Welcome to Fabulous Faded Gloryville

My mission plan set, I marched down the hall, marched into the elevator, marched around the elevator for a spell, marched out of the elevator again, marched into the lobby, and marched out the door.

The objective - for the first time ever in almost 60 trips to The Meadows - to visit the iconic Welcome to Fabulous Flush Vegas sign.

Hard to believe, but its true, we'd driven by it a million times (I counted) but never stopped. Well, today was going to be the day.

Out in the pork cochon, where taxis waited and limos dropped off, I turned and walked toward daylight. Sunlight, actually. And within 90 seconds or so, found out that I was trapped in yet another tourist no-man's-land as the walkway at the side of the ramp dwindled to about 12". I passed signs saying that I shouldn't walk this way. But Las Vegas boulevard was in sight, so I pushed on, and got to the sidewalk without incident, or otherwise being run over or similar.

It was a bright gorgeous-looking day, but was a bit breezy and cold, so I crossed to the east side of LVB in order to stay in the sunshine.

I figured the sign couldn't be all that far away, and I could use the exercise after some 12 or 13 days of Vegasing.

I passed a few stores, a McDonald's (noted to self in case punishment dinner was required), and some places with cool looking weather-beaten signs that used to be something. I passed lots of chain link fence and at one point, came upon a formal party of four plus photographer.

The man with the camera thought it would be great to get the bride and bridesmaid to walk barefoot across the smashed-up asphalt, over gravel and broken glass, to a section of chain link fence. This way, you see, they could pretend to be all degenerate and shit and the wedding gown and formal dress would be in great contrast to the (now bloody) broken glass and sun-faded Big Gulp cups, and cigarette butts blown up against the fence like an urban archeologists someday treasure. Beyond the sparkle, glitz, and noise, there's a faded gloryville rusting away the windblown places where businesses have failed and motels have decayed, abandoned, and where nobody is welcome anymore.

"Congrats..." I said to the groom, as I walked past. Then "...dickhead..." a dozen or two steps down the sidewalk, under my breath. Why wasn't groom-boy picking up the bride and carrying her over all the rubble and used hypodermic needles? I wish them good luck.

Feeling snarky and superior, a nice change from how I felt during punishment breakfast, I continued on and sure enough, up in the distance, the sign showed itself.

My God what a bustling affair its become. There is a parking lot now. There are hordes of people. There is a line of tourist photographic fodder stretching down the boulevard, waiting for their moment to pose with 'the sign'.

I started simply, and took a selfie from across the street, putting an almost imperceptible smile on my pretty face.

I can tell by the way you are rolling your eyes that you don't believe I could ever put on lipstick like that.

OK. Busted. (As it were.)

That, is actually songstress Lindi Ortega, whose latest album, Faded Gloryville, I have been listening to lately. Her voice is red velvet, pure and pretty.

I crossed at the light to the area of... The Sign. The last thing I wanted was to stand in a line-up of mooks and ask the guy at the front (who professed to be working for free, but tips were appreciated) to take my picture.

No, I had a better idea.

I just stood off to one side, moved up next to the front of the line, and in between one subject and the next, I fired away. I didn't get one I liked right away, so I just kept shooting selfies. Somebody else was in there but I didn't care.

And here you have it. The official Royal Flusher Welcome to Fabulous Flush Vegas Sign Selfie:

I took another one of whoever along with her friend. And as they walked back to the line, I marched straight up (more damn marching again!) and walked square between the big blue posts of the fabled sign, giving the left one a whack with an open hand as I did.

Sheet metal.

Cross that one off the list.

I'd done my due diligence. And now I had another kind of diligence in mind. Which makes no sense, given that I'm referring to a very large, very cold iced vodka with three very Hindenberg olives in.

It felt good to get out of that nasty sunshine and fresh air and do myself some good for a change.

My game of choice was again the hundred play machines with the 'not as bad as they could be' paytables. I had yet another failed four-to-a-royal attempt (playing one line) just to remind me.

What it was supposed to remind me of, I've since forgotten.

But guess what? I got four of a kind. Eights. Great. Big whoop. In actuality, it was not going well at all.

Other readers who have had similarly bad trips wonder the same thing I was wondering - how can losing streak continue so fabulously for the majority of days on a long trip? How is it possible?

It just... is. And it does happen. And it was happening to me.

So I played an hour of quarters, often playing multiple lines. And I hit but that one quad. Obviously I was feeding twenties in.

I was down to $20 of my self-enforced stake left. And you know what?

I gave up.

I quit. I walked with $20 left because it seemed futile.

Many, many days in Vegas I've played for 5, 6, 7 hours on less money. Sometimes even more than that.

I'd managed 90 minutes of play on my stake.

When things are bad, professional savvy degenerate gamblers like Sir Flushiepants know what is called for.

And that 'what' is a good bowl of Hot and Sour Soup served by a mincing waiter. I headed for the Noodle Shop.

Picture this. I'm in a corner booth with my back to the wall. I've been losing and losing. I am probably on the worst trip EVER out of 50-whatever trips. I'm sunburned. I'm broke. I'm tired. And all I want is a nice quiet bowl of hot and fucking sour soup. So then Wade minces over and asks me this and that and takes my order just as the baby starts crying.

What baby, you ask? The Montreal Canadiens logo'd diaper fan-baby not 20 feet from me, the one that won't stop fucking crying, the one that grand-mere is parading around the room so that EVERYONE can enjoy the ear-piercing 1950s Pratt and Whitney J57 axial-flow turbofan jet engine developing 10,000 pounds of thrst and 10 billion pounds of waaaaaaaa decibels that are enough to split your molars so wide open that there would be room for the entire Wall of Fucking China between your shattered fragments of enamel.

Two things happened at this point. One, I realized There Is No Mercy For Flushy, and two, I thought of Jennifer, yes you, of iputmylifeonashelf.com. I felt that she could - err - relate. (If you haven't checked out Jennifer's blog, you should. She's a fearless traveler. She actually went to China. Without fear. Unlike me. Who hasn't been but would be afraid.)

Wade pirhouetted my soup onto the table. I'd got some tee from the mincing minion that helped Wade.

So, yeah, overall, pretty good hot and sour soup. If you look closely you can see a soup-nami of shock waves in there from Baby Mahovlich just a blue-line pass away.

Wade and Minion Wade

Chicken with Black Bean sauce. I ate it all. Except 2 black beans, which I stuffed in my ears.

The meal was great. I told Wade the Wader to use up my Mandalay Bay MLife (aka MILF) Express Comps and put the rest on the room. I tipped in cash, like I always do in Vegas. It makes it easier for hosts to comp off meal charges, since they can't comp tips.

Having given up on gambling for life, there was nought else left to do but slink to my room and kill time before bed.

In retrospect, this Wednesday in Vegas wasn't as bad, really, as I thought it was.

It was worse.

I see now, after putting this picture up, that I'd had a Freudian slip of the pen (which could have potential for injury) and marked down -4400 to this point. The number was much closer to $5,000.

But hey, that's the price for fun, and a good whinge in the blog, right?

Right.

The next day, thank goodness, I needed to be on the computer quite a bit. Then I'd head out. Back downtown. For my last stand of the trip. Back to the El Cortez, finishing it old school.

If Gloryville Has lost its shine Click Facebook like For a real good rhyme. Burma-Shave.

Call for Stimul8 Balzac

The next day was the day after Tuesday. So that would be Wednesday and my last full day at Mandlebar Bay. I'd taken some precautions the day before, as you savvier readers might have noticed, of putting a mickey of Smirnoff on ice along with the bad karma emergency death cheese. I also purchased a few other provisions to help make up what would be yet another Punishment Breakfast.

Punishment Breakfast featuring stolen emergency cheese.

I'd thought that it would be fun to have breakfast in my room, to keep me out of the casino, sort of like a Skylab astronaut, sequestered in my little capsule, with just enough provisions to keep me going. I'd squeeze the illicit Philly right from its little plastic tube, just like an astronaut would. Yes, I thought all this would be fun.

Well, it wasn't. It was like having Chuck E. Cheese take a dump on my Blathermouth Crackers.

I toughed it out.

By the time I'd done my morning's work, I went down to the casino by way of the casino, while heading to (purportedly) the buffet for a repeat of breakfast lunch. You see, since I am fudging this from texts and from failing memory, I forgot to mention that there'd been signs on my favorite triple play machines indicating that they would be taken out of service at such and such a time overnight.

I wanted to see what the damage was.

Finding their normal place in the casino, my eyes opened as big as monster ball buffet blueberries. There they were... GONE.

Mandelabra Bay was having a fun time pulling games on me that I'd counted on being there.

A quick reconnoitre of the casino turned up the machines, now proudly on display outside the House of Blues.

If you play these, the middle ones have better paytables.

On the way back around to the buffet, I happened across some very interesting machines.

They were quarter hundred play with quarters. And they had 9/5 Double Double Bonus, as well as 9/5 Jacks or Better. That is as good as you are going to find on the strip, for the most part, and better than you are going to find at the likes of the Golden Nugget at that denomination.

With hundred play, I could started with one hand at a time, and then parlay. The sky was the limit! I couldn't wait to try this out.

But first, blunch. I got a table and headed straight to the blueberry corral. Strange, I didn't hear the sounds of forklifts or anything... what the hell?

No blueberries today.

Fine.

I went another direction, more towards lunch than breakfast, making it a true blunch. Did you know that South Korean kimchi, as well keeping your bowel incredibly taut, toned and healthy, is excellent with salad? Well it is.

I adore kimchi, but who wouldn't adore spiced fermented cabbage that is packed in Kim Jong Un's underpants earthenware jars and buried underground for about fourteen years.

Back up in the room, I replenished the ice for the vodka and the remaining emergency space cheese (who am I kidding, it was all about the vodka) and I spent a couple more hours working on data entry for Royal Canadian Veeblefetzer. I really enjoyed swapping the 'Contact me!' phone numbers given by our grade A GrommetCon prospects with ones from the various porn slapper cards I'd collected during the trip.

I could just imagine boss Norbert calling 696-969-6969 and asking for Stimul8 Balzac.

When I could take no more, I went down to take on the Mandalay Bay casino once again. I took $100 and broke it into $5 bills.

The plan? Hundred play quarters, starting with single line. Strict Rules of Parlay.

I had visions of parlaying high and long from just five bucks, ending with me on an incredible run, pounding 5, 10, 20 maybe more hands at a time, racking up points, and ending with an incredible dealt hand. Maybe 100 hands with a dealt Royal. That would be a cool $100,000.

My first five dollars went great. I double up and switched to two hands at a time.

Pretty soon I went out. I went through a series of five dollar bills where I never got to parlay at all. Like six or seven of 'em.

At one point I got up to four hands. The thing didn't pan out, really, in the sense that I didn't win an incredible huge amount of money.

But it was kind of fun and different, and I thought I would do more in the evening.

In the end, I played back down to zero, and pulled my MLife card.

There was something I had to do, something on my agenda. Something I had never done before. In fact, this was my, what 58th trip to Vegas or something ridiculous like that? And I still had at least one new trick up my Vegas sleeve.

Today was the day.

If your berries are blue And your nuts are cracked Click Facebook like And get back on track(ed) Burma-Shave.

Lost My Thrill on Blueberry Hill

I decided to have a very controlled day. I'd start by getting coffee, and digging right in to my work at the very comfy workstation in my Baking room at Mandolin Bay. I did just that and had punishment breakfast of bits and pieces of things I had around with me in the room, including the very last of the emergency cheese. It had served me well.

It felt good to have racked up a couple of winning days, even if the gains were modest. Maybe I was going to pull this trip out of the dumper yet.

I kept this up until after lunchtime (according to my EST body clock) and went down to the buffet to have buffet breakfast for lunch.

I don't mind the breakfast buffet at MB. It was good. Unremarkable, except for the World's Largest Blueberries the Size of Horse Eyeballs.

W.L.B.S.H.E. in a serving spoon.

These things were fantastic! Plump, ripe, and you could eat one holding it like an apple. You could slice one in half and feed two toddlers. If this is the result of genetic engineering, bring it on! I love a blueberry you can do weight training with.

While on my buffet rounds, I spied something that I really wanted. I slipped a couple into my shirt pocket. On another round, I grabbed more. Perfect.

The coffee was really good and overall, I was pleased with how the day was going. Another half day of work and I could gamble and drink to my heart's content. I had a plan for this as I'd spied some machines that had 9/5 Double Double spinners on them.

Burping my way out of the buffet, I started toward the elevators and at the last moment thought 'what the heck' and turned left instead of right. A couple of bucks in the machines wouldn't hurt, right?

I'd have a quick distraction and then get right back down to work. Probably pay for breakfast-lunch.

...

There are no pictures for this part. There's a good reason for that.

...

Let's just summarize it this way. An hour later, just one hour later, I was back at my desk, where I should be, fictionalizing customer responses in the 'what can we do better' portions of the cards.

I'd gone to the triple play spinner machine and simply shoved money at it. I'd gone on complete and utter tilt and went through every dollar I had on me.

And I know exactly why this happened.

It was a good thing I had work to do. I got to it, fuming and screaming inwardly at myself the most horrific and vile self-deprecations I could think of.

"YOU NINNY!"

"YOU... STINK!"

It was so bad, and the trip was so bad, that I decided to just tough it out for the day. I only had so many dollars on me for the trip and that was that.

(Did I mention that I took a second marker at the Nugget before leaving? I got enough so that I'd have roughly $500 a day if everything went south.

Man, I was so far south, I was in Ant-fucking-arctica.)

Work got done, and I had a plastic wine. Sat and took the sun in the armchair, looking out across the valley.

It served me right, this was karma. I mentioned I knew why this happened, and this is why:

Yes, I was a victim of the Stolen Emergency Cheese.

I knew the rules, and I broke them. Hell, I shattered them, and what's more, I flaunted it, loading myself up with gram after gram of pure white creamy artery death. On the street they call this stuff Kill Philly.

The Man says no taking food from the buffet, and now I'd paid the price in Cheese Karma.

I killed a bunch of time fooling with the Chromecast and the other equipment Jimmy Poon had sent along and I managed to figure out how to tap into some Periscope feeds of the Springsteen concert that was going on back home.

Turn the fucking phone sideways, dumbass!

Thank you.

The Quad Queen was all in favor of me dipping into my stake and going over to Luxor, maybe play the full pay dollar machines at the high limit bar - but I was having none of it.

I did have to go out for dinner, so I compromised and took a very small stake for after, and headed for Hussong's Cantina. There was no band, but there was a bunch of people having their pictures taken.

Not wanting to feel left out, I took their pictures too.

Oh, I also ate a burrito as big as a buffet blueberry.

Like a gambling junky looking for the equivalent of cough syrup to mainline, I ended up playing nickels again in a piss-soaked alleyway in a dark, damp, deserted corner of the Mandalay Pay casino where nobody else ever goes.

Back in the casino, I lost another $100. It didn't take long.

I took a 40 minute shower to kill time and went to bed. I was clean, and cleaned out.

Blondes are more fun Brunettes are all right It takes a red-headed woman To click my Facebook Like Burma-Shave.

Eke Eke Eke

I was a little concerned about my Lyftber driver, Ted. He started sweating profusely before we even left the Nugget. I offered him a small bottle of water which he immediately dumped on his crotch.

"Drinking problem," he said.

However, with lots of encouragement and coaxing, I got him moving and we arrived at Mandalay Bay without incident. Cost me $12 with tip.

A very good-looking lobbyist received a sob story, my list of roomal requirements, and a twenty dollar bill. It paid off nicely.

"I can put you in a baking room," said the lobbyist.

"I'd prefer one with air conditioning," I replied.

"They all have air conditioning sir."

"Why is this room baking then?"

"Bay King. Not baking, Bay King."

"I'll do it!"

So, I got a one level upgrade to a newly renovated Bay King room. I didn't take any pics of it, but Mandalay Bay provided one.

I immediately put the chair on the other side of the desk, facing the window, and then dragged an armchair over in front of the westward view, where I could take some sun. I cranked open a bottle of plastic red wine, and sat myself down, took sun, and reflected.

I sat there for quite a long while. I hadn't had any real action today, but I didn't feel like I wanted to go to the casino. The total of my losses was starting to wear on me. I did some work.

I texted the Quad Queen.

"I think I'm afraid to play."

To make myself feel better, I did some calculations to figure out how much I'd gotten in comps, freebies, and free play.

It came to $3,008.25 so far. Would you like to see a list? I have one handy.

Where	Comp	Amount
T.I.	Room 3 nights	$60.00
		$80.00
		$90.00
	Room tax 13%	$29.90
TI	Freeplay	$495.00
DTG	Room 3 nights	$39.00
		$39.00
		$39.00
	Room tax 13%	$15.21
	Resort fee	$68.00
Four Queens	Freeplay	$40.00
Four Queens	Freeplay	$40.00
Magnolias	Meal on points	$10.79
Magnolias	Meal on points	$7.59
DTG	CAD to US Bonus	$125.00
DTG	CAD to US Bonus	$125.00
DTG	CAD to US Bonus	$125.00
DTG	points	$35.00
The D	Freeplay	$5.00
Magnolias	Meal on points	$10.79
Binions	Meal on points	$10.00
Tropicana	Comp	$180.00
Tropicana	Freeplay	$15.00
Nugget	Freeplay	$100.00
Nugget	Visa Gift Card	$25.00
Magnolias 29th	Taco Salad	$8.79
Binions	Ribs	$15.00
Binions	Burger	$8.69
Nugget	Freeplay on pts	$35.00
Nugget Room	3 nights	$575.00
Nugget - Bone Jumper	Meal on points	$17.49
Man Bay Baking room	Tue	$138.00
	Wed	$176.00
Nugget points play		$40.00
Man Bay Resort Credit		$100.00
MILF Freeplay		$85.00

Well, that was something. I was down more than that, but I'd raked in the comp value dollars so far.

Buttressed with this knowledge, I got my butt down to the casino, in search of my old lucky triple play machines and the lovely blonde cocktail waitress from previous trips. She was old enough that if people saw me flirting with her, they wouldn't think to themselves 'what a disgusting creep' as they would if I were flirting with a 20-youngthing cocktail waitress.

No, they would just think 'what a creep' and leave it at that. Everyone's a winner.

The machines were there, the blonde wasn't. And I behaved myself.

Broke the ice.

Smashed the ice. Dealt straight flush, very rare.

Melted the ice a bit more, with a fourth straight flush for the session.

As you can see, oddly, I got more straights flush than quads. Very unusual for triple play.

I had a hankerin' for some over-priced Mexican food so I headed down the long, long hallway, past the ceramic boobs and body parts, down... down... down... to the Border Grille.

I ended up in some weird basement dining cell with a bunch of assholes. There were assholes to the left. Assholes to the right. Assholes in front of me. My face puckered at the site. And they were all jabbering and laughing and having a good time.

So, I have not a fond memory of this meal. I got the chips and salsa. Ordered a water. Asked for some guac. And fell victim to the patented Border Grille Upsell.

Chips. Salsa. Nice little guac portion. Assholes.

I ordered some entree thing and it came and I just felt weird and out of place. It was sooo loud in my cement cell, all these assholes around, farting out loud words and phrases, squeaking and squealing, sporking and squeezing out little asshole smiles, and opening wide with cavernous flappy-fart laughs.

Was I hallucinating? I looked around at all the assholes, and looked up.

I definitely was losing my grip.

My entree came. It had been plated by an asshole.

Complete with corn.

It was sort of luke warm. I ate it so I could get away from the sphinctery assholes as soon as possible.

Sometimes you just can't even.

Know what I mean?

Some asshole, who wasn't my waiting asshole, but just another asshole buttocking his way around the dining cell, brought my check.

Guacamole. Nine dollars and fifty cents.

I felt like I had been punched in the asshole.

Then they had the nerve to suggest a gratuity - starting at 18%.

Fuck you. Where's 15%?

Where's 10%?

I was cranky as hell. There was no doubt about it.

When will I learn? The only way I am ever doing Border Grille again is for the all-you-can-munch lunch brunch. Now that, I can see as being a scenario where you could get your money's worth.

You'll be pleased to know that Todd B (an asshole) got his 15% and I said nothing to the other assholes that surrounded me in my dining cell.

My crankypants act was entirely internal.

I think maybe Vegas was wearing me out.

I then commenced to play a shitload of video poker, hitting a fifth straight flush, hitting lots of other things, but playing most of my money back. But I had a good lot of entertainment, a bunch of drinks, and I eked out a win by quitting when I was still up.

Then it came to me.

I should be playing the full pay quarter Loose Doose! Yeah, well, it's gone. Both machines, gone. That is, the machines are still there, but the game isn't on them anymore. More assholes.

I sort of wandered around, wishing I had hit a homerun on five-play but I hadn't, and then I did something very un-Flusherlike.

I played nickels. Sad, I know.

At least it was hundred play. Boner Deluxe.

Horribly short pay.

Degenerate.

As mentioned, I eked out a profit for the day - of $45. Almost covered price of the asshole guacamole.

Guacamole Salsa chip Like my Facebook Get a grip! Burma-Shave.