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But this isn’t really a story about Dennis Rodman.

Dennis’s Abrupt Halt–

A Stumbling Otis Original



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The Abrupt Halt of Dennis Rodman

In a former life I worked in a position that granted me steady access to mayhem, mischief, mass amounts of mons pubis and, of course, celebrity.   I was a lead valet in Vegas at one of the hottest hotels of the era.   I encountered numerous celebrities some pleasant and humble, some raving asses of the monumental proportion.

In a former life I worked in a position that granted me steady access to mayhem, mischief, mass amounts of mons pubis and, of course, celebrity.
In a former life I worked in a position that granted me steady access to mayhem, mischief, mass amounts of mons pubis and, of course, celebrity.

One of my favorite brushes with popular fame was Dennis Rodman.   This was the time when Dennis was literally king; the NBA rebound champion for the Jordan era Bulls, Carmen Electra sexing, MTV phenom, media darling KING!

But this isn’t really a story about Dennis Rodman.

This is a story about his sad, suburban, white-boy posse of wanna-be playas.   How or WHY “that” Dennis Rodman, the one with dough and current event status ended up rolling with this two-bit cast of clowns I do not know but one particular evening the sweet goddess Karma shined down her lovely light and for a moment dulled the neon of Las Vegas in a way only a deity can.

Too be fair and sincere Dennis was well liked amongst the service staff- he had a reputation of being good to bartenders, servers, cocktail girls, doorman and anyone that treated him well. Dennis was never the issue in this tale; this you will see.

The issue was his noodle-dick crew that he would arrive with. For sake of time I wont digress into their individual fashion choices, suffice to same these guys mostly worked as clerks at Citibank or Autozone in the day—they wore name tags for a living, shopped for clothes at Penney’s when Grandma sent a gift card. This is not exaggeration, I 100% shit you not, the lead pup of this pleather wearing pack had a custom painted portrait of Dennis Rodman airbrushed on the hood of his Ford Expedition. No joke, a factory blue Expedition with cheap 20’ rims and a multi-colored, airbrushed headshot of Dennis – pink/green hair, silver nose ring, white sunglasses all emblazoned over a gray, swirly background then awkwardly mounted on the hood of his prick’s ride.   I mean forget the obvious juggernaut of total douchery this represented but the color-schemes didn’t even blend.

It was like your everyday, mundane high school math teacher walking into class with wearing a bright yellow t-shirt of Mighty Mouse with his cock out…… it just did not work!

Club Rio was the busiest club in town at the time. Cars would come in a thousand deep. Real VIP’s and showoff tourists with $20 bills were dime a dozen. Getting “PARKED” i.e. left in the very limited, very select area at or near the front doors of the hotel was an honor, not a privilege. (For the record do you want to know who always got preferential treatment? – The HOOKERS! Damn right- we loved, respected and protected our girls.)

Anyway- Dennis sometimes rode in with this goof troop and because Dennis was Dennis he got “PARKED”.When you 6’8” have neon hair and sport Carmen Electra on your arm you get noticed, quickly.   When Dennis arrived he’d hop out and be swarmed by autograph chasers and photo requests. This often left his dipshit crew to handle the car, to speak to the valets. They were smug and entitled and never offered as much as a dollar of respect to justify their VIP treatment.   The surfed the Dennis wave barely acknowledging their own luck.   Quite the same when exiting, one of the dingleberries would be out 5 minutes early, demand the keys or that ugly fucking Ford be brought to the curb, they wouldn’t give a dollar, total stiff, then Dennis would unknowingly come out, again swarmed by flashbulbs and handshakes doing his polite best to make the car and off they would zip.

This routine had happened numerous times– you don’t stiff VIP parking service at a trendy Vegas hotel many times and expect it to be ok.   If you don’t know that you don’t deserve to be there, you’re out of your element.   One particularly busy night same story. D-bag crew, Dennis lost in a blizzard of fans, no tip in…..

We left him parked up, at the curb, prime location near the front doors. His boy rolled out early got the keys and readied the DickWagon.   This night however our valet crew had had enough, when Dennis erupted from the front door flooded by onlookers my fellow crew lead, a veteran of the hustle, and I pushed our way through the bodies and grabbed his attention and politely ushered him into the baggage room adjacent to the sidewalk. The automatic doors whisked closed to quiet the throng and we proceeded to explain the situation to Mr. Rodman.

“Dennis, do we take care of you?”- Us
“Yes, always.”- DR
“Do you know your boys stiff and act like poorly dressed dicks to us?”-Us (Yes, attire matters, its Vegas. Respect the goddamn Rat Pack- it’s a hotel, not fucking Walmart)
“Stiff? Really?-DR
“Every time Dennis.”-US
“Shiiiit”- DR
he paused glanced then slapped the entire roll into my partners hand.
he paused glanced then slapped the entire roll into my partners hand.

With a humble nod and bit of shy grimace Dennis reached his big hands into his pants pocket, pulled out his roll, flipped through it, started to peel back a couple of hundos, he paused glanced then slapped the entire roll into my partners hand. Ended up being a little over $350 if memory serves.

“Sorry fellas!”- DR

The peacock-headed giant turned and walked back in to the tumult, hopped in the waiting rear seat of the DickWagon and slammed the door.

A suitable end one could say. A rare word of praise about an often maligned former star but this fair reader is not the end. Lady Karma’s intergalactic finger tips hadn’t yet wisped her wand…..

 We simply must digress.

On arrival the DickWagon had pulled in tight to the curb and overly near to a pair of bright yellow bollards.   These 10” steel pipes had been buried 3 feet into the parking lot then filled with concrete.   They had been installed to protect the public from errant cabs and they could have stopped an aircraft carrier.   The DickWagon’s front bumper was about 20” from the guardian pair. Far too close to see from behind the wheel given the jacked up Ford. From the driver’s seat the view must have looked like smooth sailing, an easy get away.

No one knows what was said when Dennis entered the DickWagon but they sat idling for a moment or two. Then suddenly the engine rev’d, the shifter dropped to D and the rear tires chirped with smoke.   The DickWagon was prime to launch. With the torque of Detroit four wheel drive that Expedition rocketed forward in front of a crowd of looky-lo’s and snap happy tourists, it shot forward with dramatic effect…….. about 2 feet!


Plastic shattering impact. The DickWagon hit so hard the rear tires left the ground, awkwardly pinching the tire against the curb giving off that bumper car chirp of rubber.   A fist size chunk of cheap alloy rim was lying on the sidewalk. The drivers unprepared mouth crushed the wheel, blood could be easily seen by all 100 + guffawing onlookers. The passenger’s face left a greasy smear to his side. The Ford’s grill was a broken mess, the bumper had matching caved in creases.

The DickWagon hit so hard the rear tires left the ground
The DickWagon hit so hard the rear tires left the ground

The perfect irony however was that when the bumper crushed in, the grill pressed in toward the engine and the hood latch finally gave way, that airbrush catastrophe, that carnival caricature hood buckled under the strain leaving a solid two foot fold giving the portrait of Dennis Rodman a butt dimple chin.

The rest is secondary…. Squealing reverse. A pointing, jeering crowd.

Dennis didn’t come back to the Rio for a while, eventually he did.   The noodle-dick crew was never to be seen again.

I have loved karma ever since.


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