As y’all know, I normally submit my bi-monthly report of my obscure observations of our existence on this celestial orb as I am perched high (or at least tipsy) upon the Crow’s Nest. Sometimes, I lower myself and sit on a sandy beach to observe the world at sea level. But today, as I have done on rare occasions, my report comes from a land far, far away from my little slice of Heaven. Today my view is a bit hazy from the cigarette smoke wafting among the neon lights of a Las Vegas casino, but my mind is clear as a bell. Okay, maybe not all that clear since scantily dressed gals keep bringing me free drinks as I shove money into their slot machines.
Some of y’all might’ve visited Vegas before, so what I’m fixin’ to report won’t be anything new. But for y’all who have never been to Sin City, allow me to give you the lowdown on Las Vegas, stuff that you sure won’t read on any travel brochure. First of all, y’all have heard the saying “hotter’n hell” especially if you’ve lived a few summers in Texas. Well, if you were to visit Vegas in July, you’ll find out why Satan never travels here in the summer months. Much too hot for ol’ Lucifer to be looking for souls out on the Strip. He’d rather be in the air-conditioned halls of Congress this summer.
How hot is it here in Las Vegas? It’s so hot, I had melted ear wax dripping down my neck. It is so dang hot, when I pulled out a dollar to tip a street performer, I saw beads of sweat running down George Washington’s forehead. They say it’s a dry heat here in the desert, unlike the heat and humidity we have in Texas. At least in Texas, we have shade trees, an occasional breeze and a cooler of iced-down beer.
Something else I’ve observed here in Vegas is the rather large number of international tourists. All the talk of travel bans and immigration control doesn’t mean diddly to the state of Nevada. As long as tourists spend lots of money in their city, the folks in Vegas don’t care who drops in. I saw folks from all over the world walking around on the Strip. People from Asia, South America and the Middle East were hurrying along the sidewalks, chatting in their native tongue on how America is hotter’n hell, I reckon. I don’t recall seeing any Russians, but I hear they have a deal at the Trump International Hotel where you get a complimentary bottle of Smirnoff if you stay there.
According to the 2017 Las Vegas Visitor Profile, 84% of tourists that year were American citizens and only 16% were foreign. I would’ve thought it would be closer to 50-50, especially those dining at the buffet. I’m hearing so many foreign languages and strange accents around me, it’s like I’m calling Samsung’s tech support.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Las Vegas is a great place to visit as long as you don’t mind losing all your money, clogging up your colon by eating 12 pounds of bacon every morning, and having to buy new shoes because your old Nikes melted somewhere between Caesar’s and Bellagio. Personally, I’d rather spend my vacation back home in Texas. Sure it’s hot and humid there, but at least I speak the language.
Clint Younts speaks the local language, sort of. It comes with a drawl that lets you know he is from the Lone Star State.