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Before I begin, I want to make
a plea to the American public – please, please, please
stop saying “Vegas, baby.” Seriously. Knock it off.
It doesn’t work if you’re not wearing a tuxedo,
a ruffled shirt and an onyx pinkie ring. OK, it doesn’t
really work then, either but I’ll let it slide because
if you are a tuxedo wearing ruffled shirt guy you need this
line to keep from slashing your own throat. Am I making myself
clear?
My next tip is for the ladies. Girls, unless you are stick
thin with a rocking body and your own set of custom made pasties,
please stay out of the way of reality TV cameras even if they
are at a crappy place like The Golden Nugget Casino in Las
Vegas and you think no one will see you. We will indeed see
you and we are not interested in watching your skanky, ass-cleavage-showing-J.
Lo wanna-be-selves unless you’re really drunk and grinding
on the knee of a man screaming, “Woo Hoo!" If you
aren’t acting whorish, stay out of the shot.
As you can guess, “The Casino," Fox’s reality
program about a couple of numb nuts who blew $34 million dollars
on a has-been casino in Las Vegas, is chock full of this crap
– and more. Much, much more. After being granted their
Las Vegas gaming license, Tweedle Tim and Tweedle Tom (aforementioned
numb nuts and new Golden Nugget owners) toasted their success
with champagne and then they proceeded to make themselves
look like tremendous dumbasses.
Their first disaster was an ill planned, frat boy extravaganza
featuring a hopelessly average looking guy named Rob, who
was obviously under the misguided impression he was going
to get laid at some point in the evening which is why (I’m
assuming) he allowed his Neanderthal friends to put him through
several hours of humiliation and abject terror at the hands
of a gaggle of the nastiest looking chicks I have ever seen
assembled in one place. It was like a Miss Skanky America
pageant.
Of course, Rob never got laid. But don’t feel too bad
for him. After all, he was lucky enough to get snubbed by
every other tattooed broad in that room – and he did
it on national television! His parents must be so proud! And
I’m sure his sex life has really picked up since then.
Either way, the guy is a huge loser. I suppose this drunken
date rape fest was designed to make Vegas look outrageous
and fun, you know, the whole “What happens in Vegas stays
in Vegas” vibe. But in reality it just looked staged
and desperate – and a little sticky. Not a good combination.
I’ve been watching this show since it first aired in
June, waiting for one of these guys to unleash his inner George
Clooney and dazzle me with his cool Vegas-ness. Much to my
dismay, I’m getting much more “Beavis and Butthead”
than I am “Ocean’s Eleven” and quite frankly,
it’s pissing me off. Even their lounge act is a pussy.
When someone pisses him off he’s all, “yes, sir
… no, sir” and then BAM, he weasels his way over
to the interview camera when no one’s looking and badmouths
whoever’s pissed him off. I suppose his delicate bone
structure precludes him from face to face confrontation lest
it turn violent. Either that or he doesn’t want to mess
up his perfectly coifed hair. Hairspray costs money, you know?
Las Vegas has got to be pretty upset with Fox right about
now. Instead of making the place look glittery and decadent,
this show paints a very different picture of Sin City. Suddenly
we’re reminded that it’s not just high rollers and
big boobed hot chicks out there; there are a lot of geeky
virgins and poor people, too. Somehow this doesn’t make
Las Vegas sound like the most desirable vacation destination.
What they need is some kind of catch phrase – something
to make the town cool again. Like a throwback kind of thing,
hip and cool and really easy to remember. Something that a
tuxedo wearing ruffled shirt guy would say in the 1960’s
when the bras were shaped like bullets and the cufflinks only
came off during an all night winning streak. Something a guy
like that would say during a swinging time when all the broads
had nice teeth, false eyelashes and no last names.
The next time I see a guy like that, I’ll ask him.
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Above:
Hot, rich egomaniac producer Mark Burnett
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