As Sober As I Wanna Be: DECF Does Las Vegas: Sunday

Posted: March 14, 2010 by kaostheory in Slice of Life
Tags: , , , , ,

I won’t futz around with introing this. Let’s just keep the recap rolling, bitches.
I was rudely awakened at about 10:00 AM with a “Get the hell up, we got to roll” from Superfly. I groaned, fussed and got up. Dressing quickly, we went to explore Sin City. First up was retrieving our Players Club cards from The Mirage then our VIP Packages from the nearby mall. After a little wandering, we returned to BB King’s Blues Club (a place we would find ourselves a few times in the following days) where I consumed by far and away the best barbeque pulled pork ever. Then it was back to the room to regroup, reset and lock in our gameplan. Apparently, our game plan – after sorting out the multitude of passes – was to party until noon on Monday. Oh God. We followed this planning session with what seemed to my feet to be equal to the Bataan Death March. See, I required Magners’ which is, for the uninitiated, a hard cider than is smoother than…well, other ciders. The only place they serve it in the United States to my knowledge is at Nine Fine Irishmen in New York, New York, another Vegas hotel. This hotel is also way the hell down near the other end of the strip. It’s quite a bit further than I was expecting and my stupid-ass shoes have like no padding left so it was like walking on wooden blocks a good mile, mile and a half. NY, NY was also…sad. It was kinda cool but had just this…uncomfortable feel about it. Couple that with the stupid fucking Yankees fan asshole standing RIGHT UP ON my back as Superfly grabbed the cider and I was about to smash a table on someone. That damn drink had better be worth it. It was, of course, and the anger at the dickbag melted away. After a little gambling, we hit the road again to go back to our hotel. This secondary trek was miserable. But the pain was not to end there.

My feet have suffered many pains but the agony experienced in the hours – and days – after that walk was unconscionable. Spikes shot through the arches and heels of my feet. After a reasonable amount of money lost at slots back at The Mirage, we hit the Carnegie Deli for massive corned beef and egg sandwiches which were more like omelettes on toast. And no, The Oscars were not on the menu. More like getting fucked on Ciroc and mohito mix. (Note to readers: It was at this point that we began to exhibit symptoms of being drunk. Much of the writing from this point degraded to an odd level. Please excuse.) Booyah. Soon, it may have been time for sportsbook. Sportsbook at Caesars Palace, of course. First up, though, was killing our multiple drinks, suiting the fuck up, rap musicking and being fucking awesome. Pure? You better be ready for us, bitches. (All that is written after this point is retrospective as I could not have even handled a pen in my state. This was written the next day.)

Superfly and I already had our slant on when we got to Caesars Palace, so we were doing well. Unfortunately, we had misjudged the time. We were in fact an hour and a half early to the club. Whoops. No matter. There was an easy fix. Just sign up for a DIFFERENT Players Club card and gamble a bit. And drink. More. Oh, and go grab a little something to eat at Neros, that little something being wagyu beef tartare. Service there was total shit but the food was very tasty (salty and made us drink a lot of water, which may have been good for us) and we WERE fairly drunk already. After eating and wandering about aimlessly – including encountering caged dancing girls so hot I wanted to give them the entirety of the contents of my wallet – we managed to finally make it into Pure. It was…okay. Nothing spectacular about it, to be honest. Just purple lighting, 3/4 of the club being VIP Access only and subpar Long Island Iced Teas from a bartender who had no idea what a Vesper Martini was. After losing our spot at the wall due to an ill-fated table move, we killed our drinks and left, a bit disappointed. The night, though, was still young.

“The night is still young,” proclaimed Superfly, “so why don’t we go hit Lavo?” Lavo, for those not in the know, is a different nightclub, this one located in The Palazzo, further up The Strip from Caesars Palace. “What the hell,” I figured. You only live once. So we moved our drunk asses all the way to The Palazzo. Not quite sure how. It was not nearly as easy as we would have hoped. Still, we made it which can be considered a victory. Once we were there, we – courtesy of our Pass package – got to feel like real ballers. We flashed the passes and our grins – surprising the security guard who asked how the hell we got a hold of these. According to Superfly, he said that he had to kill a few people and the guy laughed. Consider the source though. In any case, he nodded and led us past the people waiting in line, ushering us right through the door. The glares and surprised looks were like visual candy for me. So addictive and so bad for me, but so gratifying.

Before I get back to the clu, I need to explain something. Superfly and I are not poor-looking. We’re relatively attractive, what with my bright blue eyes and his baby face. The suits we brought weren’t cheap and we clean up well enough to have them fit us quite well. All things considered, we’re pretty hot. We would have rolled downtown Nashville or Knoxville or even Atlanta. But Vegas? There is no way in God’s wonderful earth that we can even hope to compete with the men there. Not that they’re necessarily better-looking (though some admittedly were) but they had on suits that cost thousands of dollars, can drop tons of money on blackjack and poker and high-stakes fucking anything, drive expensive cars….basically, I’m saying that the Vegas sluts follow the green. Green that Superfly and I don’t have. Anyways.

As I was saying, as kinda crappy as Pure was, Lavo was that much more awesome. We went straight for the bar to fill our already-swollen-with-booze stomachs with Coronas (the beer of choice for the trip, apparently) and Patron and Sprites. Drinks in hand, we circled the club, sensed inflamed by the music, lights, colors and probably liter of alcohol flowing through our bloodstreams. Eventually, we settled on a nice spot beside the dance floor, conveniently positioning ourselves right at eye-level with a tight-leather-clad, gyrating, Grade-A+ lady ass. In a sober state, it would have warranted repeated lecherous glances. Drunk as I was, it kept my rapt attention. It took all I had to not hop up and begin dry-humping the ever-loving shit out of her. Alas, self-control won out once more. Now, had we decided to end the night at Lavo, we could have retreated back to The Mirage at a somewhat reasonable-ish hour, drunk and happy. We could have gotten a good night’s sleep and awoken the next morning mostly rested and relaxed. We could have. But we didn’t. We chose to be stupid bastards instead and went to The Bank at The Bellagio.

Let me preface this part by saying the memory of the night is fractured at best. The drink bested me once more. Due to being an unreliable narrator, I’m just going to put down what fragments are there in as close to the chronological order I can piece together.

– We managed to catch a cab to The Bellagio around – I believe – 2:00 AM. In the course of the ride, it is asked of us if we are going to a strip club. I promptly spend the rest of the ride trying horribly to convince Superfly to go so I can buy him a lapdance.
– The line at The Bank was crazy. We – even with the passes – were in line around forty minutes. Insane.
– Once in the club, we went to use the bathroom. As I waited for Superfly, I was approached and asked if I was okay. That should have been a sign to stop. It didn’t exactly catch.
– Our DJ was Pauly D from Jersey Shore. This was cooler last night than it is in retrospect. Superfly disagrees.
– We thought we saw Vince Young, Tennessee Titans quarterback, no less than four times. We didn’t.
– We got more Coronas and Grey Goose/cranberry juices. This was bad.
– “Bad Romance” made me dance like an asshole. I’m down with that.
– The last concrete memory I have of the night is Superfly and me trying desperately to hail a cab to get back to The Mirage, because we both knew we were on the verge of a total crash and burn. We couldn’t get one so we settled for the next limo. Let me repeat that. We SETTLED for a LIMO. A FUCKING LIMO. Even now, it is unknown how much I paid for it or even if I paid for it at all. We may well have stolen a limo ride. It will never be known.
-Oh, right. And Superfly pissed in the elevator then kicked his suitcase over and scattered his clothes all over the room before he went to sleep.

Whatever time we got in was ungodly late. We passed out. Morning was not in our minds. It…probably should have been.
Tomorrow? The Hangover. Oh God.

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