Posts Tagged ‘Food’


We apologize for the month between each article. What with packing and moving twice and visiting the place that KT is going to live and handling a breakup with the [insert typical vicious derogatory term here], the ability to be funny is waning quite a lot. However, one thing we have not done in a while that always brings the funny is to go into our search terms to see what depravity brings people to this website. And let us tell you…the people who link here are messed up in the brain. Please enjoy the fifth installment of what can charitably be called the most long-running series on this site.
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why do teenage girls become wayward?: I would assume that it’s because teenage girls are a discontinued lipgloss flavor away from a complete psychological meltdown at every single point in the day.

they are you antsy furniture ny and my bro mass of hudson mass: If I could even decipher this, I would attempt to answer it. As it stands right now, the best I can interpret this as is someone from the northeast region of the US being an absolute retard, not like it takes a whole lot.

sloopy titts videos: Sloopy titts? I could understand ‘sloppy tits’ but sloopy tits is more along the lines of asking if I know where to buy a small boat and how to rename it…with videos.

petroleum vodka: Grigor isn’t dead!

“dick into emma watson”: I really hope this happened after she was eighteen. Actually, if I’m being honest, I was really hoping this wouldn’t be a search term at all. Although at this point, Emma Watson would kind of be like winning a gold medal after missing out on the Special Olympics. Or is that too harsh?

gay boy dan eats gas: What. The. Fuck. Is. This. There is so, SO much wrong with this search term that I just frankly don’t want to know about.

anal beads cereal: Quick! To the patent office!

skyrim one arm bigger than the other: The funniest part about this one isn’t that it’s probably referring to the Skyrim characters being Self-Pleasure Geniuses, but the fact that this particular search – with different phrasing – appears no less than FIVE MORE TIMES in the search records for this site. Apparently, we are the top of the top with Skyrim masturbators. I’m…proud?

how to write like a girl teenager: At first look, this appears pretty innocuous. If you read into it, though, it sounds more like a ephebophile looking to pick up some tips to prey on innocent young…I assume boys but who the hell knows with those freaks?

how to make something for marsturbating rough: The insistence on rough masturbation troubles me. I don’t know why my readers apparently hate their dicks but it’s common enough to be a relatively normal search term. Let me be clear: do not rip up your penis with rough jacking off.

how to fuck my wife in skyrim: Again, not an uncommon search term. I got a ‘bang my wife’ one with this as well. Apparently, there are guys out there that really want to have virtual sex with video game characters. But then again, I can’t really judge since my porn library at this point rivals the Library of Congress.

instantmonkeysonline: HOW IS THIS A NEED?!

wayward prayer teenage girl This is getting a little strange. The wayward thing is apparently more of a fetish than I was aware of.

pornstar nan binya: I know Priya Anjali Rai if that makes you feel any better…Nan Binya is a stranger to me.

mighty morphin power rangers monsters who eat the power rangers: If this had happened, don’t you think that the (apparently) King of P.R. trivia would have known about it? No, I don’t think that happened. No, I don’t think you’re okay for asking about it.

sex eating cat song: Is this trying to relate eating cats and sex? Or is it about eating sex and is sung by cats? There is so much that this asks.

saints katrina bullshit: Ah, Colts fans.

“abortion session” fucked: …I don’t even know what to say about this one except that I’m disturbed. Is this talking about after-abortion sex? I really hope not…

nuttin bitch cereal picture: I cannot even explain how badly I want to see this picture they are asking about. I don’t know if they mean the cereal is called ‘Nuttin Bitch’ or what…it’s hilarious to think about though.

jani lane memorabilia near boston: This is very specific. Also, it’s incredibly morbid. At least they aren’t wanting to get his skin or something.

scorpions song beginning with horns: There’s a song that Scorpions did with brass? Am I going to fall in love with them more or is this a lie?

metal baby in the womb: I know this probably refers to what the article was about with the baby that loves metal music but it’s funnier to think of like a plate-metal baby sitting and gestating, occasionally sending off electrical sparks as it floats.

baby eats metal: Okay, I take that back. This is a whole lot funnier.

cartoon video where bin laden is killed by a sniper and pissed on by superfly: This was about the point that I started laughing so hard that a little bit of pee may or may not have come out. This is possibly the best and/or funniest search term that has ever brought people to this site.

eat the pussy up, thanksgiving! like marvin ya body need some sexual healing: I literally couldn’t think for a couple minutes after this one from laughing. I love that this site is now associated with not only rap music but shitty rap music at that. God bless America.

natalie portman yeah i had a baby but im still crazy so show my ass respect cause i make that fucking gravy: This has to be something off of The Lonely Island. I’m going to assume it was the 100th clip of all of that. That’s the only explanation.

dangerrers++big+ass: I think I just need to blame this one on one of those bot searches otherwise…no, I can’t actually think of a reason this would fit for here.

true blue test cat food.cob antelope: It started out okay, like perhaps looking for an obscure brand of cat food. Then it hit antelope and it all went off the rails badly.

erotic story pregnant woman crying in bathroom comforted by brother towel falls he’s erect they have sex:…is there really even any need for my site after this? I mean, it’s pretty clear what is being searched for and is also pretty clear that I’m not really okay with it and the specificity.

i fucked an asian milf at the venetian in vegas last weekend: Cool story, bro. Are you just bragging or looking to find someone to commiserate with?

he who laughs last probably has an extra chromosome: I’m not even going to lie. I love this joke. It makes me laugh every time. I hate myself.

pink ranger kim fucked by alpha: This one actually made me wave my hands in the air in shock and confusion. Out of anyone in the Power Rangers canon, you want to see the ROBOT fucking her? You couldn’t pick the black guy or the gay one?

“go for the balls” friend: That’s not a great friend.

skyrim girl argonian fucking a boy dragon pics: And now we’re getting stuck with furries. Awesome. That’s totally what I want associated with my site. I’d rather they just kill themselves (along with a certain other person) and leave room for the nubile barely-legal redheads flooding to the site.

st helens sluts: Does this exist? I really want to know. Are there people that get all hot and bothered over volcanoes?

f-valium sterilization food.com: Annnnnnnd now we’re picking up the conspiracy theorists as well. Fantastic. We’re a racial separatist away from a bingo.

-=8[flr.skrrkk: Awesome. Someone had a seizure and died and it just happened to lead them here. Hope you enjoyed your stay, brief as it was!

cousin’s cousin eats cat at home sex videos: Come on now. The cousin-fucking was the main thing here. You can try to mask it with cat eating all you want but we all know what you’re here for. Also, we’re not interested.

http://www.toilet eats the food sex: I’m starting to sense a trend and it’s the worrying combination of food, sex, and toilet humor. No, wait, that’s the site itself, really.

“red dress” morgan freeman oscars cleavage 2012: What in the HELL? How do you mix up Morgan Freeman and Anne Hathaway? I shiver at the thought.

what vhappens when its you first felony and get busted with 8 ball of cocain?: Well, what happens is you go to jail for like ten years. And then your asshole gets raped by big, mean bikers. Hopefully somewhere in that period gives you time to learn how to spell correctly. Enjoy the buttsex!

racism kama sutra: This made me giggle a lot. The Kama Sutra is kind of the antithesis of racists, although you could make awful names for sex positions like the Hanging [insert racial epithet here] or something like that. No, I’m not proud of that joke. Yes, I’m a little uncomfortable with it.

toons 18 mighty morphin power rangers pond sex fuck: Most of this I can understand. It’s the word ‘pond’ that confuses me. Does it mean that the person searching can’t get off to Power Ranger sex if it doesn’t take place on or near a landlocked body of water? Do they need ducks quacking to stimulate them? Are frogs making it more kinky? I don’t know!

you fapping’ muppet you why i oughta: Yep, those are the people that come to this site. Sorry for the ripoff, Bill Simmons.
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That actually makes me a little sad. People are so messed up. But hey, traffic is traffic so…come one, come all, come at the same time you freaks. DECF is here to serve your needs!

An Experiment Gone Awry

Posted: February 15, 2012 by kaostheory in Slice of Life
Tags: , , , ,

By now, I’m sure you all have heard about or read about or sensed coming out of the dark aether that lies between this world and that of the nether realms the existence of Jack in the Box’s new “delicacy” (read: affront to God, man, and the natural order of things) – their bacon milkshake. Yes, you read that right. A milkshake, also known as ‘What the hell, give me Type 2 Diabetes already’ In A Cup, with what I can only assume to be either hard, salty chunks of fried pig or, worse, pork drippin’s mixed in with the vanilla or, God forbid, chocolate or strawberry ice cream. While the potential to create a geek nexus around it by marketing it with zombies emblazoned on the cups and ‘gamer girls’ awkwardly fiddling with Xbox 360 controllers in commercials is yet to be untapped, the fact is that this abomination does actually exist.

But what is one to do if there is no Jack in the Box nearby that does not exist in the heart of the ghetto (or barrio or whatever unsafe area exists in your town)? Or if the prospect of actually paying a restaurant for them to kill you sounds like a sick German fetish rather than indulging in an ostensible “drink”?

It’s a very simple solution: create your own.

Well, simple in theory. In actuality, it is about as big a clusterfuck as a men’s rugby team playing tennis against a women’s volleyball team. Blindfolded. And naked. With a bowling ball.

We attempted just such a “simple” activity a couple days ago when we were bored and apparently wanted to experience what true despair and frustration feels like…without masturbating. For once. What follows are the (abortive) attempts that we made at creating our own version of this helltreat. Enjoy.

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Attempt #1: This should be pretty easy. I don’t see why we’re making such a fuss about this. Just some vanilla bean ice cream, milk, a rasher of bacon…simple. Put all of that in a blender and hit ‘puree’. Easy.

Result #1: Forgot. The fucking. Lid. This is an ominous portent. It’s probably for the best anyway. I mean, not for the kitchen. The cabinets just got a nice coat of “sticky cream and raw bacon”. That’s going to be a bastard to clean up. No, it’s for the best for, you know, our bodies. Also, cook the goddamn bacon before putting it in the shake. Come on. That’s bush league.

Attempt #2: Okay. Materials? Check. Bacon COOKED? Check and check. Maybe a little too crispy. Should be okay though. Everyone loves crispy bacon. Well, except for vegans but the day I give a crap about how crispy they like their bacon, I’ll french kiss a live outlet. Where was I? Oh yeah. Blender? Filled to the brim with stuff so that works. LID? Triple damn check. Okay. Let’s do this again.

Result #2: Um…unappetizing is a good word to describe this try. We clearly used too little ice cream or too much milk and probably too much bacon because it looks like a porn star’s dick exploded in this thing. It’s just kind of this watery, chunky mix. Pass.

Attempt #3: This is a little disheartening, but nothing delicious was ever easy. Well…except in a couple cases. Regardless, we soldier on. Less milk, more ice cream, less bacon, and let’s throw some damn butter in with it to try to thicken it up some.

Result #3: Well, there are good and bad aspects of it. The good is that the thickness is about what we want in a milkshake. The bad is that everything else is not. The butter added a weird yellow tint to it and didn’t break up too well (probably should have unfrozen it first) so there are butter chunks floating next to bacon chunks and, really, whichever you bite into isn’t going to make your mouth happy. This is starting to blow.

Attempt #4: Okay. Gonna try something different with this. I’m going to take a shot of tequila and then a second shot of tequila and then we’re going to take the butter out and try cream cheese. Why cream cheese? Because who fucking cares by this point? Maybe it’ll be good!

Result #4: Cream cheese was a poor choice. I think we’re getting further away from the ultimate goal here. Time to reduce.

Attempt #5: Two more shots of tequila down the hatch. The edges of my eyes are a little fuzzy. Rad. Milk, vanilla bean ice cream, cooked bacon chunks. Let’s do it.

Result #5: PIECE OF SHIT LID. I’m not cleaning this shit sober again.

Attempt #6: Two more tequilas. Tequila. Ta-key-lah. That would be a pretty name for a baby. Oh, right. Some sort of milkshake. Milk, ice, cream, bacon. Easy. Just push play.

Result #6: …that was like a bacon margarita except violence in the mouth instead of liquor. Who’s the asshole that put ice and cream so close together? I thought they had a comma. I guess not.

Attempt #7: Hadda drink a beer to get that taste outta my mouth. Does your face feel hot? My face feels hot. Just like my DICK. Ho ho ho, bitches. What? What do you mean I’ve had enough? You’re an enough! Let’s blend some shit already!

Result #7: WELL! That’s what happens when you let a drunk guy handle appliances. Someone is going to get creamy stuff all over because he forgets to put the lid on again.

Final Attempt: Okay. That looks good. That looks like the right amounts. Can I press the button? No? Okay. You do it.

Final Result: Huh. That’s it? I guess you want me to review it? Fine. *ahem* It tastes like a stupid vanilla milkshake except for when you get a chunk of bacon. Then it tastes like a salty vanilla nightmare. Happy?
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In conclusion, the fact that the bacon milkshake actually exists is a stain upon the good name of American production everywhere. That it is actually being sold and marketed by a company is a shameful result of not using that hot blonde woman in their ads anymore. For shame, Jack in the Box.

Wait, Double Downs still exist?

…shit, count me in then.

How To Do Easter The Dan Eats Cat Food Way

Posted: April 24, 2011 by kaostheory in Informative
Tags: , , ,

Easter. The time of year where we as human beings suspend all belief in favor of accepting that sometimes giant, mutated rabbits are able to produce multi-colored, probably infected, and voluminous amounts of chicken eggs like some sort of unholy cross taking part because of the rape of a hen by a jackrabbit. Yeah. That’s right. What you see as cheery and delightful is actually a “trigger warning” waiting to happen.

Oh wait. Should I have put “trigger warning” at the beginning?

(Feeling like a smartass today, huh? – ed.)

Comes with the territory. The day I worry about any of my writing setting off freakouts with women or whoever that may have been traumatized in the past is the day that I stop making the background for this thing flash blue and red really fast so that epileptics can’t enjoy it.

(Been meaning to talk to you about that. We edit that out every time. We’ve been over this. – ed.)

And clearly it’s not sinking in, so NOW who’s the “unreliable asset”, huh? Anywho, while we’re here, we may as well offer up some advice for the kiddles and bits to take to heart on this most glorious of days. Let’s get this crackalackin’.
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First off, you really should get dressed up and attend the Easter service at your church of choice. If you’re a Christian, today is one of the – if not THE – most important days in the entire faith, since it is the day that Jesus Christ was resurrected from the grave after dying for our sins. SO SHOW SOME DAMN RESPECT, Y’ALL. If you aren’t Christian, that’s cool too. Just…chill out and enjoy the stuff you’re getting. I guess.

Now we get to the other stuff. More specifically, dyeing and finding Easter eggs. Now some smart-asses would say to dye the eggs green or camo and hide them around the yard so that the little kids get frustrated by not being able to find them so they start crying and their holiday is ruined. That’s just being a dick and we don’t cotton to that around here. Make the eggs in all the colors of the rainbow. Even better, make them in every color ever. Picture it now. Puce eggs. Mauve eggs. EGGSHELL WHITE EGGS. Make the dyeing process swiftly turn into a grueling arts-and-crafts concentration camp. And then the stickers! Permutations galore! Why frustrate the children when you can make them dead inside? You’re thinking small, compadre.

Alternatively, if you don’t want to go to straight cruelty, make the Easter egg hunt ‘street rules’. Allow for any and every kind of tactic available to their little brains in order to win the hunt. Encourage fashioning weapons out of hats and sharp sticks. Help them form a rudimentary society with social status based on the amount of eggs and no penalty for theft, assault or mugging. See what happens when children – already stretching the bounds of human decency – lose any motivation or reason to be ‘good’.

Next up we have the crack cocaine of the under-13 crowd: chocolate. If you’re wise, you’ll create artificial scarcity. Make the situation seem as if there is not nearly enough chocolate to go around – say, one M&M per three kids. While adults and even some teenagers understand basic economics, especially the ‘I can actually just get in my car, drive and buy this stuff’ concept, little children do not. Little children are also flush with disposable income from generous grandparents, excitement from all the busyness going on around them and, if you’re lucky, hot sisters or cousins back for the holiday from college with tappable asses, low standards and negotiable alcohol tolerance. What I’m suggesting is that you force little kids to pimp out their family for chocolate.

Cadbury Cream Eggs. You don’t let those little fuckers anywhere NEAR these. These are EARNED by going through the fires of Smarties and jellybeans and those crappy gold coins that come in those nets. Lie and say these don’t exist. Trick the kids into giving them to you by faking puking at the taste of them. Change their gaze and swipe them. These are yours. Make sure they stay that way.

How about that shitty fake grass? What’s with that stuff? Don’t eat it though. It stays in your digestive tract for YEARS. It’s like chewing gum except worse. Like…fake tapeworms almost.

And Peeps? What about them? Personally, we’re okay with them. They’re just crappy marshmallow with an assload of sugar shaped like whimsical little chicks or bunnies or…sometimes fucking snowmen and yes, they do exist. But it’s understandable that some people don’t like them. At times, it is almost like trying to chew and swallow a small, sugary throw pillow. They do swell and burst in the microwave SO well though. Kind of like that fat dude on Monty Python that ate that after-dinner mint and blew up…except less gross.

Sundresses? Oh holy shit, yes.

And of course, the Easter Bunny must be there. Ah yes, the Easter Bunny. A creature on platypus-level curiousness. An animal with the physical appearance of a rabbit but the reproductive system of a chicken. Even the Spore(TM) Creature Creator would say “What the fuck?” about this thing. But every year, kids are delighted when he comes by, hiding the eggs and bringing them joy in…what is your DEAL, man?

I’m waiting for the damn koala line. What are you talking about?

Every time we do this, the koala comes back and commits wholesale murder, trying to get to me. I’m just waiting for you to spring it on me so I can run. Seriously, man. You are getting way too paranoid.

You’ll forgive me if I’m wary since, you know, MY FRIENDS WERE SLAUGHTERED AT HALLOWEEN because of you. I had nothing to do with that. Koala.

YOU DICK!

Sssssssssssssssssssrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

You might want to run.

FUCK YOU! Not even if you paid me, muchacho.
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(Tell me the truth. You’re a sadist, aren’t you? – ed.)

What? No. This stuff doesn’t get me off. And you are way in the wrong to assume otherwise. The only things that get me off are tribbing, spanking, schoolgirls, cowgirl, girls cumming and maybe sometimes getting choked with a garden hose. That is ALL, dude.

(…the hell? – ed.)

Okay, fine! And MAYBE amputee MILF Thai women but that’s only on special occasions.

(I didn’t ask! – ed.)

But people must know! Deuces and Easters!


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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.