Me see where Chris Rose took Lower 9 tour with Dr. John and now he think they friends. Me know Mac from the days we ran train on “Walk On Gilded Splinters” backup singer bitches. Me and Mac spend two days in clinic from bitch who sing fourth “till me murder” response. Chris Rose never get that close.

Meanwhile, it grim Christmas season on social scene. Me get invite to swing party in Lakeview, but card say to bring me own rope. Kidding. Me make suicide joke. It all NOLAFugees do around here. Editors have all the comic range of Carrot Top, but at least Carrot Top have own show in Vegas, as me find out when me spend three days there and get paid. More than me can say for NOLAFugees. Me had to get away from these assholes.

Much new shit been built since me last visit Vegas in 1996 for Tupac murder. (For record, me party with Tupac at Tyson fight that night, but me “not see” assailant. Suge Knight tell me to take cab.) Steve Wynn put up majestic, plush hotel. He fill hotel atrium with golden balls. Me admire audacity and flare for symbolism.

Speaking of balls, me catch production of “Avenue Q” here at Wynn hotel. Me not impressed. They not show faggot puppets have sex like they show straight puppets. Clearly they compromise vision to win Tony award. Plus porn-addicted Trekkie Monster too static a character. He not exhibit capacity for change like other characters. Me also resent crass commercialism at the show gift shop. Me always maintain integrity lost when image is whored.

Some things not change since Tupac murder. Just like in ’96, me lose ass at sports book betting on Dallas Cowboys. Fuck that city. Me hope Katrina refugees tear it up like Houston. Me try to recoup at poker table, but me not catch hand to save life. Me lose so much me reduced to dial-a-bitches and one dollar crap table. NOLAFugees need to start cutting checks.

Half-ass Radio Music Awards in town at Alladin Hotel during me stay. Me try to get audience with Mary J. Blige, but me NOLAFugees press pass deemed fake. Then me spot Ja Rule and yell to him to stop biting me shit. Ugly scene ensued. Me get tossed out onto sidewalk.

All me get to talk to is rapper who call himself Kingspell. He try to sell me demo CD for $6. Me say me give him plug instead. He claim to have website, but address he give me not work. Me sick of dealing with amateurs, so me go back to hotel to wait for professional. Me always careful. What happen in Vegas stay there, but disease always follow you home.

For rest of trip me wander Vegas in state of bliss. Everything real big. City know how to do things right. Me endorse C. Ray’s casino vision. Give Steve Wynn and Donald Trump stake in city and they build Category 5 levee system in three weeks. Cocktail bitches and discreet hookers come in droves. It in cards.