Flew in at blah blah on flight blah blah it was blah blah, you don't care, and neither do I, as I showed up reasonably on-time and in one piece.

So I'm at the MGM and I've had, I dunno, like 3 or 4 or 14 of those malibu & pineapple drinks. Normally I'd say "Look, I know they're girlie drinks, but my wife didn't finish hers, so..." but you ain't gonna go for that when I'm referencing numbers like 14 drinks in two hours. So let's suffice to say that I was approaching a state of rather pleasant inebriation.

CLB suggests that we hop into the MGM river pool - great idea! We throw on some suntan lotion and in we go.

(NOTE: Suntan lotion is slippery. This will come into play in about 2 sentences).

I start to wade around and feel something slip off my finger. Ut oh. There goes Mr. Wedding Ring. I stupidly turn around and stick my hands and feet out, like the river pool current is going to make the ring hit me and then I can simply dive down and get it.

OK - Jacques Cousteau I am not. I get it. Three minutes later, no ring, and I realize that my plan isn't exactly the equivalent of "Raise the Titanic".

So I start grabbing kids out of the water by their ankles and exorting them to "find this ring and I'll give you $50". Some of these kids actually ignored me. Is $50 alot of money for a kid anymore? When I was 10, if someone offered me $50 to scale the Stratosphere tower, I would've been walking down Las Vegas Boulevard and humming "Spider-Man, Spider-Man, does the things, a Spider can..."

Anyway, this Aussie chap comes over and asks "Lose your ring, mate?". Gee, what gave it away? My pulling kids out of the water by their ankles in front of their horrified parents, or the stupid, helpless, god-forsaken look on my face?

"Yeah, I lost it...can you help me fi......".....now I really look at my new Aussie friend for the first time and realize that he looks like friggin' aquaman. He has a snorkel. He has fins. He has a mask. And he's in a river pool? I think he thinks he's a Navy Seal.

"No worries, Mate" he exclaims as he slips beneath the service. Man, this is gonna be easy. This guy probably has a portable sonar set with him.

.....and my Aussie friend starts swimming around me like a shark. This is like 15 minutes after I lost the ring.

I pull him out by his hair, and succintly explain the concept of "current" to him. As in "THIS FRIGGIN' RIVER HAS A CURRENT. THE RING IS LONG GONE. LOOK!" - and I then take a hat off a 15 year old kid and toss it in the water and away it goes.

Aussie now understands the basic theory of hydrodynamics and is off to the races to find my ring.

10 minutes later, Aussie pops up directly in front of me (which is disconcerting in so many ways) and shows me....my (#)$@#)@#ing wedding ring. Unbelievable. He found it!!!!

I went up to the room to get him the $50 bounty I had promised to him (and every other kid that I had pulled out of the water by their ankles to help me find the ring). On impluse, I grabbed 2 $100 bills. When I reached the casino floor, I had already made up my mind - I'm going to make this all revenue-neutral. That's right - I went downstairs to play a single hand of doubledeck BlackJack.

So, I sit down at an empty BlackJack table - just me and the dealer. She smiles and I tell her my little wedding ring story and how I want to play just one hand. She smiles and tells me good luck, and proceeds to deal me 2-9. She gives herself a Q. Damn - basic strategy. Can't double down. Must simply hit.

Now....if there is BlackJack in hell, it works like this. Every single hand, you get dealt 2-9 to the dealer's face card and you draw a 7 to make it 16. You're mathematically forced to hit it, and the dealer gives you a 3 or a 4, and then draws out a 4 card 21 on her side to scoop you. That's how I imagine it, at any rate. That, and it's incredibly hot at a BlackJack table in hell. And all of the dealers look like Cerebus the hellhound. But that's beside the point.

Back to the story....so, I hit, and get the 7. (Gee, didn't see that coming with that little bit of foreshadowing, didja?) Now I'm on 16, and have to hit it again. The dealer (bless her heart) squeeks me out a 3. I stay on 19.

It starts to get incredibly warm on the MGM Grand casino floor as the dealer flips over a 5 for 15 total. Dealer then flips over...........another Q! YES! DEALER = BUSTO!

She slides me over a new black chip to go with my matching black chip and I take both black chips and my remaining $100 bill and race down to the pool.

I find the Aussie and flip him a black chip with my heartfelt thanks. I'm reasonably sure that he had never seen a black casino chip in his life. At least, that's what I'm deriving from his eyeballs being as big as ferris wheels when the chip hit him in the chest.

So to my new Aussie friend, wherever you are (er, likely Australia).....if you're reading this, you can rest assured that you turned what could have been an awful situation into a great one.

Now - you're all wondering..."What happened to the other black chip, and why the hell are you named Romo9MVP".

Last things first - I registered this name last year. Yeah, I know the guy sucks now. This is the subject of a whole different blog, so let's move past it.

So I go down to the MGM poker room that night to play 1/2 NL at 1:00am.. I buy in with the last remaining black chip. I'm going to try to build a little bankroll before I slide over to the 2/5 game. I end up at this incredibly fun and loose table where I sit to the right of this table bully. I call him a table bully, but let's be honest - he's from Nebraska, prolly 22 years old, 5'4", weighs 125 lbs at most, and is shortstacked with $80 behind. He's not really going to bully anyone or anything. But he's trying his best as he tries to limp every single hand and fold to raises on the flop. I already love this guy (like a cousin twice removed, once surgically).

Anyway, within 10 minutes of my sitting down, this kid has convinced the entire table that we all should straddle every hand. We're basically playing 1/4 NL now. Every player straddles. Every hand. For 4 hours. No idea why, really. It just seemed like a fantastic idea at the time.

The money follows the button and I forget about playing TAG or LAG after a while and just start to have fun. At about 5:00am, this local nit sits down. He has the look of a local about him - you can just tell. Older gentlemen. Very gruff demeanor. Not very friendly. Buys in for just $100. Sizes up every opponent carefully. Only bets when he has a hand. Oh, and he's wearing a shirt that says "Las Vegas Local Nit" on the front. On the back it says "If I Raise The River, Trust Me, I've Got It".

Anywho, he doesn't post the straddle the first time around....or the second time either. Now, my newfound Nebraskan friend is a bit inebriated. He's had somewhere between 12 and 4.7 million cocktails. He hasn't noticed that our straddling party is no longer...um...straddling.

So I lean over and softly ask him "Hey, Nebraska, what's up with the nit who won't straddle?". He looks at me with one of his eyes (I believe the left one) while the right eye stares off into open space as he intelligently replies "Muaha?". At least, I think it was a question. In retrospect, perhaps he was merely making some sort of definitive statement. We'll never know for sure. I'll leave that up to the anthropologists.

While I'm digesting "Muaha?" and its deeper meaning, I decide to have some fun. I make a monumental decision.

I'm going to tilt someone.

I'm not quite sure who yet, but my night will not be complete until there is more tilting taking place at this table than at Excalibur's medival jousting recreations.

"Hey, Nebraska....HE'S NOT STRADDLING, MAN! That's disrespectful. This is your table, your 'hood, your set, yo."

The right eye catches up and he openly stares at me now. I realize that terms like "'hood" and "set" are probably as famliar to him as a wheat thresher or a grain silo are to me.

I try again.

"Nebraska - this local guy isn't gonna straddle. He's going to burst your balloon. He's going to rain on your parade. He's going to piddle in your cornflakes. He's not even going to Grandma's with us on Christmas day to open those really bad presents - you know, the earmuffs she puts in our stockings every. single. christmas. C'mon man, don't let him get away with this (@$)@#)."

Well, I'm not sure if it was grandma's earmuffs or just my persistance - but Nebraska is now suddenly P-I-S-S-E-D!!! I can see it in his eye. At least, I can see it in the one that's following me.

Just then, as if it were preordained, it's Local Vegas Nit's turn to straddle. Here's what happens next:

Nebraska (standing up and shaking, either in rage or in a sudden detox moment): "Sir, are you going, sir, to straddle, sir?"

(Nebraska has become suddenly formal - 3 sirs in one sentence?)

Las Vegas Local Nit: "I don't straddle. Ever."

Nebraska (still standing): "Sir, we all straddle here. Sir, We've been doing it all night, sir. Please, sir, straddle, sir."

(4 sirs now? Is he looking to date this guys daughter?)

Las Vegas Local Nit: "No. It's a unprofitable play."

Me (whispering urgently while I stare away): "He's not gonna straddle? No earmuffs from Grandma this year. You want cold ears?"

....it doesn't really matter what I say anymore. Nebraska's blood alcohol level is reaching levels that require scientific notation to compute. He just needed that little bit of egging on to come over the top and begin the tilting which I have so eagerly anticipated for the last 5 minutes.....

...and just when I'm ready to hear Nebraska blow up, he roars this, at about 170 decibels.

"GO BACK TO YOUR F##KING ISLAND YOU STUPID F##KING IDIOT LIMEY F##K. STUPID DUMB F##ING LIMEY. BACK TO YOUR ISLAND!!!"

Time stops for about 4 heartbeats. Seriously - nobody moves. Nobody even breathes. The dealer is turned all the way around, staring at Nebraska in the two seat. He has an uncomprehending look on his face. My mind is reeling....this local nit is British? He looks just like a local Las Vegas guy. He didn't have an English accent. He even has the goddamn Las Vegas Nit t-shirt on.

Limey? Back to your island? I'm no Rand McNally, but I'm reasonably sure of three things:

1) Las Vegas is landlocked in the Western United States
2) The term limey usually refers to someone from the United Kingdom.
3) Therefore, Las Vegas and the United Kingdom are geographically dissimilar.

While I'm mulling all of this over and trying to understand what Nebraska said, I suddenly hear the sound of falling chairs and a general clamor erupting from the far end of the table.

Two otherwise completely quiet, large, English rugby players who had been happily straddling all night start literally coming over the table at Nebraska while yelling something that sounded curiously like "OY! OY! OYYYYY!"

The last words I heard as I quickly gathered my remaining chips (including my beautiful black chip) and headed for the casino floor was Nebraska pleading......

"...I thought limeys were nits! I thought limeys were nits!!! Noooooooo!!!!!!"

Mission accomplished! Tilting achieved, I go off to bed, $400 richer and already anticipating a big breakfast buffet in a few hours.

So that's the story - a little bit of poker, a little bit of luck, and a little bit of tilt-inducing behavior. Can you think of a better day in Las Vegas?

Neither can I.