the disheveled man (I know, I’m one to talk) and asked him what was happening.  He immediately turned, looked at me for a couple of seconds, and said “Do you need something to party?”.

“You mean like pointy hats and those things you blow on that make a sound?”, I asked.

He looked at me as if I were an idiot and said “No, man … weed, coke, meth … you know … party party”.

It’s not polite to talk about drugs in Las Vegas, so I will go ahead and do so.  If anyone ever approaches you like this on the Strip in a random manner, you are being scammed.  They will quote you a price for the product of your choice, tell you to wait while they retrieve it, and never return.

I have zero moral issues with consumption, but when in comes to buying products off the streets in Vegas, take my advice and just say “no”, kids.  There’s a reason why they call it dope.  This is your brain, this is your brain on … you get the idea.

“Thanks, but I get high on life”, I said … then continued on my way.  I’m still not sure why the poker game was so interesting.

As I hoofed along the concrete further north, I could not help but feel that something was missing.

The long stretch of sidewalk directly in front of Harrah’s is usually teeming with life, and while it was still modestly crowded, things just weren’t as they should be.  I couldn’t put my finger on what it was, I just knew that something was amiss.

When I finally arrive at the “white line” sign, I realized what my sixth senses were trying to tell me.

The Porn slappers were gone.

That’s right … gone.  Vanished.  Disappeared.  Removed.  Ghost.  Damn, I’ve run out of synonyms for “not there”.

Anyway, these days, I no longer pay attention to porn slappers because they are omnipresent.  My noticing missing porn slappers is like a lumberjack noticing a couple of missing trees in the forest.  He just naturally assumes that they are around, and doesn’t look for them one-by-one.

On this day, for whatever reason, their absence struck me.

As I stood in front of the sign, I contemplated what may have happened to them.

Were they rounded up by the INS?  Where they simultaneously stricken down by the heavenly father for peddling sinful material?  Were they hired to deal at the Wynn so Steve could take 99% of their tips knowing they would not protest? Are they now part of the mystery meat at the Imperial Palace Buffet?  Were they returning Mike Tyson’s stolen tiger after a night on the town under the influence of “Roofilyn”?

Since all of the above are completely plausible scenarios, these are things that go through one’s mind when people disappear from the streets of Las Vegas.

The sign and the line have been around for awhile, and it’s quite obviously never been enforced, but maybe they were enforcing it now.  Perhaps the slappers are getting swept up in the “order out zone” and they are languishing in some kind of legal purgatory along with our most prolific hoes.

Of course, the most probable explanation is that it is just too damn hot, although this would be disappointing to me personally.  I’ve always admired the mailman-like “neither rain, sleet, nor snow” veracity of our local porn slappers.  Along with cockroaches, I firmly believe that they will be the last carbon-based life forms standing after a global thermonuclear war.

The truth is, however, that I do not know where they went.

I never thought I would say this, but I miss them.  When they are in my face, I find them annoying, but days like yesterday make me realize just how integral our smut peddling friends from south of the border really are.  They are part of the flavor of Las Vegas.  Part of the tapestry.  Part of the experience.  They are the very reason that 10,000 men rub one out in hotel bathrooms every night to perfectly good visual stimulation.

I certainly hope that our short, card-carrying friends are okay, and that they are simply on temporary hiatus.  I’d like to see them back at work soon, slapping with the fervor that they have become famous for.

If something horrible had to befall any group of people in Las Vegas, please don’t let it be the porn slappers … for the sake of all that is good and holy in the world … please let any and all malfeasance be directed toward those that truly deserve it.  The time share drones.

In Jesus name I pray.

Amen.

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