Archive for March, 2011

Let’s just get to it. This is not going to be a fun recap. This isn’t what I particularly want to relive, but what the hell. Gotta tell you all about the good and the bad. And this is mostly bad. Holy Hannah. Let’s just do this and get it done with.
Monday morning, 10 AM, came way too quickly. I woke up and immediately knew something was wrong. Specifically, I noticed that sometime during the night our room had been placed into a gyroscope and was spinning uncontrollably. Curious and curiouser. My next reaction was more apropos. I walked calmly to the bathroom, bent over and lost the entirety of the previous night’s escapades into the porcelain shrine. Let me tell you this: there is almost nothing worse coming back up than motherfucking tater tots. That shit is like white-hot broken glass. It shreds the absolute shit out of your throat, especially the back of it. It literally hurt to swallow ANYTHING – including water – for two days. I did feel a bit better, albeit weak and dizzy. The best solution?

Planet Hollywood of course. Sonofabitch. Earl of Sandwich is there and I did need to get food into my belly. The sandwiches there are great and next time, I want to eat one when I’m not hungover to shit and can’t swallow. I think mine was some kind of club sandwich. I don’t really know. I may have still been a tad drunk. Goddamn Patron and Sprites. Most of the next…while was just spent wandering around the casino (winning like thirty bucks, shockingly), sitting in the sportsbook and browsing the sports shop again. Maybe it was the Hangover Monster talking or maybe the dehydration and sickness were overriding my Frugality Center, but this time, I couldn’t just walk away without buying SOMETHING. No, I didn’t get a jersey. Even hung the hell over, I can’t blow that much cash. I did, however, purchase autographed pictures of Earl Campbell and Steve McNair (God rest his soul). I considered – and still do – that a compromise win right there.

The rest of the afternoon was spent back in the hotel room, napping and puking. God bless Las Vegas. Eventually, I got up the strength to pop on down to Holstein’s again for dinner and a milkshake. We didn’t have Hottie McFineass as our waitress (we had a dude) but he was friendly and on top of things enough to warrant a really good tip. I think we were both still just pissed over Prime’s shitty treatment of us. We decided afterwards to just walk around a bit and did so, just checking out the water show at The Bellagio (really just impressive) and coming back to the room for another Bourdain marathon (seems to be a pattern now) and chilling out. We ended the night with an awkward tension in the room because a Girls Gone Wild uncensored special came on and neither of us were willing to either change the channel or “take care of business” with the other in the room. Like I said, awkward. Soon enough, sleep came and my pain was mostly done.

The next morning (Tuesday) was nasty. A 7:15 wakeup call is never a pleasant moment. Ever. I decided to take a shower and did so (with a little private time in the toilet as well) and before we knew it, we were checked out and riding to the airport in a shuttle. Funny story, the douchebags in front of us thought that it was a free service so there was much grumbling and complaining as they fished out money to give to the driver. I figure that they deserved it just for being presumptuous dicks.

Even early-ish in the morning, the lines at Delta are long and winding. Superfly and I were smart to actually have seat numbers given to us for the planes but were also lucky enough to see the creepy old guy (in a damn TURTLENECK) flirting with a Dani Woodward lookalike in the line in front of us. That was not a pleasant experience and I kinda wanted him to suffer a heart attack. I’m vindictive when I’m tired, what can I tell you? Anyways, after the security line, I had an idea that would probably not be feasible but still is cool anyway. From security to the D-gates at the airport in Vegas, they have a tram system that goes underground and I figured that instead of a security line, why not put a full scale scanner that can scan the whole tram at once and then just pull out suspicious people as they exit? Eh? Eh? Yeah maybe not.

Breakfast was a half-decent Egg McMuffin fake at some diner in the airport and, quick as you please, we were on our flight and I was unconscious. Yes, I slept all the way to Atlanta. It was glorious. Nothing passes the time faster than not being awake, I tell you what. What was funny was when we touched down in Atlanta and had to taxi for a little while. See, they have these screens in chair backs on big planes and you can watch TV or movies or whatever on then. Well…they broke. Or at least their programming did. Linux, by the way. So we spent about five minutes watched the Linux debug and restart. It was entertaining just to see how bad it had failed. Because Delta is generally a fail anyways.

The time we spent in Atlanta is pretty…whatever. It didn’t warrant any sort of space in my mind or in my notes. It just was. It was what happened when we boarded the plane that is the stuff of nightmares. You see, Superfly and I had one last “fuck you boys” coming to us straight from the universe and it came in the form of THIRTY-FIVE MOTHERFUCKING MIDDLE SCHOOLERS. Wired from their trip to Boston and caught in that strange realm of bravado and growing pubic hair, they are the harbingers of pure noise. It was hell. For the entirety of the half hour we were on the tarmac and the half hour flight to Nashville, a wall of sound surrounded us, drowning us in insanity. FUCK MIDDLE SCHOOLERS. What they did on that plane was tantamount to a war crime. Superfly and I both agreed that if we were to die to save the world, let it happen by making that plane crash. Even my Happy Place, complete with half-naked blonde bombshell, was invaded by their incessant chattering. Everyone over the age of eighteen on that plane had their heads in their hands and were softly weeping. I’m not even kidding about that. There is nothing worse than a middle school child. I say between the ages of 12 and 16 that they be locked up in an asylum filled only with themselves and left to devour themselves or form a crude society built on height and taunting. Call this hyperbole if you like but there has never been anything so horrible to exist.

A quick car ride home (met with blissful silence) and our Vegas excursion was over. I’m still tired from it. But Lord help me…I want to go back.
There. This is done. We’ll be back to crazy shit soon, I swear.

One note on this half of Sunday before I begin. I’m going to do my best to piece this together but these notes are drunken and horribly scribbled. The fact that they actually EXIST is a testament to my dedication to the idea of recapping my experiences. I’ll do my best to get these down as best I can, but there’s only so much I can do with garbage. Also, one further note: Sunday nights in Vegas for whatever reason tend to FUCK me. It did last year. It did this year. I’m sure it will next time I show up there – either for a bachelor party or just Spring Break again. Sunday nights make Monday mornings horrible. But more on that next entry. For now? The second and insane half of Sunday night.
After fucking around with gambling for a little while, we went back up to the room to change. My choice of clothes for the night was a nice black suit that fit me a little better than the gray one and my blue/purple iridescent shirt, which I still believe is totally badass and not gay at all. Fortunately, our reservation was at Prime Steakhouse, just next door at The Bellagio, so we were able to just trot over there around 7:30. I gotta say…not the best experience. I mean, the food is fantastic – we both got steaks (Superfly got peppercorn and I got a bone-in ribeye) – but it…it’s not a place I would recommend. To start with, as soon as we got there, we saw that there were tables open near the windows so we could have a great view of the fountains but when my brother asked if we could have one of them, the maitre’d responded, and I quote, “I’m sorry, but those tables are reserved for our priority customers”. Priority customers. Translation? “I’m sorry, but you clearly aren’t important enough to warrant prime seating”. Superfly and I were so insulted that he nearly made us walk out right there, but we managed to calm down and get seated at a not-bad table instead. Of course, our waiter, an older man, also clearly didn’t consider us important enough. We saw him about three or four times all meal. He did not, shall we say, get a good tip. This is the thing that chaps my ass is this: how did those men that we were NOT going to drop a couple thousand on a huge meal and wine? We could have been heirs to a fortune and could have loaded up the bill. Instead, because we were young, we got less than optimal treatment. Poor show. We’re not going to go back again.

The next stop, though, was by far and away the best of the trip. Why, you ask? Simple. Titties. We went to X-Burlesque at The Flamingo. It was the greatest public experience of my life. Notice I prefaced it with public, since I have had a few private moments that have been much more awesome, but those are neither here nor there. Anyways, we stood in line about a half hour behind these two couples, one of which was very nice and the other which was obnoxious. Surprisingly, the older couple was the obnoxious one. He was clearly a grizzled Vegas vet and she was his “trophy” floozie (although trophy is generous – call her more the ‘participation’ ribbon). Amusingly, the two of them didn’t have VIP passes like they thought they did so we were able to go in ahead of them and take our table. The tables are small and really packed in but they’re very close to the stage which is the important thing. And boy, is it.

It was incredible. Gorgeous girls without tops on is a very underrated subset of American society. Criminally underused. I can’t even go into detail about what I saw. A stunning blonde doing “When You’ve Got It, Flaunt It” from The Producers (basically now the default setting for my Happy Place). “Hey, Big Spender”. Multiple rap songs. This way hot “Innocence” thing. A legs thing that got most guys sweating, if they weren’t already. This one girl that looked like Danica McKellar doing a song that was basically just “Um, I noticed you, I found you very attractive, will you go to bed with me?” (more or less). And of course, the requisite hot-as-hellfire Asian to go along with almost dead-ringers for Zooey Deschanel and Julia Allison. They even had a comedian for “half-time”, James Bean, that was maybe the funniest guy I’ve ever seen. Walking out, nearly every guy that was there had the biggest shit-eating grin on his face, myself included. Incredible.

After we left The Flamingo, we began the process of sending the night spiraling. The tipping point? Stopping at an on-Strip liquor store for 16 oz. Dos Equis cans. From there, things just got…weird. As we walked, we were suddenly accosted by a very animated lady ushering over to a “movie booth” with a motorcycle and a green screen. Apparently, we needed to make our own shitty-quality movie for free (with the implication that we’d pay money for a copy of the shitty-quality movie). We shrugged, said ‘what the hell’ and went and did it. It was bizarre but I at least got to chug my beer and flip off a crowd of people gathering to watch which was okay. And no, we didn’t buy the damn thing. It was horrendous, worse than I was thinking. About two hundred yards from there, this guy dressed in a nice suit came up to us and asked if we wanted to go to a strip club. We almost took him up on it but rationalized that we didn’t have any ones and probably shouldn’t be deviating from our route anyway, so we declined.

Eventually, we made it to The Palazzo and Lavo. It was…unspectacular. There aren’t even really any notes available other than a scribbled “sucked” followed by “fine, okay”. Whatever that means. Oh wait, before we hit Lavo, we were shangheid in The Palazzo by a dude with the promise of no cover into a not-very-hopping bar. I think it was called V? Something like that. It was alright. Pretty quiet. We each killed a Corona and flirted with the bartender a bit. Nothing more to that. THEN we did Lavo and all that stuff I said about it up there.

Honestly, I don’t know how we got to The Bellagio. I have in my notes that we taxied, which we may have, but I recall also walking at night through the shops at Caesar’s Palace. Maybe that was the night before? It’s all kind of a blur. I do know that we made it to Caramel (a lounge) and get two for one drinks from a bartender with unbelieveable tits. Like, they may have been the most magnificent ones I’ve seen in person and I don’t throw that moniker around lightly. Spectacular doesn’t begin to describe it. While I was drinking, I was hitting on the hot brunette next to me and she seemed receptive until another guy went on her other side at which point she started talking to him. Bitch. Whatever. It was on to The Bank.

The Bank has never really been a…particularly positive experience for Superfly and I. The wait, even with the VIP passes, is way too long and it was this time as well. The way they play their admission is absolutely unfair. We bought the VIP passes which means that we should go in first, right? Apparently wrong. Apparently their default is “Oh no, man. We’re at capacity. Nobody getting in right now.” even in plain view of the many people walking out the club. Although, for a hundo in the pocket, apparently they aren’t at capacity anymore. Fucking douchebags. All of us in the VIP line, including a hot Egyptian chick that I was into, were drunk and pissed off. It was not a pleasant atmosphere in that line. At least I passed the time hitting on the chick, which was fun. After a far-too-long wait, our VIP passes seemed to work and we were let in. The Bank is never “in control”. It’s always way past the line of being able to be constrained. It’s just noise and light and dancing and sweat and sex. It’s pretty cool. It’s even cooler when Superfly and I together drop a hundo on drinks and have a great spot to stand and take pictures and chat with European dudes who don’t really get the vibe of the club. Oh and apparently the Black Eyes Peas were there, although I didn’t see them. Chaos is the best word for it.

I have no idea how long we were there. All I know is that we made it back to The Cosmo, went and got tater tots at The Henry, went back to the room and crashed the fuck out. Sleep was merciful to me because let me tell you…the next morning was not.
The last two days of the trip will be up tomorrow (God willing). As if it even matters, right?

Today’s song on blast? “Look What The Cat Dragged In” by Poison. I figured that was pretty apropos considering our Vegas Sunday basically spiraled from the time we woke up to the time that we crashed. “Half alive or half dead, I just can’t tell” is basically Monday morning’s slogan, but that will come up in a couple days. For now? The beginning to our Sunday. Apologies if this isn’t THAT entertaining today, but Sunday night is when shit really started getting real. But I’m telling you this story so I can tell you that one. Oh yeah and no St. Patty’s hangover so…bonus, I think. Having one two days later would be a real shitfest of a hangover, let me tell you.
Sunday morning came earlier than we expected, with 9:45 striking us bright and early. One neat fact about Vegas hotel rooms: the curtains are usually so thick and close so well that light cannot penetrate them, so even waking up, you still think it’s night. It can be disorienting, especially after a night of drinking. Anyway, we realized that we only had a little while to drop a few bets, so we got dressed and trotted down to the sportsbook to each drop a $40 four-team parlay. For those who don’t know what that is, it means that you place the bet for all four teams to win. If they do, you make a good deal more money (in our case, it would have been about $440) but if even one team loses, the parlay is dead. It’s high-risk/high-reward. Superfly bet on Celtics over Nets, Thunder over Wizards, Clippers over Grizzlies and Warriors over Timberwolves, while I dropped Celts/Nets and Thunder/Wiz but also 76ers over Jazz and Lakers over Magic. This, of course, before hearing that Kobe Bryant was a gametime decision, leading to a very short, very vulgar burst of annoyance. But food called.

Breakfast was at the Cosmo buffet, the Wicked Spoon. Basically, that buffet is like if Golden Corral won the lottery. Sort of. All the same, I was able to get some prime rib for my breakfast along with a mediocre Eggs Benedict and some awesome mango ice cream (among other various and sundry food items). It was pretty killer and the minor hangover I was rolling with went away soon enough. It was then off to the Miracle Mile in Planet Hollywood. I love that place. They have some awesome shops, two in particular. First, there is Sin City Brewery, a little bar that is usually manned by a pretty awesome “bro” and has some pretty good beer. We make a point to stop by every time we’re there to have a beer and chat about sports. This particular time was a little complicated due to already CARRYING an open beer but we made it work. He killed an ale and I knocked back a stout (it wasn’t as good as I remember it being) and then we were off to our second stop: the sports memorabilia place.

Let me preface this by saying that Superfly and I had entered the place last year and nearly had to change our shorts due to the absolute volume and impressiveness of their stock. This time was actually worse. You see, they had everything in the store for half price. Including signed jerseys. First up on my lust list? A Chris Johnson one with a poor quality signature that would be about $150. Next up was Jerry Rice for about $350 followed by the toughest walkaway I would ever have to make: a Joe Namath for what would be about $400. That’s just a little too rich for my blood. I still have dreams about that jersey. We would return a few more times in the next couple days and WOULD make purchases but that’s a later story. For now, we had to trot down to The Flamingo to get our passes.

Passes for what, you ask? Simply, mein freunde. X-Burlesque. I’m getting half-mast even just thinking about it but that is, again, a tale for the next entry. Bet you can’t wait for me to write that one now, huh? Bet not. Anyhow, after picking those up, Superfly wanted to hit the craps table and, seeing as how he had more disposable cash to toss around, I agreed and just watched. It went…not well. Some old dude in a sailor shirt kept scoring and eventually we walked away. That’s for the best though. The Flamingo is OLD Vegas, complete with the blast of cold air when you walk in the door, the horrific pink color scheme and subpar cocktail waitresses. I mean, Donny and Marie perform (or did) there. Donny and Marie! Their level of incestuous sexual tension dwarfs even George Michael Bluth and Maebe Funke’s and that’s saying a LOT. Arrested Development reference there. I wonder if either of them has ever inadvertantly called out the other’s name in bed. I’m going with…it’s not unlikely. Okay I’m grossing myself out now so time to move on.

Of course, when you lose on the craps tables at The Flamingo, clearly not having a hot hand, what’s the next reasonable course of action? Go and try to do the same damn thing at The Bellagio of course! We are stupid. Superfly, on a whim, pulled out an extra hundo from his account to try his luck. Surprisingly, he held steady for about a half hour, only losing a little bit at a time. Seeing guys come by and drop a thousand or two like it was nothing was unsettling though. That’s what happens when you can play with big boy money. After he had lost about half of it, we took our drinks and walked to the roulette table to try to see if we had better luck there. We…didn’t. Four straight hits on red made me try to tell Superfly to go all in on black but he didn’t hear in time. Poof. Time to leave. What now for two 20-somethings to do after gambling has somewhat lost its appeal?

Duh. Get drunk.

It wasn’t unintentional either. It wasn’t that it just happened. We looked at each other, shrugged and agreed to go get fucked up. Stop one was Cabo Wabo, back in the Miracle Mile. I’ll be blunt. I love the hell out that place. It has great food, good drinks (beer and otherwise) and top-shelf waitresses. Last time we snagged the alto voiced hottie. This time we got the hottie with tattoos and the “I’m being nice because I need the tip” smile. Whatever. She had two star tattoos – one on each shoulder blade – and it was impossible to stop myself from picturing actually using those stars as hand placement guides while reaming her spectacular butt for an hour. We got nachos and beer and left soon after, not because it wasn’t good but because we needed to amp up our drinking.

Our last stop before things really started to spike – and the last point on my Sunday notes that is comprehensible – was Blondie’s, a sports bar near the sports memorabilia place where the waitresses dress like cheerleaders (shit, does Vegas cover MOST of my fetishes or what?) and we were able to get two-for-one Bud Lights. Oh no, friend. Not bottles or cans. Fucking PITCHERS. We really should have known that this would kind of kick off The Night but we were too interested in drinking. Give you a hint, it’s really tough to kill two pitchers of beer. We made it through about a whole one (maybe a little more) and then, in a show of what we hoped was good karma) gave the other one to a nearby table of thirsty looking dudes.

It didn’t really work. We went back to The Bellagio and Cosmo and gambled some more and Superfly did manage to score on a sportsbook bet for $125 (savant that he is) but soon enough, it was time to get ready for the night that was to come. I’ll say it right now…nothing could have prepared us or gotten us ready for the night that was to come. Nothing.
That’s…a little more ominous than I was intending it to be. Oh well. Ominous brings back the pageviews I think. Maybe. I hope. Part 2 of Sunday hopefully up ON Sunday.

As it is St. Patrick’s Day, I will…still not be writing this article in an Irish brogue because that is one of the most overdone journalistic/Internet website article attempts at being “fun” that exists. It’s not fun, it’s not cute and it’s not original. Instead, I’ll just listen to Dropkick Murphys and Flogging Molly and the Real McKenzies and drink Guinness. A lot of Guinness. Like, a six pack to this point in the night. And a Harp lager. I think that’s a reasonable compromise, yes? Let’s get to this.
After the massages, we were told to drink plenty of water to flush all the toxins out – and not “that kind of water” which my masseuse made a point to mention, to which I just grinned. So what then did we do? Went back to our room and drink most of a bottle of not-great white wine. Yes, we is smarterest brothers. Soon enough after that, though, we suited up and got ready to head to dinner. I will say with no hyperbole that we looked fantastic. Superfly was in his black suit with a pink-striped white shirt and I borrowed his light gray suit and wore my red shirt underneath. Yes, you would be correct to label us “hot bitches” in that moment. Downstairs, we snagged a cab with a crazy-ass Asian driver who whipped us around on back roads to get us to The Venetian, bitching about traffic and throwing out some incomprehensible diatribe about Osama bin Laden. No, I am not kidding. But it was hilarious.

In The Venetian, up an elevator, was our restaurant, Bouchon. It’s a fancy French place and it was, to say the least, awesome. We were attended to almost as soon as we sat down by our waiter who, hand to God, looked like Chris Kattan but sounded like Aziz Ansari. He was great. He talked with us, made us feel welcome and make sure we were taken care of. Hell, he even managed to slip us a free appetizer of some really good salmon mix. Superfly got the lamb and I got some fantastic braised short ribs to go with some solid wine. Of course, the meal can never be completely free of mistakes. Next to us for the last half of the meal were sitting a really hot MILF-ish lady and her nerd douche husband or boyfriend. Yes, there is a difference between douche and nerd douche. Regular douche are those idiots walking around with popped collars, calling each other ‘bra’ and drinking Natty Light. Nerd douches are the stuck-up, bespectacled jackasses with an unearned sense of superiority. Anyways, near the end of our meal, there was a crash and wine splattered our table, miraculously missing my pants leg. Seems Nerdouche was playing around with his glass and used the extent of his physical strength to snap the glass stem, hurtling his wine to the floor. We left soon after when another guy, clearly blacked out, at the table behind us spilled his beer and fell out of his chair. Still, great meal and Superfly left the waiter a very good tip. He honestly earned it.

Our next move was to trot on over to The Wynn to gamble a little and hop into Tryst, one of the newer clubs located there. Just a warning, The Wynn has some really shitty slot machines and winning there is just…it doesn’t happen much, if at all. One might actually call the casino the “Loss”…if one was a terrible pun-maker, of course. Anyways, due to my bro buying this big VIP package, we were in possession of VIP line passes complete with no cover. Yes. It’s just as awesome as you think it is. There’s not a whole lot more that’s more gratifying (especially in Vegas where money talks) than hearing some whiny fat bastard bitch and moan about not being let in even though he “has a table” and “will be calling the owner”, coming up in front of him, flashing the passes, having the bouncer nod and let us in and then walk past a good 350 people on our way straight into the club. The shocked and offended glares are wonderful.

Anyways, Tryst was…alright. We snuck in right near the beginning so there wasn’t a whole lot of traffic in the club yet. That made it easy to hit the bar, snag our Patron and Sprites (the official Viking Blood drink of Las Vegas), gawk at the dancing girls who really didn’t look into it at all and find a phenomenal spot outdoors. See, Tryst is half open-air with a huge, gorgeous waterfall and beautiful blue pool to hang out by. Which we did. It was mostly a pretty quiet stay, even though we helped out some Australian cougars by taking their pictures and having them take ours, those few pics basically the only time that we look presentable and/or not drunk. No, we didn’t tag the kitties, but they weren’t all THAT hot anyway. Soon enough, we got bored with Tryst and decided to take our talents to Tao, in The Palazzo, one of – what I have been informed – the hottest clubs in Vegas and maybe the world. Bitchin’.

Tao was…well, it’s one of the hottest for a reason. It’s awesome. It’s multi-level with a ton of rooms and lower lighting that, according to Superfly, made me look like Gordon Gekko. Now, here is where things go all weird for us. You see, as I’ve previously mentioned, money talks in Vegas. Vegas sluts are drawn like moths to flame to the wallets of rich dickheads. Regular dudes like Superfly and me have about as much chance of dipping our wicks in Vegas crotch wax as we would of…doing…something impossible. Shut up. Anyway, we were waiting in a quite long line to grab our (at this point) third go-round of Patron and Sprites when two things happened in the course of a few minutes.

First, a couple girls behind us started to fall on my brother. In an incredible act of bravado, we struck up a conversation with them and I whispered to my bro to get them to join us outside on the patio (a quieter area to talk). About this time, I felt someone run their hand down my arm. I turned to find a second pair of girls looking at me. One was…well, my brother’s later description was “wildebeest” but the other was very cute and for God knows what reason, interested in talking to me. Now, Superfly and I to this day disagree on whether or not she was Asian (I maintain she was, he insists she wasn’t), but she was definitely attractive enough to be puzzling. Apparently, she really liked my color scheme. Yes, that’s right, bitches. I can match colors very well. Anyways, I invited them outside as well and wanted to wait for them but Superfly hustled us out there to hang out for a while. I don’t think he actually knew what he was doing because, long story short, we left the club without seeing them again. My dick is still angry at me for leaving him out to dry like that.

Anyhow, our next stop was Pure in Caesar’s Palace. Honestly? It sucks. Well, maybe not sucks but both times we’ve gone, we’ve left within twenty minutes because it just doesn’t work. Not the best place at all. I mean, $10 for a damn Bud Light? That’s pretty shitty expensive, even for Las Vegas. By that point, our feet had really started to hurt, so we hitched another ride back to the Cosmo for a little more gambling. There, I proceeded to get fucked six ways from Sunday with a lousy-ass lying slot machine that sucked twenty bucks from me faster and with less impact than a drunk hooker. I’m still mad about it, actually. From there, it was off to bed since we were exhausted. Want to know why?

BECAUSE FUCKING DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME STARTED THAT NIGHT. Yes, at some point during the night, we lost yet another hour of sleep. We only realized this the next day when it dawned on us that we had gotten back to our room around 5AM. Long night, but honestly a really fun one.
With that, “Sunday” begins tomorrow for you lovely readers. Yes, this is going to be an almost-series for a few days while I try to recap this behemoth of a trip. You better enjoy it.

With the onset of Tennessee’s Spring Break, two things came into play: the homecoming of my brother, Superfly, and our subsequent return to Sin City, The Home of Devastating Hangovers…Las Vegas. Here, as per tradition, is my recounting of the trip in as much detail as I can remember. For the record, about half of the notes that I created were written in a state of drunk so profound that I have had to invest in the services of Egyptian hieroglyphic experts simply in order to decipher them. And you think I’m kidding about that. Anyways, today I will cover Saturday. We may or may not get through the entire day. I won’t really know until I’m done. So with blessed cold water next to me and L.T.D.s “(Every Time I Turn Around) Back In Love Again” blaring from my Bose speakers, I begin anon.
3 A-fucking-M in the 3 A-fucking-morning. That’s when Superfly and I had to wake up. At 4 A-fucking-M, we had a car coming to pick us up so alarms had to be set an hour early so that we’d be ready. God rest the bastard who created the “missile silo self-destruct sequence activated” alarm for iPhone because he will surely BURN IN HELL. The car reached the house right at 4 and, after a brief panic in which I could not find my damn sunglasses, we were off. On the way to the airport (in a blacked-out Caddy, it must be said), we had a lively discussion with our driver about the BYU scandal bullshit (note for future readings: Michael Davies was kicked off the team because he got his girlfriend pregnant, a violation of the BYU honor code that demands strict adherance to basically denying yourself any form of pleasure), among other things. Soon enough, we were at the airport.

After a quick trip through security – complete with full body scanner (quick note: those things are seriously like Star Wars-level crap, if Star Wars was now and wanted to sneak a peek at my boys and piller) – it was time to board. The flight to Atlanta was uneventful, for the most part. No world-class hotties to gawk at, but plenty of douchebags to make up for it. At the time and right now, I had a feeling that would be par for the course and I wasn’t wrong. Also, I heard some lady behind me say that the only thing that was small about her was her Eustachian tubes. Gross. Also, I just looked that up while writing this at home and it’s still gross but not as gross as I thought it was going to be. Anyways. Oh yeah, and we broke through clouds to see a gorgeous sunrise, although it could have been a nuclear corona for all I knew. Sleep deprivation – lousy three-hour night – was not my friend.

We touched down and then swung by a sub-par Mexican restaurant (On The Border) for a not bad but MSG-d up the ass breakfast. Around the time we finished, the call of nature was ever-present so we retreated to the men’s room. I was able to find a little joy beyond the basic pee in fighting off the urge to sing “Africa” whilst pissing. You see, the urinal was made by a company known as Toto and I make logical connections. I’m not proud. Okay. I actually am. “Shocking” bullshit news soon reached us, however, as Delta suddenly decided to shit the bed and bump our flight to 11 AM instead of 9:50. Bastards! And after a little while, they decided to bump it again to noon. Pissed off does not begin to cover it. Fortunately, Superfly saw my ire and led me to a bar and Stella Artois. I have a good brother. Once that was done, we waited in line yet again, playing “Dibs” (our default boredom game). We generally have varying degrees of success, with the one that had been losing usually becoming more focused and surging ahead. We also saw a dude in a fanny-pack, leading to “I’m fannypackin’ it” as the first inside joke of the trip, followed quickly by “planeahol” and “plooze”. Finally, mercifully, we boarded.

There’s a very big difference between 767s and tiny-ass planes. That main difference, aside from the nicer seats, is that the TV monitors play a safety video. I’m not going to lie. The lady in the video is…well, let’s come out with it. I would fuck her to the point that we could only just lie on our backs, breathing heavily and staring weakly at the ceiling, our bodies completely drained of all sexual fluid. Natural redhead with DSLs? Mmmm-good. Boba Fett was riding on half a jetpack before you could yell “Get your penis off the monitor!” Can you tell that my general hasn’t seen a whole lot of combat duty lately? Just hours and hours of training. And yes, that means exactly what you think it means.

Four damn hours later, complete with off-and-on sleeping and a pee near-catastrophe, we touched down in Las Vegas. As per all airports, the wait for the luggage was far too long and rife with the fear of it somehow being rerouted to Tijuana or some shit like that but soon enough, we were on our way, riding in the shuttle. Accompanying us was what had to be a bachelorette party from Mississippi, complete with mother complaining over her ‘sunshades’. To go on a digression for a second, why the hell is it that mothers are invited to bachelorette things? Seriously, that makes no sense to me. Dads don’t go to bachelor parties for good reason. The presence of an authority figure is counter to the very notion of that party. Those parties are meant to be the absolute apex of excess and “holy shit that was bad”. Why would you bring A FUCKING PARENT? Women are crazy. Anyway, suffice to say, they were wired and thus annoying as hell. They were dropped at The Bellagio though, so it was alright.

The first step inside the Cosmopolitan – our hotel – was intense. It’s got a totally different feel than the other casino/hotels. It’s less…gaudy. I mean, it IS gaudy but less so. We had our first (and what would be one of only a few) stroke of good news when we went to check in: we were told that we were actually taken care of in the VIP Lounge. Score. We chatted with the cute girl at the desk for a minute and then went to our room. Up on the 40th floor, they did us right, that’s for sure. Our room had a perfect view overlooking the Bellagio Fountains. Double score. We got all set up then, realizing we had not eaten since like eight in the morning, went down to Holstein’s, a burger place.

Before I can continue, I have to comment. For a mid-20s, sexually frustrated male, Las Vegas is basically like putting a starving tiger into a cage that is surrounding on the outside by sleeping, fattened and crippled monkeys. It wants what it sees more than anything in the world but is unable to have it. I swear to God, I should just have neutered myself before I got to Las Vegas and that thought would be repeated dozens of times throughout the trip. Just…nnnnnnrg. I say this due to what comes next.

Okay. Holstein’s. Beyond what comes next, it’s still a pretty awesome place, actually. The atmosphere is nice and friendly…and then there’s the staff. Dear sweet ass. I Tweeted about this at the moment but it bears repeating. The girl that took care of us (no, not like that – if it had been like that, I would have died happy right there) was so incandescently hot that my life up to that point is now a little grayer in retrospect. Stunning green eyes, chocolate brown hair, a face that would make Helen of Troy look like Janet Reno, perfect tits and an ass that Michelangelo could not have sculpted without achieving a hard-on. I won’t say that it was love at first sight but there’s no way I couldn’t at least for a moment picture what our babies would look like. That thought coming, of course, on the heels of actually picturing the act of making said babies. Aside from her supernova-level hot, though, it was a great meal. Both Adam and I got fantastic beers and great burgers. It was the Rising Sun burger with kobe beef, soy sauce, spicy mayo, tempura avocado, and a few other things. Unreal.

After the meal, we decided to hit the sportsbook and drop some cashola on a few games. Following that, it was down to the floor to test out our luck on a few slots. Almost immediately, I won $125 on one machine. While that was awesome, it was also the best I did the entire weekend, so maybe winning right away is not a good thing. A bit more gambling to up and down success and then it was massage time. Yes. Massage time.

It was awesome. The most relaxing thing ever. We walked in and paid and were led to the men’s side. We tossed our clothes into lockers and were outfitted with comfy sandals and amazing hybrid bathrobe/towels that made me feel like a boxer. It even had the neat little hood. We just waited and chilled on couches, watching sports and soon we were ushered into a different room and met by two attractive women who would be our masseuses. Down a little hallway was my room and fifty minutes of killing a good deal of the tension in my body. I’m not going to go through it but it was incredible. I was so relaxed and loose afterwards. No, I did not erect. Apparently, though, Superfly did, bragging about Mr. Roundtree’s – his nom de guerre for his genitals – turgidness. A quick hop in the sauna, mist room and hot tub and we were finished. The next stop, after showering and changing of course? Dinner time.
That’ll be it for today’s recounting of our Vegas trip. Tomorrow’s will be the second half of Saturday. Don’t worry, faithful readers. We’re just getting warmed up.

(Okay. Look. It’s not often but it’s occasional when we here at Dan Eats Cat Food grow the slightest fetus of a conscience and feel the need to help people. Now, we surely won’t give our ill-gotten money to the poor bastards, but we can tell their story. Unfortunately…well…this happened. This is being posted as a warning for all of you who may be roaming the streets of central Moscow at midnight. This…the term “unmitigated disaster” doesn’t do it justice. We’re just going to post this interview in the hopes that we won’t be indicted. Fucking damn it. I’m going to let Kaos set the stage since he went through it. – ed.)

It was a cold night in Moscow when I met Grigor Neyterivich Rasklonokovski. He was drunk and unconscious in an alley, his legs sticking in the air as the lower third of his body rested gently, jammed into a dented garbage can. I attempted to shake him awake, curious as to what led him to this state, but received no reply. Finally, I resorted to kicking the can as hard as I could, creating an effect similar to the one Venom faces in that emo-laced abortion known as Spiderman 3. God damn it, Sam Raimi! I know you didn’t like the character but what you did to the most awesome character in the entire canon was akin to making Chun Li’s finishing move in a new Street Fighter game be to take down the pants of her opponent and to aggressively fellate him until his head explodes. And then his brain will burst. Wait, that actually sounds awesome. Never mind. Where was I?

Oh yeah. Grigor. He demanded I call him Nishka and that I buy him a round of Wodcar. I didn’t know what he meant until he hit me in the head with a clear glass bottle. VODKA is what he wanted and I was willing to do so because DECF was covering my soul-searching mission and I could write it off as a business expense. Suckers. Anyways, we got to a nice warm tavern and we began to talk. It…Tom Brokaw I am not. Maybe Dan Rather after a round of Jagermeister though.
Dan Eats Cat Food: Could you please state your name for the record?

Grigor: Da! I Grigor Neytirivich Rasklonokovski, son of…

DECF: Great, great. So, you are homeless, yes?

GNR: No! I not homeless. Moscow is home.

DECF: Heh, of course. I meant, you don’t have a place to live, yes?

GNR: Streets are my live! Alley has metal sleeping bag and plenty of sewer chicken.

DECF: Sewer chicken?

GNR: Rat.

DECF: Gross. No, what I meant was…do you own property?

GNR: Grigor does not own property. House in south Moscow taken by government after Grigor wife and son die.

DECF: Oh, I’m so sorry. How did they did?

GNR: Is terrible story. One day, Grigor and family go to picnic in woods. Is beautiful day. Sun shines, grass green and dry, wife’s breasts hang gently like cow udders, heavy with milk. No bra today! Today is celebration day!

DECF: Why a celebration?

GNR: Son Vanya get into fancy school for boys. Very expensive but they pay! Grigor so proud of son. Finally, Vanya does not wear dress of grandmother. Vanya ready to become a man!

DECF: That sounds wonderful. Congratulations.

GNR: Do not offer words of praise yet, American tourist. Is sad story. When at picnic, family get into argument. Wife Natasha want another child. Demand Grigor place man-seed inside belly and create daughter. Grigor no want daughter. Vanya act as if daughter already! One time, Grigor walk in on Vanya with face buried in local grocer loins. Grigor break both grocer legs and make Vanya throw up.

DECF: My goodness!

GNR: Is not bad as you think! Grigor only punch son in stomach to bring up poison liquid. Man does not put seed in other man belly, as you know.

DECF: Of…course.

GNR: So Grigor not want daughter. Wife get very upset. Start yelling at Grigor, say horrible things about Grigor manhood. Grigor is quiet, saying nothing. He knows wife only goes through time of blood and tears. Then son Vanya calls Grigor manhood ‘wonderful’. This enrage Grigor, bring out Russian strength him. (he beats his chest proudly). Grigor get up to chase son and wife start to cry. Grigor does not hear.

DECF: Why not?

GNR: Grigor too focused on beating son. Vanya avoid becoming a man for too long! So Grigor chase son into woods. Soon, Grigor lose son and return to camp. But no good is there.

DECF: What happened?

GNR: Grigor come back to the picnic. There, there is bear. Bear has been attracted by smell of beef and honey from loaf of bread. Bear wants to eat beef but wife, full of anger and vodka and loins bloody and hot, get angry, begin to strike bear with fists. At first, bear ignore wife and only eat food on blanket. Soon, bear is tired of wife punching and begin to attack her. Wife dies. Grigor return to camp just as bear finish eat wife. Grigor get very angry, kill bear with sharp stick. When Grigor returns from land of bloodlust, son is there, having the sex with dead bear. Grigor kill son with stick too.

DECF: Holy shit.

GNR: Police reach picnic time as Grigor finishes burying son and parts of wife. Grigor is arrested, thrown in gulag. Many years go by. Little food. Little vodka. Much sex with hole in brick wall. After ten year, Grigor is released into the world. World has changed much. Grigor can not adjust. Forced to live on scraps from butcher and pity from tourists. It is life.

DECF: My God. That’s…horrible.

GNR: Do not worry, friend. Grigor is just fine. He has recently learned of farm outside of town. Horses live there. Too many horses for use. Grigor will go in one hour, after farmer has gone to bed, and make feast. Do you wish to join?

DECF: I…maybe.

GNR: Yes! We drink!

(two hours pass)

DECF: Holy fucking shit. Grigor, what the hell, man?

GNR: Grigor is fine. Did not expect horse to bite.

DECF: That looks infected…

GNR: Grigor is not infect! Horse put up strong fight. For that, Grigor is thankful. Do you want more horse meat?

DECF: Uh, no. I’m okay with no more horse penis going into me.

GNR: Is okay. Grigor will finish for you. Does American pussy require a ride to town?

DECF: No! No, God no. I’ll…I’ll walk. Need to burn off this asshole you forced me to consume.

GNR: Is good to meet you, brother! Find Grigor when next you are in Moscow. He will introduce you to his sister, Anna!

DECF: Uh…thanks. Goodbye, Grigor. Please don’t die.

GNR: Grigor makes no promise!
And that was that. I left Grigor that night. I have not heard from him since. On one hand, I hope he is still alive so I may see his crazy drunk ass again. On the other…maybe it’s better if he died.

(Tuesdays with Morrie, this ain’t. – ed.)

You didn’t eat horse butthole! Anyways, good night, gentle readers.