Her drivers' license is with some friends at Bellagio, she reports. She pulls a t-shirt out of her suitcase, which is on the bed, and when she tells me what is on the t-shirt I am ready to declare this whole episode code four when she throws the t-shirt aside and pulls up the front of her dress.
The front of her thong is brown with white polka dots. Then, in a move so brilliant it would've had Reid and Malloy literally and figuratively sporting wood from here to Reno, she pulls the matching bra out of the suitcase!
I am not making that up! I probably should've made her put the bra on to make sure it fit, but simply having the matching bra was enough for me. I told her she was brilliant, declared the first graduate of the Gaylon School of Identification, and left.
Antonio, who works the grill in the EDR, is starting to get on my nerves. When he makes pancakes he only uses two squirts out of the batter dispenser. This results in a small pancake. Not dollar size, but small enough so that two are not really sufficient for a growing boy like me.
So I ask him to make me two pancakes, specifying three squirts instead of two. This is better because 1) two hotcakes are easier to butter than three hotcakes; and 2) because butter in the EDR comes in those little pats which are hard as a rock because they're chilled at absolute zero, which, now that I think about it, also annoys me.
Antonio is also going to hell because I do not like the way he makes sandwiches. The sandwich itself is tasty, and he always puts enough mayonnaise on, which mitigates my annoyance somewhat, but when he puts it on your plate he always leaves his goddamn thumb prints on the top. And there in they're pretty deep, too.
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After a tough noise complaint, Lee and I retired to the nearby 24th floor maid's room to unwind. Lee has the latest issue of Maxim magazine with him and we took a quiz designed to tell us how much of a man we are. There were 50 questions and your score was based on how many you answered yes. 1-17 and you were Charles effing Bronson, 18-35 and you were Tom Hanks and anything over 35 and you were Doug Christie, whoever the hell that is. Neither Lee or I had a clue, which probably means we're pretty manly to begin with.
We both got 14, so we're both real men, goddammit, at least according to Maxim magazine, which should know because they always have babes on their covers. We shared yes answers on ten questions, and we both answered yes to four on our own. We were pleased with our score because it fell squarely in the Charles Bronson range, but it was close enough to the Tom Hanks demarcation to show we're sorta sensitive.
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