Conversation in the Palazzo elevator

Heading down to the casino from my 45th-floor suite. The elevator stops several times to let people on. It's noon, lots of people checking out or heading to lunch. I'm wearing a xkcd shirt:



An older, well-dressed, somewhat heavyset gentleman is standing opposite me. He's gazing at me - just short of staring - with considerable curiosity. Eventually, he asks, in a heavy European accent I can't quite place: "What does your shirt mean?"

"It means that I do not want to be hunted down, killed, and eaten by raptors!"

He pauses a moment. "Oh." He pronounces the word carefully, with gravity.

"Me too."

...are you sure you're not a hobo, sir?

Walked over to Flamingo to check in to a room, which I won't use, and pick up $400 "travel reimbursement", which I will use. On my way over, noticed that I forgot to bring my Harrah's player's card. So I head over to the player's club, and naturally, skip the line by going to the l33t desk.

"Hi, I'd like a replacement player's card." I flop my ID on the counter.

The two clerks give each other looks. "Did you get lost?"

"Huh?"

"Are you a platinum or diamond level player, sir?"

OK, I'm not dressed like much, but this is ridiculous. "I would like a replacement diamond card, please." I put a little bit of venom into it - the trailing ", bitches" is unspoken but implied.

They get my card for me, and I head off to VIP checkin, shaking my head a little. I'm standing there, getting out my credit card and offer letter, when I realize two things.

First, I'd just been walking very quickly, dodging and weaving through Strip crowds, and I'm both out of shape and somewhat short on sleep. I probably looked flustered and disoriented.

Second, not only am I wearing a plain beige $5 T-shirt from Target, but I'm wearing it inside-out.

OK, fine. In retrospect, I'll give them a pass on the attitude.