The Prince and the Showgirl
The night before, Frog Prince informs me he has to work the morning of Thanksgiving so I should be ready to leave his house around eight thirty.

I am person who trades in specificity. You tell me 8:30, I'm going to be ready to leave your house at 8:12. Also, I can not handle lateness nor do I want to make my oh so charming host late for what I assume would be the one of the slowest days of gambling. I get up at seven so I have lots of time to soak in a relaxing bath of Wicked. I figure since its Thanksgiving I can't go all the way with my Vegas chic, so I simply put on one of my tunic tops from Paris, a pair of jeans, and a light dusting of golddigger powder from Tarte.

I lay on the couch, sans food or coffee, reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas until nine, when the Frog Prince yells to me from the stairs, "I'll be ready to leave in about half an hour."

When we arrive at Texas Station, he heads off to whatever casino crisis, while I head to Fatburger* for breakfast. I'm surprised how many people are here, not only at ten in the morning, but at ten in the morning on Thanksgiving. My family had always led to me believe that if you spent your holiday time in any other pursuit than repressing homicidal rages directed at those sharing the most of your DNA sequence while attempting to cook, you would immediately be directed into the ninth concentric circle of Dante's Inferno.

I'm finishing my burger and contemplating getting an Illusion from the Martini Ranch, which is open, when Woman of the Year and Daddy Warbucks calls from the airport. They are both so drunk, as I expected, that I can't understand either of them. I tell them we are on our way and call the Frog Prince.

At passenger pick-up, we can't spot them. "How hard can it be?" I say "We just have to find two people so drunk they are propping each other up." Sure enough, the crowd clears, and there they are leaning on each other like a fragile house of cards.

We threw their bags in the back. They jibbered on to us about their plane trip. They had decided on Vegas names-the widowed Baroness Paris Strokavitch and Princeton Villard the Third-on the plane while they were bribing the flight attendants to bring them more vodka.

Princeton describes a cosmopolitan article deeming it-"a celebration of the erect penis." I tell him the greeting card industry needs his talent. He explains that some of the "positions" Cosmo suggested looked dangerous. "I think I would want a stunt cock to try them out." There's a business card-Princeton Villard the Third: Stunt Cock. Available for children's parties.

Frog Prince takes us back to the casino where Strokavich and Princeton have decided I need to "catch up." The catch up principle never works. What ends up happening is the slowly marinated people pour a lot of liquor down your throat very quickly resulting in you getting far drunker than they are. Which is a difficult proposition since they had both been drinking vodka since five in the morning. But they proceeded to fill me up with Illusions while they continued with chocolate martinis. Anyone who has been on a serious drinking binge knows that there is a point where you have two choices 1. go to sleep 2 keep drinking. Since we weren't at the house, Princeton and Strokavich had no choice but to keep drinking.

Finally Frog Prince took us back to his house. The casino had given him a complete Thanksgiving dinner, which while not quite as tasty as my mother's cooking, after four Illusions I ranked much lower on the psychotic episode scale than most Thanksgivings. We sat in the sun in our t-shirts by the pool and ate turkey, mashed potatoes, pumpkin muffins, stuffing, and pecan pie. Afterwards, each of us retired to our respective bedrooms for a triptofan inspired snoozle.

* For those of you who have asked the question, "What does NJ have the NY doesn't?" the answer is Fatburger. There is a Fatburger in NJ city, which is perhaps worthy of a pilgrimage have you ever had the pleasure of dining on a Fatburger. There is also soon to be a Fatburger in Shreveport LA, the hometown of Danny Rollins AKA the Singin' Serial Killer.

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