Off to Sin City for a weekend with the girls. Okay, the ladies. All of whom are married with kids except for me. Why do I envision that they are going to get butt-wild, starting with drinks on the plane, and I'm going to be the one trying to rein everybody in? Eh, screw it. It's Vegas, baby!
Oh, and pretty much everything in my suitcase looks like something Michael Jackson would wear. Hell - if you can't wear sequins in Vegas (in the daytime), when CAN you.
Here's hoping I win big in the nickel slots - mama needs a new pair of shoes! Actually, mama owes a redonkulous amount to the IRS (screwed up on the ol' tax returns - damn you, Uncle Sam), so maybe a little luck will come my way. Or at least a wealthy high roller who wants to treat us to dinner. Again, screw it. It's Vegas, baby!!
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