What Happens in Vegas...

A group of five flabby-lipped, huge titted tweens came in today. They were dressed like reformed Mormans who wanted to be sexy but hadn't quite mastered the concept yet. Weird hats, too much black eyeliner, camoflauge gauze scarves. And they all had oddly-shaped bodies, out of proportion and veiny, pimply, or just plain strange. They were loud.

One of them, at the cash register with her mother's credit card, began complaining about said mother's behavior to her friends. "Did I tell you she is already dating someone else? That makes four men. And she's still married. God. She wonders why I'm so messed up about men."

Yeah. It has nothing to do with the fact that you are a size 6 on top and a size 20 on the bottom and are wearing a strapless seersucker romper that shows off how you have varicose veins at age 13. (Ok, she was probably 20.)

I walked over to my co-worker who'd been ringing her up. "Vegas!" She whispered.

That explained it all. These girls were from the most hellacious city on earth.  They really should change the slogan to "Who lives in Vegas stays in Vegas...for your protection."