As the year grinds to a close, Bettie and
Big Frank jet off to Las Vegas for the 39-4-Ever New Year’s Eve launch party
extravaganza.
Since swapping the whirling plums and
melons of Bazongas, the world’s largest nudist casino, for 39-4-Ever, the
world’s largest online casino for women who lie about their age, life has been
like a bad trip. But like thirty minutes on the circuit trainer to get a
month’s free gym membership, it’s totally great when you stop. That’s how I
ended the year back in the land of the palm tree and supersized portion. Mother
Nature’s tanning salon; sunny Las Vegas. Hubby #3 and moi are over here for
some annual jolly thinly disguised as a conference. I mean, any event that
doesn’t start until after lunch is hardly work, is it? Oh, and, of course, for
the illustrious launch of Big Frank’s get-rich-real-soon-now online cash cow site,
39-4-Ever.com. Bless his heart.
But the sinking feeling began as soon as I
arrived at the Convention Center and started searching for our stand. Three
hours and three million square feet of brushed nylon carpet squares later, I
finally found someone who didn’t think they worked for a higher authority and
learned that locating Booth 3685 was easy as it was right next to the john.
Cute. Still, though the pubescent guard was like the Dougie Howser of corporate
security, he was also so checking me out. And he must have liked what he saw as
when I headed off I heard him say, “What an ass” under his breath.
It was sundown when I arrived at the
gargantuan 39-4-Ever exhibition stand. You see, Hubby #3’s not too big on
subtle. Fighting my way through the sea of pavement signs, literature racks,
tinsel-wearing showgirls and a maze of elasticated queuing lanes that would
have looked a damn sight more impressive if there were any people actually
queuing in them, I found Big Frank just this side of his third coronary.
Apparently, he was stressing about the color of the fake silk backdrop, but
that was the least of his worries. I took one look and said, “Honey, the
color’s fine, but put one more tart on that stand and you could double for the
Bellagio breakfast bar.”
I didn’t stay long. Once the pony-tailed
punters started swarming, I escaped next door to the Puerto Rican Hairdressing
Convention and, three days later, rendezvoused back ready for the packing up.
Found Frank explaining to some tuxedoed chimp who’d broken the interface that
this was only the alpha version (that’s Latin for ‘doesn’t work,’ apparently.)
He also mentioned that in my absence I’d missed hordes of celebrities
absolutely fascinated by 39-4-Ever’s unique route to crippling debt.
“Like who?” I asked, reluctantly.
“You know, that woman who has the name of a
capital city and that hotel chain.”
“Prague Hyatt?” I guessed.
Still every cloud has a silver lining, as
I’d received a life-saving text from Wanda inviting me to celebrate the New
Year with her, Barbra, Uri and the Goombay Dance Band on a rice barge in
Vanuatu. Couldn’t find it in the atlas and to get there took four flights, but
sounded a damn sight more fun than joining Barry Gibb and his chums for
Celebrity Crab Catching in some Isle of Man rockpool.
Anything but dull Douglas, darling!
