Comfort Zones and Newfound Devotions, Pt. 2

And the nightlife was no different. I was rudely led to believe (thank a pantsful, MTV) that Vegas is glamorous and sophisticated once behind the velvet ropes. But no. Do you know who was waiting in the same lines, shilling out the same outragous cover charge as everyone else?

Your dental hygienist. She has decided that she is tired of being single, and that tonight she is 'really going to let her hair down' and 'party until dawn with her ladies,' Her Ladies being...

Your other dental hygienist with the gut like the rear of a slab-sided Buick...

...And the two portly sisters that work at the bank, the one on the left being The Fatter But Prettier One and the one on the right being The Smart One Who Smells Oddly of Fungus. As you can tell, they are also letting their hair down tonight, because the fatty is wearing a color that doesn't occur in nature and enough makeup to camouflage the entire Khmer Rouge, and the Smartypants is wearing sparkles and decided to leave her bra at home today.

The good news is that once within the club, my dear friend Lindsay and I were lucky enough to stumble upon the only bartender in the joint who was from New York (okay, he wasn't hard to find, black button down, sideburns, studious eyeglasses), who sensed our despair and introduced us to a very special drink. It's basically four parts vodka, one part sweet vermouth, and one part olive juice - like a bastard martini of sorts. Mind you, it's far from delicious, but it's not exactly offensive - tastes kinda like ocean water. The brilliant part is that the about 95% booze is virtually undetectable, and if you have three of them in rapid succession, Vegas starts to become a pretty fun place, and you're compelled to do things like drag your friends to take pictures of you in front of the Flamingo so you can be like Dennis Farina in Crime Story, and even allow completely random black teenagers to jump into cadence with you.