A few months ago, Sweetney, one of our MamaPop overlords, hatched a plan. We, the motley crew of MamaPop writers, were going to meet up in Las Vegas. This filled me with trepidation. I was fifteen years old the last time I went to Las Vegas, and on the second day my parents found me locked inside the hotel room's bathroom in an empty bathtub in the dark. That was a combination of my descent into a schizophrenic break, Circus Circus' hotel room design choice of hot pink-striped wallpaper and velvet paintings of clowns, and my general anxiety about false fronts of any kind, and so I was fairly certain that my circumstances now were much better and that I would be alright this time around, but this worry still stuck in the back of mind that my fellow Mamapoppers might end up having to search for me under craps tables and in parking garages. It turns out that they were all very nice people, and my fears turned to fat as I drowned myself in a sea of cream gravies and bread for the rest of the weekend.
All of my pictures from the weekend are on my cell phone, which has no power, because I cannot find the cord to recharge it, and I would draw some stuff out for you on my new Bamboo, but I am also out of time, because there are after work drinks to be had with people who actually work in offices, so I will just leave you with a list of the MamaPop team that was able to make it to Vegas to eat ridiculous amounts of food with each other:
They are probably all writing stuff about the trip, so go to their websites if you want to hear more about it today. I have other things to do like drink beer and play with styrofoam airplanes. You think I kid, but I don't. Those styrofoam airplanes are addictive.