I recently made a foray into the surprisingly small, incredibly noisy, sleazy, tacky, fake, downright disturbing urban jungle that is Las Vegas. Obviously, Vegas is a city where if you avoid the casinos, you sit in your hotel room with your thumb up your ass, so I spent a lot of time in said casinos. But something in the air, possibly all the sleaze, made my trousers heavy from almost the moment I set foot in the airport. Here is Shitter’s Full’s exlusive report on the state of Las Vegas casino bathrooms, in the order in which I visited them:
A casino built on aping everything Venice, from the copy of the Rialto Bridge outside to a really fucking short canal with 10-20 second gondola rides. The bathrooms are nice and clean, with auto-flushes that actually wait until you’ve lifted off to flush. I notice a weird saloon-style door theme on the stalls, which doesn’t make any sense. The automatic soap dispenser doesn’t work. I am impressed by the very authentic fog of nicotine and broken dreams permeating the air. First casino visit is a wash.
A casino built on aping everything piratey, I think. I don’t know, I pretty much sprinted in and out of this casino because of the bizarre vibe I was getting from just about everything in the place: people, games, SLOT MACHINE NAZIS WHO ID FUCKING EVERYBODY. The bathroom here was identical to the Venetian, right down to the soap dispenser not working and the broken dreams. Disheartening, to say the least. On the upside, my shits have been splendid so far. Good form, release, little to no downtime.
Oh yes. I have been looking forward to pinching a loaf here. Before what would be a spectacular Cirque du Soleil performance (“O”), I find myself squatting on a Bellagio toilet. I’m a little disconcerted with the repeated use of the saloon-door, but I put it out of my mind. As ass cheek met was probably porcelain but I pretended was marble, I felt like I had made it to the big time. This feeling lasted all of eight to 10 seconds when the auto flusher got my butt all wet before I’d had a chance to settle in. Momentary setback aside, I attempt to concentrate. Eight to 10 seconds later, it happens again. I leave in a huff without shitting. On my way out I get into a three-man pileup with some Asian guy (of which there are fucking billions of in this town) and some stuck up white dude with slicked back hair wearing a really ugly golf shirt (ditt0). “Watch it dickface,” the whitey spits at me after we part. I fail to respond for several reasons. First, I’m a pussy. Second, I’m busy trying to remember the last time someone called me “dickface.” Probably second grade or so. All I can do is give the guy a confused cock-eyed look as walks back to his room, filled, undoubtedly, with cheap hookers and erectile dysfunction.
This was an unscheduled stop, but one that came through in a tremendous way. I’ll try not to pontificate, but this place was pretty great. The bathroom had a nice little aroma that I couldn’t quite place, and the doors to the stall were, finally, not those moronic saloon-things. High quality toilet-paper, in combination with a solid shit leave me feeling good inside. Also, the PA system was playing a pretty kick-ass cover of “Tainted Love.” I was also thoroughly impressed with the mammoth aquarium behind the reception desk, and a buffet lunch that included crab legs AND chili.
I caught an ice show here, confusingly titled “Ice.” “Straight from Russia!” they claimed, and sure enough, the women were stunning and the men looked like apes. Russians, if you would have the show’s musical selection convince you, deeply enjoy P-Funk and Dark Side of the Moon. The bathroom was equally confusing, requiring a trip upstairs (I don’t go to the bathroom for exercise you pricks) and the manual pulling of towel from the dispenser. What a fucking dump.
Why do I keep ending up in these after-market casinos? I’m here seeing a magic show by some douchebag named “Dirk Arthur.” I’m seated with a family of four, three women and one heaping tub of man. He claims two of the women to his right are granddaughters, while the other is his daughter. They don’t identify which is which, and frankly two of them look like they could be his wife. The third is named “LaVonda” or something. They were white and from Cincinnati. And what the fuck kind of name is “Dirk?” Christ, this town. I leave an unholy mess in the bathroom, which was pretty neat and clean before I came in.
A casino built on aping everything Egyptian, so I was surprised to find pictures of mid-20th century movie stars adorning the walls behind each toilet. Mine had Frank Sinatra on it. Definitely the classiest toilet I shat on the whole trip. There was even a bathroom attendant, but I didn’t tip him.
Disappointingly standard bathroom, it reminds me of my off-the-Strip hotel. I did enjoy the calming sounds of snakes, apes, and tigers roaring in my ears as I squat. The jungle theme definitely helped scare the shit out of me (get it?!?!).
So, in summation, many of the casinos adorning the Strip have below par facilities. I didn’t visit a couple of higher end casinos, Caesar’s Palace being an unfortunate miss on the trip (olive wreathes and sex slaves in the bathrooms?), but no one is perfect. Until next time.