Frenchie

Finally the sun had seemed to return to the valley and Las Vegas was bathed in sun, still cool looking though, and still cool.

Day 11

We'd both had trouble getting to sleep the night before, because of Frenchie.

It had been a long, fun, (losing,) day in Vegas and as usual, by the time we finally hit the hay, we were ready to saw sheep.

Sometimes Mrs. Flusher drifts into a light dreamy state in which she's kind of dreaming, but still able to respond to speech.

I was well on my way to slumbertown when I heard her giggle. It woke me just a bit, but I ignored it.

Then she giggled again.

And again.

And then she blurted out, "I can't stop thinking about Frenchie."

There was no way I was going to be able to drop back off now.

"You what?"

"I can't stop thinking about Frenchie," she repeated and started to laugh.

This was when I realized she was in that half awake, half dream state.

"Okay, who's Frenchie," I said.

"Frenchie the Mustard Man," she said, now barely able to speak she was laughing so much.

I was laughing too, and the exchange turned into one of those things that is so absurd, that the laugh taps get stuck on full, and you are laughing until the tears are rolling down your cheeks and you can barely talk.

I managed to get out of her that it had something to do with French's mustard.

Just when we were finally settling down out of our guffawing, she said, "He wears a little hat."

"What kind of hat?" I responded.

"A little French hat." We were off again, killing ourselves laughing.

By now she was more awake, but we had the giggles for the next half hour when out of the blue one of us would mutter into the dark of the room, "I can't stop thinking about him. Frenchie...." And we'd laugh some more.

Who knows where these things come from, but it was the most we'd laughed since the septic tank fire.



I did the filters-with-ears coffee thing - I must say, Shorty McSparkface the Fun Little Collapsible Kettle had performed extremely well throughout this trip - and then I thought I'd have my room camping breakfast.

Let me preface this by saying I don't know What The Fuck I Was Thinking.

Ok, so I went into our cold-storage bag, with the ice in the bottom, and our food on top, carefully balanced and sealed up as best we could to last the night.

My wings came out just fine - in terms of them not having taken a bath in melted ice water. There they were in their styrofoam container.

Dead.

Cold.

"Who embalmed your wings overnight," the Quad Queen asked.

"Do I have to eat these?"

They looked awful.

But! I still had my delicious toasted Bacon, Lettuce and Tomato sandwich! I dug that out, put it on the table and opened it up.

Oh my. Oh my oh my.

It wasn't a sandwich anymore. Bread can't withstand 12 hours of being surrounded by lettuce (which is mostly water), tomato (which is mostly water), and water (which is mostly water).

No, this looked more like a poultice. I couldn't even pick it up, it was so mushy - but I suppose I could have treated a boil with it if I spooned it onto my ass cheek.

"Look."

"You gonna eat that?"

"I'm going to try the bacon."

"If you only eat the bacon - then you have to have some wings too, as penance."

Ruthless, I tell you, the woman doesn't have a single ruth in her anywhere.

Just to make matters worse, she got her pizza out, and of course it was in perfect shape to be a delicious breakfast.

"Can I have pizza?" I asked.

"Nope. You want pizza, you should have ordered your own."

I fished out the bacon and it was... cold, drenched, hard (surprisingly), and tasted like old, dead, leather bacon at the peak of dodginess.

Most of it got consumed and then I turned to the wings. I picked one up, tried to flex it - nope, winger mortis had already set in.

This had to be one of the worst breakfasts I've ever had. Room camping successfully is an art, and takes foresight, planning, and skills. Apparently I have none of these when it comes to takeout.

The consolation prize was a piece of leftover pizza. It was great, and hopefully the Quad Queen didn't notice it missing.

Mrs. F. wanted to luxuriate in a long Wynny bath, so I headed down to the casino to poke around.

Of course, I couldn't help but hope to replicate my Christmas morning blitz of wins - after a day like that, even though you know it's unlikely, it's always on your mind. And Willie Nelson's mind, possibly.

Big bucks came my way - fifteen of them on BEEEEEEFAAAAALLLLLLLO.

Yay.