Uncle Sam Doesn't Gamble on Errant Sneezes in Las Vegas

Dad gum gubmn't! They ruined my brunch!
One of the main reasons my husband and I have developed a habit of flying off to Las Vegas once or twice a year is to get as far away from the government as we possibly can. Specifically, the Tax Collection branch. Because our daily lives are pretty much devoted to discussing how in the hell we're going to pay our taxes, pay the estimated taxes, pay the property taxes, pay the state taxes, get out of paying the taxes, when to file the taxes, and basically just bitching about taxes in general from the time we get up until the time we go to bed, we look forward to a change of scenery in which to have these same discussions. Las Vegas, we found, is a great place to go to because not only do you have an uninterrupted four-hour-long plane ride during which you can argue heatedly over the taxes, but you can also, at the same time, entertain the implausible fantasy that perhaps you will win enough money on the Wheel Of Fortune machine to pay off the taxes in full and perhaps even have enough left over to tip the cocktail waitress for the free drinks you drank at the nickel video poker machine.
By the way -- do you know what the difference is between a tax collector and a taxidermist? The taxidermist only takes the skin. Har! (Credited to Mark Twain.)
But, I digress.
So, when we finally arrive at our free accommodations in our compact rental car with our pocketful of free buffet vouchers, we're good and ready to banish the IRS from our brains for a few blissful days and get down to winning some money for them -- part of which they will snatch, anyway, if the win is more than $1,000.
The one true luxury we afford ourselves in Vegas is something we discovered about 10 years ago, and which we schedule our trips around, is eating at the Sterling Brunch at Bally's casino. The brunch is served only on Sundays, serves unlimited French champagne, and costs about a hundred bucks a head. We never go to Vegas without eating there, even if it's the only meal we eat during the entire stay. It is the most elegant array of gourmet food offerings packed into the smallest buffet area in all of Las Vegas -- featuring fine International cheeses, steamed lobster tails, shrimp cocktail, king crab legs, sirloin tips, and a selection of hand made desserts stacked on baker's racks and spread out gloriously on white linen tables. Even their ice cream is homemade -- I actually met the woman who churns it.
This is how it was until last week, anyway -- until the government stepped in.
For weeks before our trip, my husband and I begin to fantasize about our visit to the Sterling Brunch. Having partaken of it for 10 years, we have the entire spread memorized, from the gigantic plates of exotic cheeses at the beginning of the buffet, to the crab salad, to the sushi, the large basket of crusty dill and tomato topped rolls and soups to the eggs Benedict -- the carving station with lamb, prime rib, and ham -- well, you get the picture.
So, on our most recent visit, when I rounded the corner to the area the delectable cheese display has occupied for at least a decade, I found nothing. I then noticed the bread basket had disappeared, as well as the usual bowl of whipped butter -- and, almost too tragic to write about, there wasn't a dessert in sight.
Luckily, we'd each had a glass of champagne at the table and were able to absorb the shock without crying out in despair right there in line.
When we got back to our table, sans cheeses, sans dill rolls, sans shrimp cocktail, I inquired to our waiter -- "Where the hell's the cheese and everything?"
Not really -- after all, he's the one who pours the champagne.
But I did politely inquire about the absence of so many of their traditional offerings.
"Oh," he replied with a note of chagrin. "We had to remove some of them. The health department came last week -- we didn't have the right sneeze guards."
My husband and I shot each other a look -- that just-when-you-didn't-think-you-could-hate-the-government-any-more-than-you-already-do look
Well, at least the champagne was still flowing. And when the dad gum gubmn't figures out how to stop that, I'm moving to France -- and taking my tax bill with me.