Long before Travis, the FaceOff Chimp went apeshit (heh) and tore the face off his owner's friend, there was Montecore. In 2003, Montecore, a white bengal tiger went crazy and mauled Roy of Siegfried and Roy mid-show, tearing open his jugular and leaving him paralyzed on one half of his body. Chris Rock would argue "that tiger didn't go crazy, that tiger went tiger!"
This past Saturday night in Vegas, Siegried and Roy and Montecore returned to the stage for the first time since the mauling for a final, one-off charity performance to officially bid farewell to their fans.
I only wish I could have been there for the majesty of this blessed event. Several months before the brutal mauling, two of my girlfriends and I had the good fortune of experiencing the magnificent splendor that is Siegfried and Roy. It was a night we will remember for as long as we live, for several reasons...
It was our maiden voyage to Sin City and we approached that Easter weekend with all the cockeyed optimism three Vegas virgins could muster. After two nights, which included an unfortunate vomit incident inside a limo, an unfortunate vomit incident inside the Bellagio, hiring a big Mexican dude to carry me back to my hotel due to a combination of vodka consumption and ill-advised footwear, and being complimented on our matching prom dresses by the stripper ladies at the Crazy Horse Too (is it really a compliment when it's coming from a woman clad head-to-toe in fishnet? Methinks, no) we arrived at the legendary Mirage hotel for what we knew would be an evening of glorious magic and splendid beauty with more than a dash of cheesy goodness the likes of which only Seigfried and Roy could provide.
Before the show, we spent the day walking the strip, stopping at several casinos along the way for a drink. The novelty of being allowed to leave a casino with a glass of booze in your hand and then walk the strip with the aformentioned booze glass in hand had yet to wear off on us. We were running low on time and after a pedicab ride back to our hotel, we quickly changed (into matching outfits, natch) downed a couple more drinks and grabbed a cab for the Mirage. We had wicked seats to the show, right up front. It was explained to us that because of our close proximity to the stage and because the performance involved live, wild animals, we were not permitted to get up from our chairs at any time during the show. This did not seem problematic at the time. However, that would soon change....
After throwing back a couple vodkas before the show began, my one friend turned to us and expressed she had to use the bathroom. The show was set to start any minute so we suggested she bust outta there super quick-style. She hummed and hawed until it was too late, lights out, tigers on stage. The show was breathtaking (and not 'breathtaking' in the way that dude used to describe that ugly baby on Seinfeld) it was truly wonderous and phenomenal. We laughed at several points during the experience, we cried during others. Then, about 90 minutes into this monumental extravaganza, my friend turned to us in sheer panic, she really had to go to the bathroom. Bad. The pressure on her bladder became so much that she could no longer enjoy the spectacle unfolding before us, all she could focus on was the extreme pain and discomfort. We encouraged her to hold on, that surely, after 90 minutes, the show must soon be reaching its conclusion. Ten minutes later, she turned to us yet again this time in a state that can only be described as pure, unadulterated hysteria. We desperately tried to talk her off the ledge, we were confident the show had ten minutes left, at the most. "Hang in there" we said. Then, as the colour drained from her face and her expression turned from panic to defeat, our friend muttered three words that would reverberate in our ears for years to come - "it's too late." My other friend and I looked at each other in confusion, "what do you mean, 'too late'?" we asked. Our friend could hold on no longer, the pain simply became too intense and release was the only option. Needless to say, this was not a particularly enjoyable nor welcomed turn of events for our dear friend.
Several months later, as I was surfing some online news sites and came across the shocking and tragic story of Roy's mauling, I emailed my friend to break the news. Because I am an asshole, I suggested that perhaps the stench of her urine, left lingering in that seat, month after month, performance after performance had eventually triggered Montecore to snap and attack his master? Could she have played role in the mauling of our dear Roy?
She did not share my hypothesis.
2 comments:
What I really want to know is if you let your friend change her pants before commencing the rest of your evening, or did she have to walk around in pee-pants all night at the expense of saving the cost of cab fare back to the hotel...?
I plead the fifth on the changing of the pee pants question.
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