Since arriving in Vegas on Sunday afternoon, I have seen more than my share of beer-gutted, "wife-beater" vest wearing trailer park trash walking through the lobby of the hotel where I shall be living for the next six nights.
But these men are not alone. Oh no. They are walking hand in hand with hot pants-wearing 60-year old mutton dressed as lamb. You know the type. The skin on her chest is so badly leathered through years and years of sun bathing that the wrinkles that lead to her cleavage form another Grand Canyon. These are the women who have over-processed hair, high arched eyebrows and wear blue eye shadow. Yeah, THAT type.
Anyway, they have taken over my hotel. In full force. Beer in one hand, cigarette in the other.
I must be in the twilight zone. That's the only explanation.
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