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| - Before getting started, I'd like to point out that I am currently sitting in the Palms Casino, while watching my degenerate, gambleholic, asshole-of-a-friend Pete grab his ankles, as the craps table continues to sodomize his life savings. The Palms Casino may as well be a priest, and with each roll of the dice, my man Pete is looking more and more like an alter boy. An alter boy with an ugly hat. As I look at this hat, I noticed a consistent theme. This hat of his will soon be joined by his pockets, as they both prevent the world from seeing what lies beneath -- nothing. What was once there, is now missing, and it isn't pretty. Nor was it smart. With just seven strands of hair, Pete has a face incapable of pulling off the 7-Strand comb-over. So money, combined with the freedom offered in Vegas to dive head-first into a hooker, was Pete's only hope to hump. Don't get me wrong, P never planned on returning to Phoenix with any money, which was fine, because that meant he wasn't bringing back his virginity either. Well, unless you count being molested by this casino.
Let me start over. When I began writing this review, I was writing it for the Palms Place resort. I was only using my 6am-and-still-in-the-casino story to explain my exhaustion, and use it as a warning before transitioning into my review of our actual suite. However, as I continued to ramble, I realized that this has enough gems to be a review of its own. So let's jump back in.
With dick and pockets both dry, P refused to walk away from the action. But unlike his hair, my boredom started to grow, and soon left me balls deep in a conversation with some random Israeli gentleman who started our conversation by asking me if I gamble. It must have been the way I said, "Nope, never. Not at all," that convinced him I was interested in spending the next 30-minutes listening to him break down his formula for an 80% winning-percentage in roulette.
Like all roulette conversations, this one also was followed up by literally dozens of questions on everything from Foreign Policy to soccer. I was pumped. Luckily, I was saved by irony. About midway through my optimistic response to the problem with America's public education system, I was interrupted by quite possibly the drunkest bitch I have ever seen. Clearly lacking intelligence, and a functioning metabolism, I couldn't deny her originality. Instead of some corny and cliche pickup line, this barefoot bitch thought outside of the box, and just spilled her drink on me. Luckily, it was about 7am, so of course she was double-fisting, enabling my shirt to get shit-faced. Before she could say a word, I stood, shook my man's hand, and announced that I had to go because I think my shirt had too much to drink and it needed to sober up. I think I confused her. Which made sense, because I don't even think she knew that she was carrying two drinks, let alone spilling them. I like to think that she stuck around and finished answering my new Israeli friend's question on education, which eventually led to her sitting on his trapper keeper (if you know what I'm saying), but who knows. Love is blind. As for me, I walked about twenty yards back to the table, just in time to see my buddy P go broke. It was perfect.
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