Dispatch: Walking the Burrito

My time at the Tropicana Las Vegas was interesting in the sense that oddly, nothing much happened. I played video poker, no huge wins, did lots of nickel multiplay. I played Freddy F. and got some bonuses. I tried the craps table and crashed and burned in 20 minutes. I played some Beefffallloooo. I couldn't get a stool at blackjack that I liked, so I didn't play any of that.

A giant dick, a Thunder Down Under cast member, and an inflatable penis.

In and around all this nickel multiplay and generous cocktail waitress service, I found myself in that familiar gambler's dilemma. You haven't really had lunch, it's past dinner, you're fairly well lubricated, and all of a sudden - you are starving. You HAVE to eat. Like NOW.

But what? There was nothing at the Trop that I was interested in. Maybe at a nearby property?

I thought about it with the concentration of a 14th-round palooka that won't take a dive, and calculated the how far do I have to walk versus how delicious is the targeted junk food ratio multiplied by cosine(would I have to wait for food) coefficient.

And I came up with a mathematically plausible dinner plan. Baja Fresh at Excalibur.

So I set out on what I thought was a brief walk, but as you'll see, one that turned into so much more than that.

I strolled through the Tropicana casino toward the main exit, now a man on a tubular food mission. It was a nice night in that it looked nice, and felt nice if you like 101 degree temperatures at dusk.

The pedestrian bridge situation at the Four Corners was predictably chaotic. The odds of any up-escalator working is about 3:1. I walked up the stairs in the heat.

I always look for photo ops so I turned around and snapped a beauty pic of the phony New York New York skyline integrating with a phony Excalibur parapet, which has nothing to do with Hugh Hefner skydiving.

(We lost Hugh Hefner this week. I'm wearing a black dick band. I hear they are going to bury him eight inches under.)

Behold! Dickscabular!

Onward into Excalibur, and I happened upon a fun little tableaux in the lobby featuring what had to be a bridal party, getting their pictures taken with some of those Thunder In My Under guys. I grabbed a picture and then the nearest Thunderboi came over, wearing a piss-face and a stink-eye, and gave me shit for taking a photo.

Dude. You're in the middle of a huge lobby. I took a photo. I am not paying the likes of you to have a photo taken for me.

Knowing generally what's good for me in life, I shook it off. I had the goods, and I knew where they were headed. Right here, for your Flushietainment pleasure.

Reminds me of that punchline, "No mon, it says WELCOME TO JAMAICA!" It's from a crude, unfunny joke featuring a stereotyped dick. And that's gotta hurt.

My goal was just a minute or two away. And before I knew it, I was next up at the counter at Baja Fresh, ordering a sumptuous Mexican meal.

Like a pro, I requested an off-menu especialidad - the burrito de pollo el tamaño de mi cabeza.

We went through the process of "query for and identify ingredients and upsell items" fairly quickly. Yes, refried beans. Yes, black beans. Yes, lots of fried onions and peppers. Yes, pico de gallo. Yes cheese. Yes sour cream. Yes jalapenos. Smothered? Why the hell not! Red enchilada sauce? Yes!

Next thing I knew, I was the proud owner of a boulder-sized burrito with corn chips, and headed for the generous salsas, toppings, and hot sauces bar. I filled 3 or 4 little plastic bowls with salsa, green salsa, and more salsa.

Burrito de pollo el tamaño de mi cabeza el Baja Fresh Excalibur.

Oh my God it hit the spot. Delicious. I hacked away at the burrito, and dipped the still hot, cheesy chips into the salsa before shoveling them into my mouth. As I ate, I heard music. Was I in heaven?

Maybe, if heaven has a casino featuring four black R&B singers to serenade me while I ate Mr. Mondo Burrito. The lounge across the way featured entertainment, and these guys were good. Dinner and a show!

I made, I think, three more trips back to the Salsa cornucopia for more and more of those little plastic bowls of stuff - I could not get enough of the green salsa!

I ate. I ate. And I ate. I figured I'd better not consume the ends of the burrito, which were mostly tortilla - filler, really. Or the corn chips. I did some plastic knife surgery to expose the remains of the innards and scraped that away bit by bit.

Nibble nibble. Scrape scrape. Nibble nibble. Hmm, a little pico de gallo left, I'll have a bite of the end part of the tortilla along with that, I thought. Then another.

Fuck it. Let's get real here for a second. I ate it. Everything. I ate it ALL, the Hugh Hefner double D burrito, the chips, the garnish, and 19 little plastic bowls of salsa, all in a total fucking gluttonous frenzy.

Dumping the tray on top of one of their garbage receptacles, I verily waddled out into the casino to watch the music (if that makes any sense) a bit more.

And that's when it hit me. I was in trouble. Oh my God was I in trouble. I had way, way overdone it. Refried beans were fermenting in a sloshing gallon and a half of salsa in my now distended stomach. Oh my God, it started to hurt. I'm talking Thanksgiving dinner hurt.

All I could think of was that I had to walk, I had to walk fast, I had to walk far, I had to walk off this curse of a burrito that was sitting in me, stretching my torso like a Mexican cannonball. I had to walk that bastard off and get it digesting NOW.

I took off around the casino letting out little painful burps about every 50 steps. I walked up the escalator to the mezzanine and blasted by the tourist trap shops, looking longingly at the massage tables as I went. Non starter. I would never survive being horizontal in my condition.

I hustled along the all too familiar walkways to Luxor, eschewing the (for once) working moving walkways, where I did a lap around the casino there.

There was the stairway / escalator to the mall that joins up the Mandalay Bay - up the stairs I went, huffing and puffing, but feeling no better.

Nothing in that mall could interest me enough to stop or even slow down, not even the slyly named gallery called Peter Dik.

Outta my way, I've got an exploding burrito inside!

Mandalay Bay. Another casino lapped in the Jesus I Hurt And I Might Barf 500.

I left the building, Wallowing Elvis style, and missed the walkway to Las Vegas Boulevard. Didn't matter. I walked the wrong way down the winding driveway, into the dazzling glare of a million taxi and Lyftber headlights. Didn't matter.

At the end of that, I pounded right and hauled ass to the street. I felt about the same except that now I was hot and sweating as well.

Amember when lasers used ta come outta his eyes?

Down the Boulevard I went, and back into the Trop. And into the lounge, where I begged the server for a cold, very small water (just like the one she had on her tray).

I sipped a delicious spoonful of it.

She server asked me if I was okay. I just said that I overate and took a long fast stroll to try to walk it off. I looked at my fatbit.

"6000 steps," I said.

"That's not too bad for a day," she replied, being generous.

"6000 since the burrito."

It has been a long, long, long time since I overate like that. Next time... I'll say no when they ask if I want my burrito smothered.

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