You’ve got a tall, themed-drink in your hand. Your wife stands on the edge of the carpet, looking for you down the two narrow aisles in front of her. You peek around your slot machine, make eye-contact between two cigar-wielding men, see that she wants in, and you quickly make the switch. Now you’re standing on the edge of the carpet, by the door. You look down and two tired little eyes look up at you from your stroller.
Even your baby thinks you’re a dirtbag. I do too. And so do a whole lot of people in the casino. And it’s because you are. I mean, you brought your baby to Sin City. You might as well let your baby nap directly in Satan’s anus.