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Scarcity+Sloppy Seconds=Bitch Slaps

Las Vegas currently exists in a climate of scarcity. People are scratching each other’s eyes out to compete for jobs at P.F. Chang’s, let alone the phenomenon  that is the “special someone” without a record or addiction problem. When all of your options are equivalent to picking the least painful way to maim yourself, sometimes we resort to things that otherwise wouldn’t be considered…like breaking bro/girl code and dating a friend’s Ex.

I recently experienced this most awkward of conundrums when my roommate told me she wanted to go out with a guy I dated last summer. I won’t bother with the droll details, but  it ended with a lot of angry texting and me moving back in with my mother…soooo…yeah. 

Sometimes these situations work out, but normally they end up like mine, with  burned photographs, an excessive use of expletives and occasionally some bitch slapping. So if your buddy’s fling from 2010 is looking extra hot these days, you might want to consider the following before walking down that winding road:


     Sharing a glass of milk or a tuna fish sandwich without cutting it is gross enough; just think of all the lovely mucus and duck butter potentially shared between the three of you. On the other hand, you’ll be able to compare genital warts and carpool to the free clinic.


     Do you communicate only via text? Are they on your FB, but you skip over their status updates? Do your deep, personal conversations equal a total of three tequila fueled ramblings outside of the Artisan? Does he/she hate Harry Potter or love Twilight? If the answer is yes to any of the above, go for it. F*** their feelings and the Ex because that is an acquaintance (with horrible taste) you would have forgotten over the course of a hangover anyway. However, if your friend is actually a friend, meaning they know some REAL stuff about you, you might want to back off. There’s no telling what comes out when someone is in pissy, revenge mode. Oh, and you should probably care about their feelings, you know, since they’re your friend and all.


     People are stupid. We say things we don’t mean all the time, like “That doesn’t make you look fat,” and “That was the best ___ I’ve ever had,” or “Of course you can date my Ex! I’m sooooo over it.”  We can’t anticipate how we’re going to feel in the future. What’s cool now may be the worst-thing-to-ever-happen-in-the- history-of-life a week later. Just sayin’.


     Being single sometimes sucks. Seeing someone you liked get it on with your friend and then stick around to cuddle definitely sucks. If you’re gonna date an Ex, check out your friend’s situation in life. Are they already stressed/depressed about the general crappiness of life? Do they still have feelings for the ex? Did the relaysh end well or is there bad blood? And most importantly, are they single? Ideally you should wait until your friend is totally over the Ex and in a committed relationship, not just because he/she said so, but because they exhibit the following signs of serious commitment:

- They no longer shave regularly

- They wear unflattering sweatpants in front of each other…on dates.

- They have nicknames that sound like something from the Honey Boo Boo name generator

- They have met each other’s families and know them well enough to complain about it

- They have seen each other pee…and she has probably held his penis while he did it just to “get the experience”


     So the pics of the Ex are getting hotter every time you FB stalk, yet your friend is hashtagging #foreveralone without irony. You think you can get a quickie in to fulfill all your fantasies and no one has to know, but you’re wrong. The universe doesn’t work that way. You will get caught, you will lose your friend, and you most definitely will get bitch slapped.

If everything checks out, and everyone is definitely cool with the situation, then go forth my child…go forth and conquer that used-up mountain that is now more of a hill because the path has already been ridden. Or, you could save yourself the bullshit and find someone else. Scarcity is a tool we created to justify screwing over unassuming people. There are plenty of other uncaught fish in the sea.

I’m calling Bullshit.

This REALLY just happened.

So, I went to a club last night to send off a friend that’s moving to London for love (get it girl!).

The three of us ended up at a table with three Las Vegas guys celebrating a birthday. One took a particular liking to me, especially when I told him I work at a newspaper. This is a stretch…I INTERN at a newspaper in Boulder City, but they do pay me. I left off the “I also wait tables” part because I didn’t feel like hating myself that night.

The guy seemed shocked. “Really?” he said, staring at me like I had three tits. “You work at a newspaper? So you have brains and beauty, how refreshing! All the women in this city are waitresses, cocktail servers and strippers. I’m so sick of it!”

I almost choked on my vodka. I never did tell him I pay my bills by slinging french food in a hotel…it didn’t seem necessary. He didn’t treat me any differently from the cocktail waitress at the table, whom he sexually harassed every time she appeared. We were mixing a lot of our own drinks that night.

The man had absolutely nothing to say other than how much he loved my “big ass.” At one point he said he wanted to bury his face in it. He never asked me any questions about myself or attempted starting a real conversation. He also bit me, and I’m pretty sure he forgot my name.  Super classy.

Surprisingly, I declined giving him my phone number…which probably makes me one of the thousands of stuck up bitches in the world that don’t realize what a great guy he is.

Ticket for one.

When the artificial aspects of Las Vegas life start to feel more oppressive than the mid-July sun, I like to curl up and watch a classic movie. I don’t mean Clueless or Titanic (though those are both excellent choices on any day), but movies made before breast implants and CGI. 

Last Tuesday I decided to indulge my nostalgia. Doing my best Audrey Hepburn, I threw on ballet flats and a scarf and strolled over to the South Point Casino, where twice a week they play a film made before 1980 for their classic movie series. That evening’s feature was “A Star is Born,” starring a drug-addled Judy Garland in her comeback performance. She should have won the Best Actress Academy Award in 1955 for her performance, but the culture didn’t embrace reformed train wrecks like we do now.

Armed with popcorn and Raisinettes in a nearly empty theater, I thought about the date I was blowing off to watch this movie in a theater by myself. 

Like a “true gentleman,” this guy called me two nights ago at 1 am and asked me to come over under the pretense of wanting to “hang out and talk.” After I declined, his desire to talk suddenly evaporated. Never mind that he already had me on the phone; apparently my conversation is only worthwhile if it takes place in his bedroom.

I decided not to answer his 3 am call on Tuesday, and I didn’t hear from him throughout the rest of the day to confirm our dinner date. I took that as a sign I was off the hook, and at no great loss; the guy ate like a slob and had a personality as stimulating as concrete. 

I settled into my seat for a musical evening with James Mason and Judy Garland. As I watched Norman Maine pursue the precocious and lovable Esther Blodgett, I was reminded of what love should look like. Yes, I know it’s a movie and therefore a fantasy, but two people loving, supporting and respecting one another in their relationship can’t be beyond the realm of possibility. And btw, “A Star Is Born” isn’t a light, romantic comedy. It’s the story of a relationship ripped apart by alcoholism. Reality must be grim if an alcoholic, out-of-work actor looks like a champion for romantic idealism.

Oh well…I’d rather have a fictional date with James Mason any day than a real one with a Bro that has the table manners of a caveman and the emotional IQ of a jellyfish. Besides, with a whole empty row in front of me, I can put my feet up any way I like. Now THAT is winning.

What’s in a toothbrush?

     Women are always looking for “signs” to help them understand their male counterpart’s intentions. To me, meeting/introducing the parents, a set of keys, a drawer for spare clothes, and an established toothbrush space signify the desire to start a substantial relationship. But a lot of these ‘signs’ sprout from a need for convenience.

     Las Vegas life is nothing if not accommodating (especially for alcoholics), and there’s very little we natives won’t do to make life a little easier…even if that means giving your gate passcode to someone you’ve known five minutes so you don’t have to reach over from the passenger’s seat to punch it in. So how do you make the distinction between what’s easy and what’s real?

      About 3 months ago, I met Jake* at a nightclub in the Bellagio where he works as a VIP host. He was witty and well-dressed with dark skin, broad shoulders and a smooth way with words. In short, he was trouble in a well-tailored suit…completely irresistible. 

     The first two weeks of our acquaintance were promising, but then, I’m ashamed to say my inner skank got the best of me (wah wah). Almost immediately after, his contact with me reduced to text messages every Monday between 3 and 6pm (I swear, like clockwork…friggin weirdo).  

     Despite his distance, I stubbornly refused to let go of all the bullshit he had said to me in those first few weeks. That would be admitting I was an idiot that fell for his lines…plus, he was hot. It’s pathetic, but it’s true. On one particularly lonely night of desperation, I consented to a sleepover. I hadn’t seen him (or anyone for that matter) in about a month and needed a cuddle, dammit. 

     I went to his place around 4 a.m. armed with my Hello Kitty travel toothbrush (doing the walk of shame with morning breath is just adding insult to injury). When I got there, he told me he bought a toothbrush for me to keep there, and it’s on the bathroom sink. Ummm…seriously? 


     A toothbrush might not make things Facebook official, but I always thought a  toothbrush meant the person wanted you around in between meals. It definitely means something to have a piece of prime bathroom real estate…right?

     This opened a floodgate of questions: Did Jake buy it because I had made a flippant comment about hating morning breath? Does that mean he listens and remembers things I say? Or did he buy it because all of our trysts have taken place after a night of drinking, and the Breathsavers just aren’t cutting it? Was he just being considerate? If he’s so damn considerate, why doesn’t he take me out on a date? Does this mean he likes me and wants me around more? Or does this mean he just wants me to brush?

     What the hell?!?

     As I stared at the offending oral hygiene tool, contemplating its significance, it dawned on me that sharing that inch of space in the medicine cabinet may have nothing to do with a deeper emotional attachment…which totally makes things confusing, and sucky.

     After my internal five-minute freakout and a week of stressing, I came to the conclusion that…it’s just a toothbrush. When something means something, I’ll know because it will be meaningful. A toothbrush is not a sign that a guy is into me…a date is. I broke it off with Jake soon after. Putting more consideration into the significance of a toothbrush than my own mental health is a serious problem, and my BFF Jose Cuervo and I are working very hard on fixing it.

See?! God IS a woman!


Families stay out of popular rural lake after discovery of deadly fish ‘that eats male genitals’

A popular Illinois lake is on guard after the discovery in its waters of the exotic pacu fish - infamous for killing men by ripping off their testicles.

Families reported being wary of entering the waters of Lake Lou Yaeger after hearing that a pacu was caught by a fisherman on June 7 and that another one had been spotted two weeks later.

Known in Papua New Guinea as ‘The Ball Cutter’, the pacu has reportedly been responsible for the deaths of two fishermen in the Pacific nation, who died from blood loss after the fish had bitten off their testicles.

The Ball Cutter boasts an impressive set of man-like molars, which tear off the testicles of unwitting hunters, leaving them to bleed to death.

'I had heard of a couple of fishermen in Papua New Guinea who had been castrated by something in the water,' said Wade on his British television program 'River Monsters'

The bleeding was so severe that they died. The locals told me that this thing was like a human in the water, biting at the testicles of fishermen. They didn’t know what it was.

'Amazingly, these things are quite elusive so we had to be patient catching one. We put a line into the water and waited for it to bite.

'When I reeled it in, it had this mouth which was surprisingly human-like, it is almost like they have teeth specially made for crushing.

Like the piranha, the pacu is originally from the Brazilian Amazon and was introduced into Papua New Guinea to increase fishing stocks.

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