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She dressed completely inappropriately for the occasion. She had been told they were going to a casino. She thought it would be cute to dress trashily, a hipster comment on the casino culture in the Midwest.

She had succeeded in looking like a misplaced Flintstones character. An alcoholic, estranged aunt that Wilma would probably not trust to babysit Pebbles.

Fortunately, at a casino in Wisconsin, there was a high likelihood of someone wearing full Green Bay Packers regalia.  Perhaps a hat made of fake cheese.  She couldn’t look that ridiculous, right?

“Oh my gahwd, you look fierce!” screeched Pablo. He had picked up a pair of aviator sunglasses off the floor and was wearing them proudly.  Sooner or later an octogenarian with a sweatshirt replete with kitten apliques was bound to track him down…

“Let’s just get a drink,” she replied.

In the Midwest, everything is cheaper.  They were able to procure a pitcher of beer and deep fried cheese curds for around $12.00.

They gazed at the endless rows of digital neon populated by obese, deer-hunting Wisconsonians.  She sighed.  She may not have met the dress code, but she finally felt at home.

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