"You Can Hardly See Them Nipples; And These Guys Are Really Lookin'"

In response to the massive media speculation regarding my whereabouts for the last week, I was not undercover in Canada finalizing plans for a covert CIA war. Nor was I doing time for jaywalking in DC, as I was assured that everyone does it up there. I was in Las Vegas at this year's CES Convention.

For those who don't know, the CES Convention is the Consumer Electronics Showcase where all the electronics manufacturers around the world (Sony, Panasonic, etc) showcase their latest and greatest. For "gadget junkies" who must own the newest of everything – this is heaven on Earth. If you think the value meals at Wendy's are overpriced and purposely let your 1998 Nokia phone's battery die so people (work) will leave you alone, you will think these people need lives. These people including 130,000 nerds in attendance, so cool guys like me were few and far between.

Save one small detail – last week was also host to the Porn Association. That's right – that "porn". And here's something about "the industry" that you didn't know – the women dress trashy. Real trashy. Fish net? Too constricting. Platform high heels? You ain't seen anything until you double your actual height with your shoes. Essentially, they are one "lost plumber" or "overheated pool man" away from looking like they are in the middle of a movie.

Also, the genre's travel together in packs. Like she-wolves looking for prey and self-preservation, you would pass groups of " Catholic School girls" followed by "Red Latex Fetish," "Wheelchair," and finally the "Plumpers."

Now "Plumpers," as you can guess, is the industry lingo for the fuller figured ladies. And apparently the "plumper" genre doesn't pay as well as the others so instead of them being at the Wynn or the Bellagio, they were staying at the same hotel as me. The Frontier. Luckily, the pool was closed.

But the bar was not. So every night, these ladies got their drink on and like "Super-Size Me" harpies they would call passing casino goers to the bar with lude talk involving "coming to mama" and promises of seeing "something you have never seen in your life." I observed horrified from the far end of a craps table.

For several days, I tried to hide from their calls but, alas, the bathroom for the casino nearest the craps tables was right next to the bar. On the last night, I realized that walking to the other side of the casino to avoid them was ridiculous and I bravely marched passed – steeling myself to assure them I was happily married and only wanted to be left alone.

Like Moe Szyslak at the dating auction, I heard nothin'. I would have heard crickets if it wasn't for the jingle of the slot machines and some stupid Van Hagar song.

Stupid fat chicks.