Three times a day, saloon girls with fluffy hair and florid red cheeks perched atop them and belted out songs while flashing lace garters and more thigh than you’d see in a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Tacky, yes, but it captured the Old-West ebullience of Vegas perfectly. The crowds loved it!

On an elevated stage at the center of the action was Paige, with the face of an angel, the bod of a vixen, in full Dolly regalia. Her apple-pie-à-la-mode shoulder-length blonde hair was a cascade of lush curls and waves, her pale skin luminous, her big blue eyes heavily mascara’d and generously coated with glittery blue shadow. She was poured into a short, lemon-meringue-pie-yellow dress with a full skirt, lacy elbow-length sleeves, and a tight, low-cut bodice embellished with a sparkly-silver butterfly.

“Holy shit! Is that Paige?” Paula snorted, doing a double take.

“No, it’s Dolly Parton,” I shot back.

“She looks like Mothra with a boob job!”

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