Archive for the ‘Travel’ Category

Oh hi there, Dearest Daddy and my darling step-mommy!

Remember how I’m putting myself through college? Like, that whole thing where I have scholarships and loans in my name? And I’m paying for my own car and insurance and cell bill and credit card and basically have been financially independent from anyone for the last three years?

Yeah, that’s pretty cool, huh. ? And I know you’re all proud of me and stuff. But, um, here’s the thing: yeah, when you promise to send me money because I have a business trip to NYC and would like a little extra doff to buy you presents and, y’know…eat? Or when I’m strapped for cash one semester and I’d like a simple hundy to get me through a month? Or, hey, when my *tooth breaks* and I’d like to go to a dentist to get it fixed, but I have no dental insurance and no money to take care of it and you’re all, “Why, of course we’ll send you money so that you can get through a simple meal without wondering if food is going to get stuck in your giant, chipped tooth hole and become abcessed, leading to having to have the tooth pulled and a root canal which we know you can’t afford!”

Yeah, when you promise me all the stuff and then you don’t follow through? Guess what that makes you: lying liars who lie. Do me a favor. Don’t promise it to me if you don’t have it. If you say “we don’t have the extra cash right now” for the love of God, I’ll understand (until you spend $700 for the step-kiddles to go to junior and sophomore prom, which is a rant of a different color).

In conclusion: don’t be surprised if I don’t come home for Christmas because I can’t afford gas.

All my love!



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Hooray, TSA!

Perry, seasoned traveler



“What do you get when you cross a homeless man and a proctologist?” I joked in my head as the TSA guy summoned me through the metal detector with his blue latexed index finger. I am convinced that the goal of the September 11th attacks was not to kill Americans, but instead to have each of us spend an entire year of our life span waiting in airport security lines, praying to God that the metal detector doesn’t go off so we won’t have to play ‘Seven Minutes in Heaven’ in an airport supply closet. It went off once when I was traveling to Amsterdam with a friend, and I’ve never been the same since.


Since I don’t think he spoke English, the TSA guy directed me to the side and then made a motion to extend my arms out. I’ve heard that Italians make the best lovers, and in that case, they make the best security screeners as well. He smiled as he began to sexually assault me, rubbing my arms and torso like he was waxing a Ferrari. He grabbed my belt, gave it a firm tug, and then slid a finger behind it and went around my waistline. It tickled a bit, so I smiled and winked at my friend who was enjoying the show. Next came the slight foreplay of a little pat on the butt. Then, holding me in place by the belt with one hand, he stuck the other down my pants and shook hands with my penis.


Squirming with wild-eyes and mouth agape, I looked over at my friend and said with intermittent yelps, “HhhhOOOlllYYY SsshhhIIIItttT.” I didn’t know whether to turn and cough or put my hands on his head and seductively push him to his knees. As my friend laughed, the screener walked his fingers past my balls, paused to check me for drugs and three types of cancer, and then broke towards third. By this point I was on my tiptoes and making uncomfortable noises through my clenched teeth. He stopped, thank God, at my final frontier, where neither girl nor doctor has ever ventured. Thanks TSA, for protecting us from terrorists by looking for explosives hidden behind my balls. But for future reference, if you want to make it look more like a screening and less like a prison shower, search my shoes too.


Last week on the way back from a trip out West one of them actually unscrewed the shampoo in my luggage to make sure it wasn’t liquid explosives or whatever. By the time I got it, it looked like someone had jerked off a horse in my suitcase. I walk into the gym in my running shoes, which had been in the suitcase, and people look around wondering why it suddenly smells like candy. Next time I travel I’m bringing an unnecessary suitcase packed with rags and a shampoo bottle of my urine, and a note that says, “I bet you can’t smell the difference between shampoo and liquid explosives.”


Can someone explain why we even pay people to dig through other people’s bags? I’ve never found a more fitting job description for the homeless; that’s like, all they do. We could just pull up under the overpass in a van, grab a few, and tell them, “There’s half a chicken sandwich in one of these bags” and set them loose to treasure hunt through the luggage. You will never find a cheaper and more thorough workforce. And I guarantee you’re not going to catch them unscrewing any bottles of shampoo.

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Jeff, your friendly neighborhood dealer

One of the great myths about Las Vegas is that prostitution is legal here. Let me assure you, it’s not. That still doesn’t explain why you can let your fingers do the walking and order a hooker directly from the Yellow Pages. “Alright sir, I’ve got a large pepperoni and a blow job. Be about forty minutes.” They can be found under “Entertainers” in the phone book.

Of course they’re not listed as prostitutes. They are “Full Service Hostesses,” or “Exotic Dancers,” and my personal favorite, the ever popular “Strip-O-Gram.” Naturally I have never availed myself the services of any of these perpetrators of pleasure. I did however, meet two young ladies when they came south from Reno in search of employment. I had taken a break from dealing some years ago and drove a limo for about six months.

I picked up Jasmine and Rosebud at the airport after the Mustang Ranch was closed down due to some tax troubles. The girls were “laid off” as it were, and decided to come to Vegas to ply their trade. But these Ladies of the Evening, Morning, and Afternoon found they didn’t have enough ready cash for their own full page “spread” in the phone book so they took the low road. But they were high class. Instead of walking the Fremont Street corridor and enjoying the company of two dollar blackjack players at ten bucks a crack, they bathed themselves in the lights of Caesar’s Palace and The Mirage searching for the elusive five dollar high rollers.

After a few weeks of battling the competition and two arrests, the girls went into private practice by tacking a flyer to the bulletin board of a local YMCA. The girls began entertaining their clients in the back of my limo as I drove the streets and highways of Sin City, taking extra care to avoid all speed bumps, curbs, and Taco Bell drive-thru’s.

The hardest part of course, was trying to drive from the back seat.

Rantasaurus Says: It’s a brilliant idea. Two rides at the exact same time.

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Jeff, your friendly neighborhood dealer

Since there is no better place on earth for people watching than Las Vegas, this story will forever make you think twice about playing cards again…

It was 1998. I had been dealing about six years by that time and I thought I’d seen just about everything a person could do at a blackjack table, but I was wrong. I hadn’t yet met The Man…

I thought it was to be just another breezy desert spring evening in the City of Sin, but I was wrong. The girl playing on first base was celebrating her 21st birthday with her friend next to her. They were from a small Arizona town and I was having fun walking them through their first Las Vegas blackjack experience. Since it was a double deck game and not a six deck shoe, there is more procedure and etiquette involved and they were both affable and open to my expert instruction.

Sitting next to them was a young man from Orange County, California and like the girls, he was having fun and making my job decidedly easy. On the other side of the table on third base, playing the last two hands was The Man. He appeared to be about fifty years old, fat and gluttonous, with a crust of some kind of off-white powder on his shoulders. He either had a serious dandruff problem or they were crumbs from the sandwich he tried eating with his ears.

This man resembled Jack Klugman without the coroner’s smock and he reeked of stale bourbon and bad hot dogs. That’s when I realized just how drunk The Man was. He wasn’t holidng up the game so I didn’t think twice about it. The waitress still served him and he continued to slurp down his Wild Turkey and 7-Up’s. My grandfather used to drink those so I figured he must be alright.

A few minutes later the birthday girl spilled her beer. She felt terrible about it but I assured her that it was a very common thing to happen at a gaming table. She didn’t need to know that a wet blackjack table is one of my biggest pet peeves in all of life, and I cut her a break because she was so cute. Turns out her spill was the last thing I’d have to worry about.
After dealing around The Wet Spot for a few more hands I realized I could really smell The Man even more than before. When I looked over to investigate the origin of his new and improved stench I realized that his side of the table was also wet. But his glass was still about two thirds full of that golden elixir.

When I looked into his face, framed by a ten-gallon hat, the slow-motion horror of an auto accident began to course through my unbelieving frontal lobe. He couldn’t even hold a drink in his mouth as evidenced by the stinky dribble of that Kentucky concoction that was dripping over his unshaven chin. But what I was actually seeing was the final dregs of The Man’s stomach contents as he proudly displayed them for all to see and smell.

Rantasaurus Says: This story has all the elements I like. Hot chicks, gambling and old-guy puke.

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Jeff, your friendly neighborhood dealer

Please indulge me for a few minutes as I’m going to try and make your next trip to Las Vegas a much easier experience. I was born and raised in L.A. but I moved to Vegas in 1992 and became a casino dealer. I primarily deal 21, Roulette, and Pai Gow Poker. I also deal Let it Ride, Caribbean Stud Poker and 3 Card Poker.

In my fifteen years as a dealer I have grown weary of all the usual complaints from the average tourist – many of which are not the fault of the tourist. This is no accident on the part of casino management. Everything in Vegas…EVERYTHING IN VEGAS is designed for only one purpose…ONLY ONE PURPOSE – to take every dollar you have in your wallet, your bank account, your kids’ college fund, you house payment, car payment and whatever you have hidden in that coffee can in your closet.

This may sound redundant since most people already realize this, but
do you realize to what degree the House (the casino) goes to guarantee their win?

In this informative and hopefully enjoyable multi-part Rantasaurus Mini-Series I will do my best to dispel all the usual myths, misconceptions, and legends that surround Las Vegas gaming, due in part to movies, television, and those “Professional Gamblers” the Travel Channel hires to bullshit you.

As I do it, please be advised of one thing: Whether or not you (or I) think it’s a question of right or wrong, good or bad, fair or unfair, you must understand that casino management doesn’t care what you or I think – it’s simply THE WAY IT WORKS IN LAS VEGAS.

The rules and procedures are in stone and there is no grey area, as this is the most “Black and White” place you will ever see. There are winners and there are losers, period. The casino concerns itself with NOTHING ELSE. The sooner people realize this, the happier you’ll be when you’re walking the length of The Strip in the middle of August when it’s 118 degrees in the shade weeping about their upcoming home foreclosure…

My first two points reference a lack of customer service in Vegas. If you are the kind of person who enjoys Top Drawer Customer Service on your vacations, and you are the typical hard working member of the “Working Class” who lives on a budget without money to burn, do not come to Las Vegas because you will be kicked in the teeth. In Vegas you are not a customer. You are not a guest. You are player, a gambler, a MARK.

After you make that long, boring drive on Friday night and you walk into a busy casino expecting the staff to be at your beck and call, you have watched too many re-runs of The Love Boat. A casino is not a cruise ship nor is it that all inclusive resort you stayed at in Cabo last year – and it’s certainly not Fantasy Island where there is “Smiles everyone, smiles!”

1) Customer service here will not find you – you will have to search it out because there are fifty thousand other people trying to accomplish the very same thing at exactly the same time. For every ten frowns you will find a smile. Ask that employee what his/her schedule is and stick with them.

Ever since Corporate America invaded Las Vegas, the typical casino staff has been cut down to a minimum and this is the number one reason why you WILL WAIT. Many employees are on the “Extra Board” which means it’s possible they work six day weeks, back to back. People tend to get tired and cranky as they’re working twelve straight days.

2) Just because the cocktail waitresses wear those tight, revealing, sexy outfits it doesn’t mean they are whores, strippers or will provide you with a lap dance. In many cases they are hard working parents with kids to feed just like you and they don’t appreciate inappropriate comments, mindless come-on’s or a well placed pinch. If you plan on parking yourself at a gaming table or a slot/video poker machine and will be ordering drinks, keep one very important thing in mind: YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY PERSON DRINKING.

When a single waitress is handling one whole side of the pit or an entire section of machines, YOU WILL WAIT. After taking fifty drink orders she will then battle her way through the crowd to the service bar. She will wait behind the five other girls ahead of her while the ONE BARTENDER fills everyone’s orders. After you have been waiting twenty thirsty minutes do not ask the dealer “WHERE THE HELL IS THAT FREAKIN’ WAITRESS??” because you will not like the answer. Unless she is a mean spirited bitch, it means she is waiting for your drink to be made among the other two hundred.

In upcoming rants, I will address gambling procedures, tipping etiquette, card counting, shuffle tracking, myths about Nevada law and other important things you need to know about Vegas. Don’t be shy – feel free to leave any comments you want and ask any questions you have. I will be honest and very candid with my answers. I feel very strongly about this because I’ve seen too many people have a very bad time in Las Vegas.

Rantasaurus Says: Now, I’m not one to argue but… but… can’t I just give that waitress one little pinch? For good luck? I hear it’s all about luck in Vegas.

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Dear Obnoxious Drunken Tourists,

Thank you for visiting my fair city. I appreciate the money you’re spending here. Here’s a few ground rules to help you not incur my wrath (and the wrath of others who live here)?

  1. Please do not pee/spit/crap/eliminate other bodily fluids on the street or on residents’ porches. When I’m walking down the street and I have to step around your giant loogie, or watch you on the corner urinating on someone’s porch, it makes me angry.
  2. Yes, you’re in New Orleans. Yes, it is awesome. Please stop screaming and “WOOO”ing at the top of your lungs in a residential neighborhood at 3 in the morning. People do live in the French Quarter, and they are sleeping. This is an effective way to catch a faceful of plant from the person who has a shrubbery on a second floor balcony.
  3. Heterosexual men: Please do not assume that every woman on the street wants those cheap-ass beads hanging from your neck. Some of us are from here and could really care less about a 3 dollar set of beads. Also, just because a girl will not show you her boobs does not make her a “big fat d*ke”.
  4. Women: You wouldn’t have to explain to your kids/parents/husbands/girlfriends why you’re on the Girls Gone Wild commercial if you didn’t flash your stuff. We know you want those beads around that dude’s neck so you could prove that you were on Bourbon Street, but how’s about buying a postcard or decorative plate instead? By the way, I suggest you not show the lower ladybits (or manbits) unless you want a one-way ticket to the closest jail cell.
  5. Religious fanatics: We understand that you are here to spread the word of whatever deity you worship. That’s fine. However, please refrain from chasing people down the street, grabbing at their clothes, and screaming about how they’re going to burn in hell for all eternity because they’re in New Orleans. I don’t see you screaming that at the people who go to church on Sunday mornings, and they’re in New Orleans too. Oh, and as for that “God Hates F*gs” preacher guy? You’re not allowed here ever again.

If you stick to these rules, we’ll get along a lot better. If not, we’ll just have to come to your town and pee in your plants, scream at the tops of our lungs at 4 in the morning, harass people walking down the street, show our naughty bits to random passerby, and smack people over the heads with giant wooden crosses and assorted Chick Tracts.


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Tiffany, pleased to serve you some whoop-ass

I am a weather woman. I am to know the weather: how much it’s going to rain/sleet/snow, etc. I am to know the temperature at any given moment, and I am to know if it’s going to warm up or cool down. I am also to know the average percipitation for this area during all seasons. If I don’t, I’m not helpful enough. If I do, you’ll tell me I’m wrong and that you heard it differently on the news.

I am an atlas. I am supposed to know the exact mileage from here to Knoxville, TN and exactly how long it will take to get there. I should also know every single hotel between here and Indianapolis, how much they charge, and if they have an indoor pool.

I am to know the phone number and location to every Days Inn in the entire world. Nevermind the fact that we have an 800 # specifically for that purpose. I should also be able to make a reservation at any one of those hotels through our computer, even though our computers aren’t linked in any way. Yes, I can make your reservation with out knowing your name, address or credit card information.

I have control over ever fiber of this hotel. From the air conditioners to the telephones. If it breaks, not only is it my fault, I did it on purpose. I have absolutely no problem giving you a discount because someone coughed at 2 am and woke you up. How dare I put you in a room close to other people.

The check out time of 11:00 am is really only for show. You can check out whenever you want. The maids don’t have to clean that room and get it ready for someone who might be checking in at 3:00. We’ll lose revenue for that room too, but it’s okay. You are special and you can do whatever you want. Yes, you can have 10 pillows. Yes, you can eat breakfast at 10 even though it ends at 9:00. And yes, we’ll move furniture/appliances from other rooms to your room at midnight because you want to microwave a burrito.

I will be at your beck and call 24 hours a day. I am your personal secretary, as well. I will take messages, send and recieve faxes, and make you 900 copies all at no charge. And no, I don’t mind watching your kid while you make a phone call. Because that’s what I get paid for, right?

The bottom line? Most travelers are rude, inconsiderate idiots. I’ve lost track of how many people have mistaken our hotel for the Ramada, even though we have a HUGE sign in front of the building stating otherwise. I can’t tell you how many times someone has asked me what state they are in or what interestate they should take to get to Michigan. Didn’t you bring a map? It worries me that the roads are filled with drivers who have no clue of where they’re at. There are signs that tell you these things, you know.

My advice? Get a clue, bring a map, and remember that you’re not at the Hilton. Also, please stop flushing your used condoms, food, clothes and keys down our toilets. Act like a human being. Thanks.

Rantasaurus Says: If I can’t have my seventeen pillows and my breakfast ready at 10 pm and every daily newspaper from here to Peking, I am not staying at your hotel, Miss, and wipe that weatherwoman grin off your face.

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