So after a thoroughly gluttonous night in Vegas, I awoke, bleery-eyed* and made my way to the lobby of Luxor. At least I think it was the lobby. This pyramid is built like a maze, either to confuse potential grave-robbers or trap the elderly.
*According to dictionary.com "bleery" is not a word. "Did you mean beery?" Yep, that'll work.
As last night I had experienced the buffet to end all buffets, the last last thing I wanted was more food. So I settled for the next best thing: the oxygen bar.
For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, it's that machine in the hospital that pumps oxygen directly into your face via tubes up your nose. Like much of the medical industry -- the ass-less gowns, nurses who are mildly attractive at best, and DISCOUNT BRAND JELL-O -- the purpose is to make you as uncomfortable as possible so you'll fake your recovery enough to get you out of there.
However, unlike the hospital, the oxygen bar in Luxor is administered by a pretty girl and not a doctor who thinks he knows better than you. I told you it's athlete's foot NOW GIVE ME THE MORPHINE!
So the girl hooks me up and immediately proceeds to give me a back rub. Oh Luxor, I've misjudged you. She busts out all sorts of crazy and wonderful massage devices and begins telling me about how she's "balancing my chakras" and "restoring my chi".
Between her skillful manipulations and what was by now a pretty serious oxygen buzz, I am purring like a kitten with a fresh saucer of liquid cocaine.
And that's when the pitch came. In an instant she went from "me love you long time" to late night infomercial. In practiced fashion she begins to list off the various benefits and payment methods for each of the little devices with which she had seduced me into this stupor.
This goes on for twenty minutes. And of course, I can't leave as I am literally attached to the bar by my face.
All I know is that when that sweet sweet O2 stopped flowing, there was an array of
You are good, Vegas. You. Are good.
