The Donkey Dance was a relic of Vegas trips yore. I premiered it in an Encore Salon Suite one drunken evening in 2012. In subsequent years, my personal suites became a stage. Those who’d previously witnessed the spectacle played their role in hyping the performance to new-comers.

“You don’t know about the Donkey Dance?!”

“How have you been to Vegas and never witnessed the Donkey Dance?”

“Mike was once a professional dancer famous for the Donkey Dance. It’ll be the highlight of your trip.”

As years passed, my group of Vegas friends became more consistent and I was forced to retire the production—what good was performing the greatest Gesamtkunstwerk if not observed by fresh eyes?

“I Odds You To…”

We’d been playing “odds” throughout this trip. A dare is placed and the one given the dare says a probable range they’ll perform the task. Innocent joke? Set the range low to get your heart racing. Something that could get you arrested? Set the range high to ensure you’re safe. If after the count of three both parties yell the same number within that range, the person given the dare must act on it.

I was “odds’d” to pose with a father and son who looked exactly alike. It hit.

I was “odds’d” to join a random table at Chandelier Bar. It hit.

And on the final night of the trip, on the eve of my birthday in the very same two-bedroom Skyloft I reviewed four years ago, I was “odds’d” to perform the Donkey Dance to a stranger.

Despite setting the range astronomically high… it hit.

The Play

Creativity is fair game and I had to make the invitation irresistible. I got in the Skyloft robe and slippers with nothing underneath except, oddly enough, my watch. Then I asked the girls to borrow their foldable silk fans—the kind that snap open—before I requested their company.

The elevator bank that serves the highest floors of MGM’s Grand Tower has a set of frosted glass double doors at its end. Behind it is a foyer with two elevators that feed the Skylofts. We lingered here unseen in the wee hours of the morning watching through the crack of the double doors for a potential audience as drunk patrons sauntered back to their rooms.

“No, too innocent looking.”

“No, too sober.”

“No, too many aggro dudes.”

And then, boom. I saw a fun-loving, drunk couple around my age stumbling back for the night. I turned to the girls: “Let’s rock and roll.”

We stepped out from the double doors. Imagine, a 6’1″ guy in a robe and slippers with three lovely ladies posing provocatively behind him. I called out to the couple…

“Excuse me. Do you know what the [I snapped the silk fan open and fanned myself] Donkey Dance is?”

The guy shrugged his shoulders, looked at his date and said, “Let’s find out!” as they followed us up to the Skyloft.

Preparation

Our newfound friends were gregarious and kind. We shared drinks in the suite and gushed over our love for Vegas.

“How’d you two meet?” I asked. They said they’d been playing poker online for a number of months before finally meeting in-person for the first time tonight—a dubious answer perhaps, but considering I’ve made lasting friendships with many of you through this very blog, I didn’t think much of it.

Then I caught a glimpse of his watch: a GMT-Master II.

“Beautiful Rolex,” I said as I pulled up my sleeve to reveal my own. He acknowledged my Datejust and we nerded-out on our over-priced, over-compensating time-tellers.

“We’re in Vegas all the time. Let me get your number,” he said. He called me at that moment but I find electronics in robe pockets to be cumbersome and didn’t have my phone on me. He then asked to get a tour of the Skyloft. While caution had me initially uncomfortable with the idea—I had, after all, only known them for all of ten minutes—I thought to myself, “Your watch is on your wrist, the bankroll’s in the safe, and 10 of your closest friends are in the room with you,” and proceeded with the tour.

While in the master bedroom, I could hear the crowd downstairs in unison…

“DONKEY DANCE!”

“DONKEY DANCE!”

“DONKEY DANCE!”

It was my cue. I gestured to my guests to make their way downstairs before me and take a seat wherever they’d like.

Performance

Finally, the moment had arrived. I took a swig straight from the vodka bottle we’d been pouring shots from and asked…

“Has anyone ever seen the Donkey Dance? I’ll show you!”

I turned around and flung the robe up. Like a superhero’s cape, the upper half of my body vanished behind it revealing my bare ass. I went full spread as my pair of pendulums swung to and fro in full range of motion choreographed to my pitch-perfect “HEE-HAWS.” Veterans of past Donkey Dance displays all agreed: it was my best performance yet; a full two and a half seconds of total ecstasy.

And with that, I thanked the audience, apologized profusely, and wrangled everyone out of my Skyloft. Some of us descended onto a pai gow table where we proceeded to ride streak after streak of winning hands over Fireball shots—my first day as a 41-year-old was starting with a bang. Little did I know, I hadn’t seen anything yet.

An Elaborate Scheme?

I woke up feeling great; hangovers seem less potent when you’re up a couple grand. I took a long steam shower, packed the rest of my belongings, and proceeded to the concierge desk on the Skyloft floor to check out. As I awaited my bill, I received a text from a number I didn’t recognize…

The blood drained from my face and I must’ve lost all color in my complexion because the concierge literally said, “Mr. E, is everything OK?”

Was this a scam? If so, it was oddly specific. I couldn’t think straight. The concierge offered to have security escort me down. I figured that wouldn’t be necessary but thankfully ran into friends in the VIP Lounge downstairs and took a moment to collect my thoughts.

“Was this the gentleman from last night? ” I said to myself. Then I remembered he called me the night before. I cross-referenced and sure enough, I had a missed call at 2:47am from the same number that texted me.

This wasn’t a scam. The guy was missing his Rolex and thought I was the one who stole it. Did he really think I put on a production of robes and fans and displayed my hairy ass and balls in an elaborate scheme to steal his watch? Look, if I was actually capable of doing that—if somehow frantic gestations of my anus could place one in a trance deep enough to unclasp and remove their Rolex—then call me Daniel “David Blaine” Ocean and give me a fucking medal.

I couldn’t ignore it. I had a flight in five hours and to make matters worse, I was traveling to Mexico the very next day to finish off the birthday week; fleeing the country without clearing my name would look highly suspicious. I had to respond…

Just a case of mistaken identity. In that moment, I melted into the sofas of the VIP Lounge and reflected on the previous night; thank god I kept my watch on, thank god I used the room safe, and thank god I can get hammered enough to display my hanging ballsack while still having my wits about me.

I told him to call the police. I wanted so badly to help him. We even had video of her but alas, he let it go; a criminal that can ruin your domestic life has impunity.

And here I was excited to cooperate in an investigation: “Officer, please pause the video before you see my bare ass.”

I spent the final hours of the trip saddled up at Whiskey Down, calming my nerves and laughing with my closest friends at the events that just unfolded when the gentleman from last night asked to hang out.

As much as I would’ve loved to, I thought it’d be wiser to heed the age-old advice…

Don’t talk to strangers… or show them your hairy ass.