Well, leave it to us to screw up a great promo.
I was contemplating ordering pizza delivery this afternoon, but then a much better thought occurred to me.
Why order something as middle-American as pizza? This is Las Frigging Vegas.
If I drank a full bottle of Gatorade, held it in for 12 hours, squeezed my butt cheeks together, got just the right amount of arc, and the wind was solidly at my back blowing at a sustained 27Mph … I could piss on the Sahara from my kitchen window. Don’t ask me how I know.
Anyway, I took a poll, and it was unanimous that I would walk over to the Sahara, procure “The Bomb” burrito, and return home with the prize which should have been enough to feed everyone involved in the vote.
I tried to get a Bomb Burrito last week, and was denied because they said it was only for the contest. I didn’t press the issue, but I was pretty sure that it was a mistake. Who is going to disallow you to purchase food they are selling?
Being the thorough sort that I am, I called ahead today, and they confirmed that I could, indeed, purchase the burrito.
So, I put on my finest Dollar Store walking shoes, and embarked on the walk to the neon camel. It was a very pleasant walk, and I even stopped to play a few hands of $3 Blackjack before proceeding to the NASCAR Cafe. I wanted the Sahara to pay for our burrito instead of paying for it myself.
It partially worked, because I turned $20 into about $35, then lost three hands in a row, and walked after having booked a solid $6 profit. As a person who uses casinos like most people use their local shopping centers, in my head, this was a six dollar off discount coupon. Other people would call this degenerate gambler logic.
Six of one, half dozen of the other.
I was sure that the profit margin on the Bomb was greater than six bucks, so the Sahara was going to make a net profit off of my visit, and I would not only have a large meal, but I would also be contributing to the local economy.
This did not happen, though.
Why?
The Sahara refused to sell me the burrito … again! I was holding cold hard cash in front of their face, and they completely refused to sell it to me. The conversation went very much like this:
Me: Good afternoon, I would like the Bomb Burrito to go please.
Server: What to you mean to go?
Me: Really? That’s a real question?
Server: You want to take it home?
Me: See … I knew I couldn’t get anything past you. When I open my restaurant, I’m stealing you away from here. I don’t care what they’re paying you, I’ll double it.
Server: (laughter) I’m sorry, you can’t take it home.
Me: I don’t understand.
Server: The Bomb is only for the contest.
Me: Contest?
Server: Yes, we have a contest where if you can finished it … (I interrupted her)
Me: Oh yeah, yeah, I know about the contest. It’s a great idea and I love the concept … the thing is, I don’t care about t-shirts or roller coaster rides, I just want to eat the goddamn thing. It’s Easter and it’s a religious thing, and … (she cut me off)
Server: (kind of amused by the whole thing) I’m sorry, you have to eat it here. We only serve it as part of the contest.
Me: No offense, but why do you care where I eat the thing, I have cash (I waved the cash), you have a burrito, let’s make a deal.
Server: They won’t let you take it home. It has too be eaten here in the cafe.
Me: Okay, how about I pre-pay for the burrito, put a nice little tip in there, sit down like I am going to eat it, and when you bring it, I pick it up, and run out the side door with the burrito.
Server: You would never make it. It would fall apart. You would have to cradle the burrito in your bare hands and it would just fall apart and make a mess. Security wouldn’t let you leave with it either.
I thought it over, and imagined myself running through the Sahara casino, being chased by four security guards and two metro cops as I was leaving trails of gigantic, dripping, six pound burrito goo behind me.
Even if I made it, it would not be edible. I would get it all over myself, and all over the Sahara carpet. The most I would get home would be a tiny square of flour tortilla.
I went through a few more scenarios with the young lady, such as returning with a backpack, but by this time she was laughing too hard to entertain any more of my scenarios, and the bartender was giving us both the stink eye.
So, I walked back through the casino with my tail between my legs, and I sit here typing this … burrito-less.
The Sahara is really, really serious about this damn burrito. They treat it like a nuclear warhead. It doesn’t matter how much cash you have, the burrito stays in the NASCAR Cafe, and the only time it will see the outside world is when you are shitting it out in one of our local hospitals.
I don’t really agree with their policy … I don’t know what harm could come out of me eating the burrito at home, but the Sahara has very strong feelings about this.
I’m not sure if I will ever taste the forbidden meal.
There is hope, though.
We do have a group of people coming in next week. I think there will be six or seven of us in the Sahara at the same time. Given that there is safety in numbers, I think chances are good that we could either:
1) Abscond with the burrito by throwing it to the open man whenever one of us gets tackled by security
or
2) Eating the thing as a group
I think the second scenario has a higher probability of success, but first I have to get six other people to eat a full pound of burrito each, and I have to convince the NASCAR Cafe to let us compete as a team.
One way or another, I am going to eat that damn thing.
Eventually.
Do not underestimate me.
If I have to put an “Oceans 11″ team together simply to eat The Bomb, I’ll do it.
Anyway, my culinary review of the flatulence-inducing object has been postponed for yet another week.
Stay tuned …
