Okay, you know it is Memorial Day in Vegas when the gangs, like, go for the big shoots. So, at a block party at Lake Meade and D Street (one of our famous alphabet streets on the West Side), gangs opened up on a crowd of 200, killing 3, wounding 4 more.

Funny thing about Vegas and The Strip -- You don't get local papers in the Strip Hotels. Figure you might think twice before making your next trip out here. Maybe.

From CityLife: "If the tourists figure out there is no way possible for them to win here, we'll be just another ghost town."

And out on Lake Meade -- 4 people drowned. The youngest victim was a 7 year old girl.

Lake Meade is no place for kids, or for anybody else who can't swim, and concurrently wears a life jacket. Most of Lake Meade, the lake as well as the beaches, is wild. And that wildness is part of the major attraction for us desert dwellers.

Took the Chicks to the lake yesterday. Had to show em off. You know the score. Major league hotties are not meant to be cooped up.

And how about Emily VanCamp. Is she a Mega-hottie or what? Like, on Everwood, she is so stoked. Total vixette. Neo-sophisticate. But in real life, she is maxie bourgeoisie. Too bad, cause I would so like to get to know her!

End of an era: Everwood. Been watching it since the campus scene daze. Grew up on it, you might say. Gonna miss it.

To those four way cool cuties I saw on Flamingo and Charleston.

Cutie comments: "My mom wants to GPS me. I said, like, no way! I mean, what if that thing goes off and shows penetration, ya know? It can't show penetration, can it? Not that I allow my guys to do that with me!"

"Nah, I'm about done with this. When I turn 18, I'm going to Europe. Is Europe close to the mountains, ya think? Cause I gotta have mountains."

"What? I've got my learner's permit -- That's the same thing as a driver's license, isn't it?"

Okay, America, chicks know chicks. And when you know even one chicks, you know dozens of other chicks. But when you know two chicks, you know half the town already.

Had a quiet part yesterday at the house. Had a few friends over. Let the chicks invite some friends. Then we had dudettes, cuties, chicks, and chickettes by the dozens.

Let me tell you this about chicks and cuties and dudettes. They do not eat and talk like normal people. Like, no steaks and chops, totally hogged out on burgers and dogs. They ate yogurt and melon, cottage cheese and soft serve. Drank gallons of fruit juices -- real fruit juice. They like Zima, imports, and sweet wines. Don't need to open your wet bars, dudes -- they don't do mixed drinks.

And, like, while only 1 in 10 words made sense, it was super-kicks listening to them sound off. And chicks can dance. But nobody dances like a cutie. Trust me here, fellows. So we had a great little thing. Way cool!

Okay, on Vegas, what I do here and so on: I figure this gig can last until my current contracts runs out (a year). Then I gotta go. Okay, I like the money, I like the applause, I love the attention. But I can't do this when I turn 25. It's already downing me. I want to move on to something else.

Okay, this: Things change big time when your girl moves in with you. Really they change. I mean, at first she had her own room, but now that we're sharing real space, the whole relationship has amped up to . . . like being married, or something. And that ain't all bad. I kind of like it. I like having someone in my bed when I get home. I like knowing there is someone there, someone in my life.

But now I can't think about me, anymore. Now I gotta think about US.
So, I need to get US another car. With three people in the house driving, I can't keep relying on cabs and the work 'mo. Went out earlier, looked at SUVs with D. Told her, like, I'm getting another car to haul the boat (which we haven't gotten yet) back and forth to the lake -- and we're gonna need a car because of all the company we're expecting for the summer (which is sorta true). But I can't find it to just come right out and say, "I'm buying the car for you." Because that makes our relationship so permanent.

And I'll have to drive the SUV. I'll give D. the MB to drive.

Mom does not like D. Says she isn't our class. Mom thinks I should get back with L.

Maybe D. isn't our class, but she sure smells good. I like her voice. And I'm feeling very attached to her, very protective of her. And I don't care about finding the greenest green grass.

Later, America. I'm going to the Stratosphere to shop.

Hi, America, it's me! Yup. Right here on your computer screen, it's me! How about that, America? I mean, like, is that a miracle, or what? Yup. Anyway, we gotta lot of things to talk about today, class, so get out your pencils and paper. Are you ready? Good. Then let's begin.

First off: To LVCHICK -- Hello. Never met you. But if you are anywhere near as hot as your ride, we gotta! I see your car every day on the strip. And I work at the casino where you park on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Come on in and ask for The Dark Prince. I'll buy you a soda! -- And you just can't beat a deal like that, LV CHICK!

And kudos to the cops out in Henderson, who wasted no time in apprehending the three men responsible for the murder of two young women on U.S. 95 and Wagonwheel.

(What's with Vegas? Seriously, you won't believe the number of murders which just HAPPEN here.)

To Amy: We're going to miss you, Amy. Here's to your eternal rest. Amy, 20, and a dancer here at the Tropicana was murdered by her father. She was a beautiful, sweet kid with her whole future before her. She deserved better.

Here's to Swuave Lopez -- You little fuck! You got what you deserved. No tears for Swuave, he killed his best buddy, shot him three times in the chest and stomach. Swuave had to have his friend's ride. Swuave, while handcuffed, tried to run from two police officers -- Swuave took two rounds in the back, dying on the spot. Tough shit, asshole! Your buddy, the one who set fire to that kid is going to burn in the pen! Ah, the two of you will be together for all eternity.

Seriously now, folks, I gotta get out of this town: It's turning me into one hard dude. Yup.

And this: Why do Chick lotions, those they use by the pool, always smell like coconuts? That stuff makes their most personal parts smell (and taste, more to the point!) like a friggin desert island. Actually, it makes that place smell really nice -- but it really weirds out the taste.

And why we're at it, why do chicks make all those little nosies (cute though they may be) right before they drop off to sleep for the night? I mean, is it their way of saying, "Guys, if you want it, get it now, because I'm closing up for the night." I mean, come on, already!

To Y. (because I know you will be reading this): I am proud of you. When you said you were quitting, you meant it. Great show of resolve. Love you for it. I told you you're a strong person. So listen now: You don't need anyone but yourself. All is always the all; ever and forever the all. The Eternal All. That is truth, Child. And, yup, Chickstuff, when I finish up with this casino gig, I just may start my own church. I'll call it Forever Darkness, and I'll let people figure out what THAT is all about.

Okay, to those of you writing to Enterdarkness6666@yahoo.com. Okay, good. I hadn't expected so many of you to respond. And I am noting I am getting emails from a lot of people who do not have accounts with Blogstream -- what is this all about? And this to the cutie who sent me her picture: Don't do that anymore! (But I liked your pic. Loved it, in fact.)

38 billion dollars -- The amount of money Las Vegas made off gaming in 2004.

1,000 -- The number of teachers SHORT Las Vegas and Clark County are for the next school year. Yup. Teaching here just doesn't pay. And you can't moralize here in The Valley. Nope. Can't tell your charges that gambling is bad for you, or that you shouldn't pick young girls up with the intention of butt-fucking them. Being serious, America. This is Vegas, Baby. And sex and gambling are just fine here in Glitter Gulch. You betcha, honey!

A sign seen here in The Valley. "You can come here if your money comes with you; but when your money is gone, the goons will be around to tell you to go home."

And Jimmy Hoffa, where would Las Vegas be without you, Baby? Thanks for all the money -- out of them pension funds -- which you loaned to the hometown boys here in Vegas.

A thought: Only in America can an uneducated fuck make $28.00 dollars an hour for tightening one lug nut after another on a new car. Yup. And all the numbnuts has to do is go to work on the assembly line and then join a labor union -- And, America, you want to know why you pay so much for your new cars!

Hey, America, I say "Let's put some of them illegals to work on them assembly lines. I mean, shit, you don't need good English to be a hardhat!"

And, America, who do you think is meeting here in Vegas at the Cashman Center this weekend? Why, the Minutemen, of course.

Atlanta and Detroit -- who the fuck needs em?

Great places to hang: The Nefertiti; Pure; The Zone; Hard Rock Cafe; and Jimmy Buffet's place, all of the above are either out on or just off The Strip.

Oh, yeah: Almost forget -- the ratings are in and Las Vegas is one of the most dangerous places in America to drive.

Cutie remark of the week: "Put two more with that and I'll let you kiss my sweet little ass!" And, ya know, I should have taken her up on that offer: Cause she sure did have a cute little behind.

And you can't come to Vegas and call it home unless you go out to the Palamino Club. It's under new-management, the hostesses are always . . . nude. And it's a great place to water yourself either before or after a hectic day at the gaming tables or slots. (Jerry's Nugget is just across the street if you really just must combine your sexual pleasures with your fiscal pleasures.)

Okay, America, we need a 12 Step Program for dead people. Meaning, we need a 12 Step Program for all of us before we actually get physically dead. True, America. Because until we come to terms with our demise, that's all we can be: Just the walking dead. We're gonna be talking more about this, cause I'm serious as all getout about it. But right now, I'm running out of time: Meaning my girlfriend just got out of the shower -- got it?

Anyway, I thought I'd center my 12 Step Program, rather than in a God-Concept which ain't gonna take nobody nowhere, in Death, itself: I thought I'd let Death be my higher power. You got that, America?

Well, gotta go. Got a Chick to get sweet and neat with. See ya, America -- And don't forget to write me --------

Right here in Las Vegas, Baby!

Okay, Memorial Day is approaching, which means we gotta think about dead people, and think about them in . . . nice ways. Me, I don't much care about dead people. Let the dead stay dead, that's my honest opinion on the matter. And the less time wasted on the dead, the better.

At my age, I don't know too many people who have died. I have an uncle who decided to cross over to the other side. He did that last Christmas and spoiled everyone's holiday. The bastard! However, he did favor me with a great deal of money, which I will get around to spending just as soon as I have spent the money left to me by my aunt, my grandparents, and, hopefully, my own parents, as I am praying they won't spend all their dough before they cash in their chips. And when my parents do call it quits for life, I won't be mourning them, either. Not that I don't like my parents, for I do; however, I can't see worrying about silly things like . . . well, like dead relatives.

(I think my uncle may have abused my cousin: Whisperers say this is so. But I don't know -- and why should I hold that against him? Afterall, he never did abuse me -- seems he was into abusing girls, or girl, singular, as my cousin is a girl. Or was, last time we talked. Who knows, now that she has been so fully, and perhaps fulsomely, abused. I mean, maybe she has grown a beard, or something. You never know. Anyway, my cousin and I do not talk. We were never close. We didn't even speak at my uncle's funeral (actually, he was cremated). She is upset with me over . . . over the way his estate was divided. Not that she didn't get her share, for she did. She got everything her mother would have gotten (where the mother, my aunt, alive, which she isn't. Or maybe she is, only she isn't talking to anyone. But I am rather sure she is dead, since I read her obit. I would have attended her funeral, but I was a bit young at the time. In fact, I was at that age when one is quite attracted by events like funerals. And the chance to see a dead person.)

So my cousin and I do not talk. That is okay. I have a couple more of them. They live in Great Britain. We are not close. I visit them from time to time, as they are a great way to get to Europe for free. Well, not free, but I don't have to cough up money for a hotel room, for food, stuff like that. You understand.

So, anyway, this is Memorial Day, and I feel kind of jipped. I have to work, for one thing. There are a lot of tourists in town, who aren't interested in mourning a bunch of stuffy dead people. I know this to be so, because I have asked: "Hey! What do you guys think of dead people?" The response was . . . dead silence, if you'll ignore the pun. (Was that a pun? I'm not sure.) Anyway, not only do I have to work: I have to make people laugh, and otherwise entertain them so they will be able to keep their minds off how miserable they are, and off how much money they are losing here in Vegas. That is my job. And I rather like it. Sort of like keeping people occupied so they won't know their pockets are being picked.

Anyway, not only do I have to work, but I don't have anybody to mourn. Well, I could mourn the deaths of my grandparents (not likely), my aunt (she died of cancer -- one of them did); or my other aunt (she died in an auto accident). But I don't feel like mourning them. I may, however, go over to the graveyard and see if I can rally some of those guys into having a conversation with me. (I'm sure the dead have some great stories to tell; that I have yet to hear one of these stories makes me just that much more excited about the prospect of hearing some dead guy sound off!)

I have asked the Chicks if they have any dead people we should mourn, as Memorial Day is certainly the time for such things. The Chicks looked at me in rather weird ways. D. said I was starting to creep her out. I didn't want to do that, of course, because later I fully intend to have sex with her, and I do not wish for our quality moment to come off like something out of sex with the dead, which would be interesting only were I into necrophilia. Which I'm not. At least not yet. Of course, one never knows what one will be fascinated by tomorrow.

In any case, the Chicks don't have any dead people they wish to mourn. They have several dead people whom they remember, and wish they didn't. So I just said, Okay. And then I went out to the kitchen to make myself a sandwich. When one is perplexed about something, it is always a good idea to have a sandwich.

Too, I could mourn our dead and gone soldier boys, who, if my dad is right, have died for us. (Meaning, in this instance, they died, to keep oil and oil products in our family.) Okay. But I can't see mourning some people who died just because they wanted to show that capitalism is great, and that Christianity's God is stronger than either Islam or Allah.

However, the above is not the only reason our boys have died in war. They died, for instance, to end the tyranny of that terrible English king who wanted us to remain little colonies!

Okay, I'll mourn the guys who died for that. And I'll mourn my lost and wasted youth. I might even mourn the fact that I haven't gotten laid -- not really well laid in about . . . oh, eighteen hours, I suppose. And then, when all my mourning is over, I shall take the chicks and go out to the lake. Where, maybe, if we're really lucky, some drunken boater will fall overboard and drown. Then we can mourn him, for about five seconds or so. Then, my mourning done, I will get down to the larger Chick business of trying to convince them to have sex with me.

Have a good Memorial Day, America. And don't forget to mourn somebody dead!

Went to the grocery store last night, something I rarely do, any way. Bought over 300.00. Wow! Chicks don't do a lot of meat. But they put a fortune in fresh vegetables and fresh fruit. And vegetables, pound for pound, cost a lot more money than meat, as I was surprised to learn. Also, we bought a ton of paper stuff. Ice cream, juices, stuff for hair, face, skin. Yogurt. Deli meats. Pasta stuff. Jesus. I call in a pizza, have done with it. But not chicks. They don't eat that way.

Still looking for a boat. Want one which will seat at least 6 people. One I can use for skiing, all forms of lake recreation. Might be a waste of a buy, as I'm not a big 'let's do the outdoors' kind of person, myself. I like the outdoors just fine when I look at it from out a window. But other than that, nature leaves me as cold as bad breath.

Cable turned on all throughout the house. Bought new furniture for the pool. Even bought two freezers, one for outside, the other for inside.

I think I am now ready for summer. And I hate summers. All that heat. All that sweating. Gross. And I can't stand bugs. Jesus.

And summers are gonna be a bitch here. Ah, makes me long for . . . don't know. Some place where summers aren't so intense.

The culture we have does not make people feel good about themselves. And you have to be strong enough to say if the culture doesn't work, don't buy it.

"Everyone knows they're going to die. But nobody believes it.

"Once you learn how to die, you can learn how to live."

-- Tuesdays With Morrie

There is no way we can make sense out of death. The best we can do by death is accept is as an inevitable fact.

H. Paul Sinclair

Love each other or perish.

-- W.H. Auden

We spend so much time reading all these books, attending seminar after seminar, trying this approach and then that, all in an attempt to discover some profound interpretations for what we all already know to be true. But we ever take someone else's explanations, someone else words to be more about truth than our own.

True is wherever you find it. And truth does not have to be worded profoundly to be truth. Truth is just what it is.

Weekends are a bitch. All I do -- did -- is work. Bigger shows on the weekends. More people, longer routines. Which means I have more people to fuck with, and more time to fuck with them. God, do I like this business.

Two women found dead at 95 and Wagonwheel, right out there on the edge of the desert out by Henderson. Of course, these two women didn't just fall over dead, right? They got murdered. Happens all the time, here. Yup. All the time. No wonder I love this city: Each new day brings a new murder -- or two or three -- for me to read about. To delight about. God, I love it when people get killed. The more murders the better, I always say. And reading about a good murder is more interesting than reading about what some crummy politician has to say. And murders are far more interesting than yet another story about how we have fucked up the environment, or about some crummy Third World Nation which is enduring yet another drought or health crisis. Fuck them Third World Nations, that's what I say! Fuck em good. I mean, outside of Bono, who the fuck gives a shit about all them poor starving people on the other side of nowhere? Know what I mean. I mean, I don't know any of them. Do you? And if I did know some of those starving and infected people, I'd say, "Hey! Get the fuck out of my neighborhood! We don't need your kind here!"

And I like reading all those sugar and sympathy stories in the papers. (Not!) Currently, these sugar and sympathy pieces are a lot about immigration -- Immigration is the issue de jour. I like de jour issues. They mean we really don't give a fuck about them or the people they really affect. What issues de jours are really for is to give us something to get pissed off about, something to feel all righteous and holier-than-thou about, something to talk about while we fuck off our day at the water cooler.

Me, I like calling a spade a spade, a spic a spic. Like Immigration: We don't give a fuck about all those Brownies from Below the Border. Not at all. And we just want them Mexicans up here because they work cheap, and because they're a lot more docile than them other dark skinned people who live up here among us. Ah, now that has the ring of real truth.

You won't swab my toilet. Black people, they don't wanta swab my toilet, but Mexicans? Now them people will swab my toilet -- and they do it for cheap. Me, I like Mexicans. I like people who work cheap and do what the fuck they're told. Shit, yes. And Mexicans, they don't mind living in sub-standard housing, and then they don't mind paying twice what that sub-standard housing is really worth. And Mexicans, shit, they and I both know they're never gonna be white, and they're okay with it. I mean, let's face it, I don't want to be brown -- and neither does any one of you. So quit acting so fucking righteous. Shit, I'd slit my wrist before I'd be any color other than white. What, am I sounding too decidedly . . . racist? Good, then I have learned plenty from each one of you.

Ah, but still I like the way you talk. All that bullshit you hand out. Sugar and sympathy. Hey, I read what you write, even when your sentences are pedestrian and your word choices . . . telling.

So, let the Mexicans come up here. Let em come all they want. I won't embrace them with open arms, I don't want them in my neighborhood, but neither do any of you. At least, I won't make on like I'm going to accept them as one of my own.

And I don't give a flying fuck whether or not they can speak my language. I mean, it ain't like we're bringing them up here to teach college, practice medicine, or write great works of social commentary. Fuck no! And if they can say, "You want fries with that, Mister?" Then they're speaking our language just fine.

Me, I speak Spanish just great. Taco. Burrito. and -- How much to fuck your little sister, you greasy-skinned beaner? Ah, I just love it: America's splendid command of every fucking language under the sun, except our own language, of course.

And I have some very specific thoughts on Emigration. I like it. I mean, we got beauty standards on our fucking fruit, right? Trust me if you didn't already know that, because we do. We waste all kinds of fruit because it ain't pretty enough. I mean, who's gonna eat an apple if it ain't pretty enough, right?

So, if we got beauty standards on our fruit, why not beauty standards on our people. I mean, Americans are getting too fucking ugly for my tastes. Seriously, I was at the Denny's the other night, eating and chewing on a steak, when I chanced to look up and saw, and sitting at the table right across from me, a couple of the ugliest people you ever saw. Why, the bile rose right up in my throat, my stomach churned, my dinner was ruined. And I was pissed. And so right then and there I said to myself, something has gotta be done!

We gotta Emigrate all them ugly people. If they're fat, you know the kind I mean, men with bellies too big for their belts, the kind of bellies that hang over way beyond their toes? Let's get rid of em. Not the bellies, the person. Let's emigrate em! And all them fat women with two bellies, one belly above their waist line, another distinct fat belly below their waist line, let's emigrate em.

Bald headed, balding headed, thinning of hair, ship em the fuck out of here. We don't need their kind of ugly!

Men, women with lank hair, all oily and disgusting, pack em on a boat! Get em the fuck out of here!

People with bad teeth, no teeth, teeth missing, get em the fuck out of here. Ship em off to ugly land!

People who ain't got this limb or that, people with missing arms, missing legs. Punt em the fuck out of here! We don't need a bunch of limbless fucking people!

And we ain't gonna be shipping our uglies back to Europe. Fuck no. Europe, I been there. I know most of you haven't, but you can't go over there because you're poor. Europe ain't got no use for poor Americans. Europe has enough poor of its own to hate and abuse, and otherwise in-tolerate.

Yep. And I got enough respect for my European ancestors not to want to throw my human garbage back at them.

Nope, besides, Europe is a beautiful place, that fancy tower they got there in Paris, whatever its called -- and that big ass clock over in London, I forgot its name, but its worth getting your ass over there and taking pictures of, even if you can't remember the clock's name. And then there's all them church bells which chime in Rome? Why you've never heard such a fucking racket, believe you me, but, still, all that noise is historical. Like all them birds in Rome. Here, we just got dirty fucking pigeons. But them pigeons over there in Rome? Them's Italian pigeons. And people come from all over the world to look at them there birds.

Yup. And then there's them Spanish Steps over there, and we sure don't want a bunch of our ugly people hanging out around them Spanish Steps. Nope. So what we're gonna do with our uglies, instead of uglying up Europe, we're gonna send our uglies back down below the border. Sure. Just makes sense. Makes good fucking sense!

See, we keep taking people in from down there, we're gonna get to fucking heavy up here, this side of the border, and we're liable to tip the fuck over, or something. Now, I know that don't sound much like good science, but it does make good sense. Sure. Balance, boys and girls. It is all about balance. Can anybody say, "Racial Balance"? No, of course you can't.

Can anybody say ethnocentrism? Can anybody note that being ethnocentristic isn't all bad, or always bad. Oh, sorry. Now I'm not being entertaining, anymore. Now I'm actually expecting you to think, unlike most of the . . . shit I get to read which just asks me to "Feel as I feel. It don't make much sense, but it ain't supposed to. It ain't about making sense: It's about feeling."

Right. And a famous person once said: "The weak will always identify with the weak, the strong always with the strong."

Spent the weekend shopping. Bought two sofas, one for Yvonne's room, the other for Dana's. Went to Oak Express, bought a new bedroom suite. Then, went to Wal-Mart -- Hey, now I have been to a Wal-Mart! Dana and Yvonne talked me in to going. Bought them both clothes, accessories, stuff for the pool, the lake.

R. called. She is going to spend the summer here. She is bringing along a friend of hers. They are supposed to spend the summer in London, but both think Vegas will be more stimulating.

Okay, I'm spending the summer with four girls. (My voice dripping with acid.) What can possibly go wrong with this picture?

Went looking for boats. Lake Mead is great. (Thank you once again, Captain Morgan for suggesting doing the tour out to Lake Mead. Otherwise, I may still be ignorant about one of the best things about Las Vegas: Lake Mead!) All the boats there are inboards. Any of you guys know anything about boats? Leasing will cost me 600-800 a month. Buying will cost 60-80K, depending on the size of the inboard, how many I wish to seat, etc. I'm thinking about buying. Dana looks so delicious in a bikini, not that I will allow her to dress thus at the lake, but at the pool is fine. And the pool has a pine-fence around it for privacy. However, she does look nice, and she is wanting to do the lake thing this summer. I have never owned a boat before. Don't know anything about them. One of the dealers has offered to teach me boatmanship. Yeah. Right.

Yvonne is working hard on her recovery. I am very proud of her. I wanted to put her on my insurance, but since we are not married, and she is not a relative, the company won't go for it. And then there is all that talk about 'pre-existing conditions.' And I need the insurance to pay for her doctors (a psychiatrist and a psychologist). Clinics here suck. You get what you pay for. She is going to need a good doctor, someone who can understand what she has been through. Yvonne sends me emails daily telling me what she can't say face to face. They really touch me. I am paying her (and Dana) to keep the house clean.

Dana is now sleeping in my room. Don't ask me how this came about. We were just doing the grunt and groan thing -- but now she is staying in my room. Maybe it is because I have cable tv in my room.
But I will be hooking up in the rest of the house this week.

When you are paying someone for sex, and they are living in your house, the parameters quickly get lost. Dana and I are . . . we had a business relationship. Had. I guess now, with her in my room, the relationship has . . . been taken to a different level.

I don't know what D. and I are going to do when R. gets here. She and I . . were once . . . right. Say, maybe I can get the two of them to agree to something decidedly French. But I doubt it. I think Dana likes me. I know R. does.

Had planned on flying out to New Haven to see L. Plans have changed. She is set on what she wants. And I don't want the same thing -- but I don want her. However, the way I am acting, you'd think my feelings for her are no big deal. Not true. I just like . . . girls. Well, mostly I like sex. But you need girls for sex.

Brought a cutie over here yesterday. God, did that ever not work out. Note to self: Take em to a hotel!

Dana is driving my M.B. She forgets to move the seat back when she is through driving. (She isn't supposed to be driving it. I told her, "No!!!!" I guess she didn't listen. Either that, or when you're sleeping with someone, they get to use your car as well as use your credit cards. Help me out on this one, America.)I called this morning, put her on my policy. She wrecks my car, my mom will kill her.

My favorite pick-up line (Done while I'm driving around in my car)"" Excuse me, sweetie, but I think these hundred dollar bills belong to you: They have your name written all over them."

To date, the coolest, like cutest cutie response: "They can't be mine. My name has more letters than that!"

Leave it to a cutie to know her true worth!

Okay, you've been a splendid audience. Good night, have a great time, because right heerrrrrre it's alllwwwaays Las Vegas, Baby!