By Michelle Railey
From August, 2015.
Dear drunken girl who fell down at the Linq in Vegas, requiring assistance from three security personnel: Don’t worry about it. I bet no one even noticed. And nice job not spilling your drink.
Dear Room C-2020 at Harrah’s : What was in that bag you left in the hallway overnight? It made the whole floor smell like dead skunk. I really hope it wasn’t that. Or any other dead thing. But I’m genuinely concerned that it was.
Dear Harrah’s buffet: You still owe me cotton candy. And I’m not going to forget it. (Update, 2020: I still have not forgotten it. I was robbed.)
Dear Mini Michael Jackson Impersonator outside the Bellagio: Yes, you are insanely talented and highly entertaining. But when you finish what had been an awesome act and then tell the crowd that they are the “cheapest crowd” you’ve ever seen and to “just keep your change,” then I think all ten years old of you should be sent to your room to think about how ungrateful you are. That trash talk isn’t sassy; it’s just rude.
Dear Three-Foot-Tall Darth Vader: you are awesome. Full stop.
Dear Booty Shorts: You and soiled granny panties should break up. I know it’s easy to fall for the wrong ones but, girlfriend, believe me, you can do better. Try Mr. Bikini or Mr. Commando. Either way. And Clean anything would be a classy step up.
Dear Luxor Window Cleaners: I saw you up there. That’s amazing, that cleaning the pyramid thing you do. I hope you’re insured and paid really, really well.
Dear Margaritaville restaurant: Why did your hallway by the restroom smell like sour dirty mop water? That hallway is right by the kitchens. Might I suggest replacing your mop heads?
Dear Lord of the Rings slot machines, all of you: Thanks for, literally, nothing. (Update 2020: try the Game of Thrones machines, specifically at Flamingo. They’re givers.)
Dear John at the Flamingo Poker Room Bar: Thanks for the Bloody Mary recipe. I think you called it on the beef bouillon plus horseradish combination. You’re the man. I’m looking you up next time I’m in town. (Also, thank you for the extra shot of vodka. Yes, I noticed.) (Update 2020: Sadly the tiny bar by the poker room is gone now.)
Dear Hash House a Go Go, Earl of Sandwich, and Wildflower Bread Company: Long distance love affairs are so difficult to manage and my affection for you (all) is so deep, so true, so madly, passionately real, that I feel I must ask you (yes, all three of you) to move to Indiana (or open franchises here) to satisfy my attachment, which I assure you is genuine and eternal. I can be true to all three of you if you will only give me the chance. I miss you. Please come. My dearests.
Dear Excalibur and Treasure Island: You both are in a big tie for a Major Award. Which of you will win the Grand Championship of Missed Opportunities? Keep (not) trying very hard and maybe you can be the champ.
Dear Bartender at Mandalay Bay and your Evil Twin at the Bellagio: Having a $20 minimum for comp drinks at the bar is no problem. Requiring max credit bets is also no problem. But you don’t have to make people feel badly when you’re reminding them. You work at higher-class places; your “guests” appreciate that you are not Slots-o-Fun and/or Circus Circus. Insulting a guest is low class and your environments, not to mention the actual living, breathing, actual humans who are spending their hard-earned money at your bar, deserve better. So, you know, be a person, would you?
Dear Not-Suitable-for Work Street Purveyor in bright yellow, handing out the stripper cards near Carnaval Court: I’m no expert but I’m pretty sure it’s not spelled “orgasim.” You might want to run spellcheck before you have that printed up on a t-shirt. (P.S. I saw that card you dropped on the ground. You know, there are kids walking around.)