Last night I sauntered into "Encore" on the Vegas strip after capturing a few picturesque video clips of the Gondoliers on the canals at the Venetian (check out my YouTube site for exclusive videos).
A short gambling streak later, a handful of us slot-players thought we would just die of thirst!
Without a waitress in sight, and suffering from a nasty bout of parched mouth, we were scheming to call out to a bootlegger for some demon rum since the house was obviously dry.
A gander around the room signalled the obvious.
Old money bags, Steve Wynn, was obviously keen on holding onto his loot!
Or, too budget-minded (mean) to employ another server to lend a hand to the two over-worked bimbo babes who were struggling to keep up with frenzied requests on the Casino floor.
Just maybe, the multi-milliionaire is a cheap-skate when it comes to "watering-down" his paying guests.
I just read in the morning newspaper (in "Norm's" column, if I am not mistaken) that Wynn has his much-coddled puppies chauffeured around in a pricey limousine (worth half-a-million bucks).
Looks like all the moolah he's raking in at the Hotel & Casino (off the backs of gamblers like toi & moi) is being pressed into the sweaty palms of handlers for dog upkeep and canine pampering.
Maybe it's time we cut up our blood red Player's cards and slouched off to an establishment that appreciates our biz, eh?
Maybe then, the liquor will flow freely!
I got to thinking today, though, that there is a solution to the problem.
Since Steve loves doggies so much, maybe he should spring for a couple of St. Bernards - and likewise - strag a keg of beer or two around their furry necks.
Whenever a patron cries out for a drinkie-pooh for medicinal purposes, at least, the winsome Wynn just has to send in the dogs (and a clown or two from his management team) to facilitate a life-saving chug-a-lug or two.
As I headed out the much-foliaged front doors, I couldn't help but also notice that Wynn is making a killin' elsewhere on the prmieses, too.
Golly, the letch with a penchant for bimbo babes, is also charging guests ten smackeroos ($10.00) to take a gander at parked Ferraris on the lobby floor in a fancy-schmanzy showroom a hop-and-a-skip away from the Casino floor.
I guess I'm jaded 'cause I would'nt be caught dead forking over one thin dime for the privilege.
I ain't no wide-eyed kid, with his nose pressed up against the glass of the candy-store window, after all.
Ferrari's are a dime-a-dozen in Beverly Hills, Steve-o!
You're not really part of the tony elite in BH or Bel Air 'til a Ferrari hangs a sharp turn on squealing wheels and annoints your leg with a spray of run-off designer water the locals use to perpetrate the green on their well-manicured front lawns.
By the way, I couldn't help but notice that at - "Blush" (the Nightclub boutique) - a crush of of young trendies began to queue along a bank of the spanking-new slots as the withcing hour approached.
Just beyond that permieter, natch, Wynn's security gooks in goon suits, were eyeing up a handful of dubious characters to shadow as the bustling eve wore on.
Judging from the smug looks on their mugs, I expect the whole posse of 'em thought they were being remarkably discreet.
On the contrary, they exhibited all the subtlety of a herd of pink elephants in heat!
Losers, one and all.
Ironic, in a gambling hall, don't 'ya think?