from surfermag.com I thought it was quite funny...

"Ah yeah.

Time: Sunday, March 26, 10:32 AM
Place: Tropicana Casino, near the coffee bar.

The day started like any other day. I was jerked awake from a glorious dream of sugarplums, puppy dogs chasing their tails, and 11 year old asian boys jello wrestling to the sound of what could only have been the siren sound of the apocolypse in full sway. Gabriel was a blowin' that trumpet in my ear like Louis Armstrong after a night of binging on pixie sticks, tab and dexatrim. A quick glance around the room revelead that I was not sleeping cozy and comfy in my bed with my pet llama Maurice as would be my custom on a cool crisp Saturday night, but rather I was in a Quality Inn hotel room. WTF?

Reality set in that the world was not coming to and end when I spied my cell phone on the nightstand and begrudgingly realized that the angelic trumpet that ripped me from my slumber was in fact some jackass thinking that calling me at some gawdawful hour would be met with a chipper attitude and a sunny disposition. "5:30?!!! 5:30?!!! Oh you motherfuckers!!!"

I reached for the phone and flipped it open as if to show the phone who was really in charge here and barked, "WHAT?!!!". The phone was not impressed and neither was the voice eminating from its teensie little speaker.

"Did i wake you?" a female voice said in a matter of fact manner laced with a heavy helping of SouthEast Texas with a side of Chicago. Syrupy sweet and slow as molasses twang thrown into a blender with a polska kielbasa, a cigar, and a heavy set african american woman singing "Sweet Home Chicago" set to puree and spun spun spun for two minutes and 37 seconds. The voice resonated in my just then cobweb clearing head like a gong being hit by Jamie Farr after The Unknown Comic and Gene Gene the Dancing Machine performed the "Stella" scene in "A Streetcar Named Desire" naked, on acid, and extremely flatulent to a horrified audience and a a semi-erect Chuck Bariss. Naturally, it could have meant only one thing ... I was in Beaver, UT.

The helpful lass on the phone informed me that she was in fact my wakeup call. The one I had requested when i checked into the palacial digs that embody each and every Quality Inn from Tecate to Tuscaloosa.

"Ummm ... What the hell are you talking about lady? I never requested a wakeup call! It's five ***** thirty in the morning!" I railed at the unsuspecting walking alarm clock with two x chromosomes.

"Ohmaheck. I'm sorry sir. I got the wrong room. I was supposed to call room 232."

"Well. This isn't room 232 darlin'. It's 223. One word for you ... dyslexia. Look into it."

"Dyswhatia? Oh. I'm so sorry. <Click>"

Well now i was wide awake and just a tad bit perturbed. No way sleep and that glorious dream would ever find me again. Not without a cub scout troop from Korea town parading through my room at least and that hadn't happened since the glorious winter of 2002.

"Motherfuckers!!! Fine. I'm awake now. I'm getting the hell outta this town and on the road before I take hostages."

I pack my bag, drop the key off at the desk with a glare and a huff, hop into my truck and head Southbound on I-15 towards home. The sun just poked its head over the southern Wasatch mountain range to give me a little wink and then swiftly ducked back under its cumulo nimbus comforter. The towns passed rather quickly. Cedar City. The red sandstone cliffs of St. George. The cheesy border town of Mesquite, Nevada beckoning travelers to sample the $5.95 prime rib dinner and attempting to persuade all that enter that it is every bit as Vegas as Las Vegas itself. Ahhh. Good times.

I rolled into Las Vegas at 9:30 AM and promptly parked on level 3 of the MGM grand parking structure. My initial motivation was, what else at 9:30 AM on a Sunday, coffee. I knew right where the Starbucks was located on the casino floor and made a beeline for the Great Provider of all things caffeine. As I winded my way through the maze of flashing, pinging, clinking and clanking machines, I was struck by the scene that was layed out in front of me. The entire casino was hungover. I could see it in their eyes. In their faces. In the overladen tray of bloody mary's and greyhounds that Phillis the cocktail waitress struggled to keep upright as she ran the gauntlet of catcalls and butt pinches from the Sigma Epsilon frat boys at the craps table. I was sober. It was horrible.

I make my way to the Starbucks counter only to find it shut up tighter than the puckering rectum of pimply faced teenaged male thrown onto stage with the white lions, tigers and Siegfried and Roy rolling on X. Drat! Foiled again. My next option was the little coffee bar across the street at the Tropicana hotel. I make my way past the newly renovated sports book, interrupt not one but two asian couples taking touristy pictures in front of the Rainforest Cafe, up the escalator, and out into daylight. Across the bridge and down toward the tropicana. I made my way into the old vegas decor of the Tropicana and head to the back right where i remembered a coffe bar being located.

Then it happened. A middle-aged dwarf about belly-button high with gel-spiked black hair and lambchop side burns weighing in at easily 250 pounds and sporting a green Larry Bird jersey weebled and wobbled his way towards me. I was giddy with excitement. This was it. Finally. I wasn't gonna puss out this time like I had during my other two failed opportunities. I went in for the touch.

Now i didn't just go for the casual barely noticeable touch this time. No way Jose. I walked right up to the little guy, stopped him in his tracks, and reached down to give him a bear hug and lift him off the ground. The bear hug part went pretty well. I got my dwarf-touch and was ecstatic. The lifting off the ground part on the other hand ... Holy Crap he must have either been made of lead or that leprechaun was carrying his entire pot o' gold with him in his magically delicious undies. I tried in vain to lift him off of the ground not once, not twice, but three times. I don't think he was amused at the process as the next thing i remember was the exploding pain of a hobbitesque fist colliding with my dingly danglies. My bear hug death grip on my new oompa loompa friend went limp and I collapsed to the floor in the fetal position with one hand on my crotch and the thumb of my other hand in my mouth sucking like a hungry newborn.

I was banned from The Tropicana faster than Bassy ... err ... Scott Bass banning a profanity-riddled CWB troll. (surfermag)"