The hotel suite is one of those two-story jobs like you see when a sitcom shoots their Very Special Vegas episode, complete with panoramic Strip vista, brass-railed spiral staircase, and even a grand piano on which I plunk out a few Christmas carols for the enjoyment of the butler that comes with the room as he sets the vast table for our brunch. Having awakened in a round bed with George in my arms, my quads worn out from a rapturous night of fat-butt f*****g, I’m full to bursting with comfort and joy, and cannot help but sing out tidings of same. We’d planned on finding a Christmas brunch buffet, but the hotel’s handsome night clerk had been most insistent—in this suite, the buffet comes to you. Hot fresh eggs and coffee, cold fresh fruit and juice; a veritable trough of meats, potatoes,
