Monday, July 10, 2006

Hit me again.

I was in Las Vegas again this past weekend.

Everything in Las Vegas is a gamble.

Even dinner.

We ate at a very fancy schmancy restaurant inside our hotel.

Eduardo was our waiter.

He was from the Bronx.

I know he was from the Bronx because it said “Bronx, NY” on his name tag.

Everyone working there had a nametag with their “hometown” on it.

I was surprised none of the nametags said Mexico City on them.

In fancy restaurants it’s important to know where your waiter is from. You never see a hometown on a nametag at Burger King or Wendy’s.

Eduardo had a French accent.



From the Bronx?

“What do you recommend Eduardo.”

“Ah yes well Messiuer, ah tink You wud be vedy hoppy wit de lobster tail.”

“Really? How happy would I be?”

“Vedy vedy hoppy messiuer.”

“Well then Eduardo it seems I have no choice. Lobster tail it is. No butter though, I'm dieting.”

“Und por you madam?”

“I think I’ll have the filet mignon, medium rare.”

“Vedy gud choice madam.”

My wife’s filet came with mashed potatoes and vegetables.

My lobster tail arrived with some type of weed as a decoration on the plate.

That’s how you know you’re in a really fancy restaurant, when the only thing on your plate other than your lobster tail is some type of weed.

I felt bad for this lobster.

I think he had spina bifida.

His tail was very small.

He was probably an orphan.

He was a four bite lobster.

I contemplated eating the weed.

“So how ees eberyting messiuer? Deed you sabe rume for dezurt?”

“Oh I couldn’t Eduardo, I’m stuffed.

My wife whispering, (Smartass.)

“Vedy gud messiuer. Wud eeder of you lak an Ezpressso or a cap of café?”

“No tanks. I mean no thanks Eduardo.”

Eduardo “bowed” and presented us with the check and I immediately noticed that the total of the bill was the same amount as my wife’s car payment.

I knew that lobster was going to cost me because it had “MP” or “Market Price” next to it on the menu.

What I didn’t know was Eduardo and I apparently didn’t shop at the same market.

I think my lobster was hand raised in the Himalayas by seventy two virgins. He was run over by an Amish woman on a bicycle and then flown to John Hopkins Memorial First Class on British Airways where they preformed emergency surgery to remove his tail, apparently without medical insurance.


For $85 dollars someone should have been…………… while I was eating that lobster.

Use your imagination.

This is a clean blog.

I really had no one to blame but myself.

I hate it when that happens.

But what I hated more was that I was still hungry.

My wife never said anything. She knew that I knew that I was an idiot. It's what we call a "given".

As we left the restaurant and walked through the Casino the slot machines going off sounded like that song on the ice cream truck.

“I think I need two or three ice cream sandwiches or something. I feel weak.”

“You can have fruit.”

“Orange sherbet is kind of a fruit.”

“Forget it.”

“Then can I borrow $20 dollars?”

“Why do you need $20 dollars?"

“I want to win back my lobster.”