I just got back from Sin City. It was a hoot.
Everywhere you look, glamour and glitz, over-the-top decorations and barely topped show girls. I spent most of my time walking The Strip, or the main drag in Vegas, hours and hours of one foot in front of the other, while my head spun around faster than a roulette wheel, trying to take it all in.
Massive themed-buildings towered overhead like monoliths to the great God of greed. For no money at all, I could step into ancient Greece, traipse through New York or even visit Venice. (Ah Venice, as Indiana Jones would say).
And the crowds of people who shuffled alongside me were just as interesting, as well as the street people hawking their wares – whether CD’s, t-shirts or just the chance to take pictures with them. The latter certainly ran the gamut – Elvis was there, but so were various transformers (quite impressive outfits) as well as Hello Kitty, Yellow M&M and Elmo (isn’t he a bit too young for this crowd?)
And yet, although everything and everyone stood out in their own special way, the one “attraction” I can’t quite get out of my head was the plethora of pornslappers. These are the people who line the sidewalks and hand out trading-card-sized pictures of girls who will “do” you, Vegas style.
Though amazed with the trade itself, what really took me by surprise was the proximity of these hundreds of hander-outers: often only a few feet apart. I tried to reason this as best I could by thinking marketing: the slappers were “covering their asses” so to speak. Case in point, if say a horny passerby happened to be looking up at perhaps a phallic-shaped building and missed getting a card, by having the slappers so close, the aforementioned horny passerby wouldn’t miss getting their Las Vegas freak on and the slappers retained a sale. Good advertising.
But, then again, as an environmentalist I noticed these back-to-back pleasure-card folks were distributing more than just good old-fashioned porn. They were also distributing tons of litter.
It was sort of an OMG moment when I realized that as tittilating as the first one or two cards might be for the common passerby (and yes, the pictures left nothing to the imagination from the waist up) after a while, they lost their sex appeal. Even the loneliest Las Vegas businessman would feel numbing effects after the first dozen or so I would think (not that I can speak for the opposite sex) and instead of accepting the cards which are literally thrust in your face, they would toss the surgically enhanced snapshots. (And yes, Virginia, that’s exactly what happens).
In fact, piles of bountiful beauties in provocative poses fill every nook and cranny of The Strip (and probably every side street crevasse as well, as no open area is sacred in the city of Sin). Even with boob-litter surrounding them, the slappers keep on going, thrusting cards and chatting up their babes as if their lives depended upon getting rid of every augmented picture. (Which might truly be their motivation – I never asked them).
Of course, although the scantily-clad (no, let’s be real: un-clad) women are eye-sores for at least half the population, the resulting litter from the slappers is distressing to everyone, to say the least.
But for now, maybe they could simply encourage mega-wealthy casino owners to part with a smidgen of their hard-earned (yea right) money and place porn card recycle bins along The Strip. That way, at the end of each day, the slappers could come along, riffle through the tossed cards, retrieve their own and hand them out once again. It’s not a perfect solution, but then again, with a problem of this magnitude, or should I say “large” (since size matters in Sin City), you gotta start somewhere.