Update!The 18 hour Vegas trip details! At least the recollection of it anyway...
Friday 335PM, the bug has finally crawled far enough under my skin to really get me excited. So I went in to the head of the development department to ask if I could go. I explained I was getting ready to go on a trip and wanted to bomb out a little early. I didnt tell her my flight wasnt until 930 and really wanted to get shitty.
I got home at just before six so that my girlfriend and her sister could marvel at how sweet I am before getting on my flight. They were impressed. Sorta. Elia came and got me and I cant say that I really remember the ride to the airport, but I did remember to buy us two shots of Jag at the airport before getting on the flight. It was a steal at $24.00. Some guy made some smart ass comment about my choice of shot. For some reason, he refused to make eye contact with me when I said "What was that?" loud enough to startle the deaf fuck sitting next to me. Vegas, here I come.
I had another two cocktails on the plane and then cozied up to the industrial plastic window that keeps the oxygen masks in the plane's attic and me in my seat. Elia, Matt, and I found each other in the Airport in Vegas at which point my headache was starting to kick in. I desperately needed a cocktail to keep from fading or succumbing to the pain in my head. Nothing can kill a buzz more than walking outside to grab a cab and find a line of 200 people in front of you. We killed time by making circles with our hips and humping the air. People we're pleased.
We dumped our shit at the MGM Grand and then blew over to meet the rest of the guys at Mandalay Bay. In the center of the casino there was a bar with a band playing cover songs. I was astounded at how good a small Asian girl was at singing "Cult of Personality." Everyone was in great spirits at the bar. Drinks were flowing almost inundating people at times. It was great. I ordered 3 vodka red bulls for $34.50, fucking Vegas, and we all got down to business.
Things flew by, but before I knew it, my phone said it was almost 5am. I got dragged to bed. There was some sort of ruckus in the room, but enh i dont know what it was all about. My guess is that no one wanted to take in an aerial tour of the Grand Canyon at 510am. Pussies. Much to everyone's delight, I slept with my mouth open. No tea bags, thank you.
No helicopter looking for a murder Two in the mornin got the Fatburger. Actually, Ice Cube was right. There were no helicopters, but I did have Fatburger at 830 the next morning for breakfast. They had the loudest juke box in there and I made sure that everyone witnessed what could be considered virtuoso air guitar to Iron Maiden's Two Minutes to Midnight. Then we went back to the hotel changed into our swim suits and hit the pool. By 930 I was sipping some sort of cocktail that had 151 in it. I was trying to catch my liver napping, but he was up and all fucking business.
The weather was perfect. 78 degrees and sunny. Some guy lost a bet and had to walk the length of the pool in pink boy shorts and a sports bra. The crowd went wild. I told him that if I had been on my back when he walked by that I would have become a human sundial. Wink wink. So we just sat around drank, and talked about how I claim to have a thumb nail on my dickhead, for digging purposes, and much blood in your stool is a bad thing. When your turd is marbled like a fine $50 steak, you might have reasons for concern.
Eventually we headed back to the room for some more cocktails, and I had to start thinking about leaving. A security guard came by and told us how many people die in a month in the casino on average (3), and that Michael Jordan lost one of his championship rings while gambling here. I finished my drink and hopped in a cab.
Since I had no bags, I went right to the gate. Actually, I went right to the airport bar and sat down. I was feeling pretty haggard by this time and was zoning out watching tv. I had just finished a jag bomb and ordered another beer when our fearless leader showed up on the screen looking smug as ever. "What an asshole," I muttered, loud enough for the guy next to me to hear. Turns out, he was a marine and LOVES GWB. It didnt take long for this to get heated. I dont know why, but I asked him if he was a cowboy. Then I moved seats and tried to make out what the people at the next table were saying. It was Chinese.
I could get into the fact that I had to sit next to a woman so large that we couldnt put the armrest down and needed a seatbelt extension and had brought candy for the in-flight movie, but I wont. I ordered two more Jack and Cokes and sort of passed out.
I got off the plane and hopped in a cab and went downtown to meet my girlfriend at a bar. Three more drinks later and I was devouring my pillow.
So, how was Vegas? Awesome. 18 hours of awesome. I spent more on booze than I did on my ticket, almost got my ass kicked in an airport bar, lost my socks, got a tan, and saw a 6' 8" woman's ass hang out at the bar. So how did I do? As far as I am concerned, I came back even Steven.
Friday 335PM, the bug has finally crawled far enough under my skin to really get me excited. So I went in to the head of the development department to ask if I could go. I explained I was getting ready to go on a trip and wanted to bomb out a little early. I didnt tell her my flight wasnt until 930 and really wanted to get shitty.
I got home at just before six so that my girlfriend and her sister could marvel at how sweet I am before getting on my flight. They were impressed. Sorta. Elia came and got me and I cant say that I really remember the ride to the airport, but I did remember to buy us two shots of Jag at the airport before getting on the flight. It was a steal at $24.00. Some guy made some smart ass comment about my choice of shot. For some reason, he refused to make eye contact with me when I said "What was that?" loud enough to startle the deaf fuck sitting next to me. Vegas, here I come.
I had another two cocktails on the plane and then cozied up to the industrial plastic window that keeps the oxygen masks in the plane's attic and me in my seat. Elia, Matt, and I found each other in the Airport in Vegas at which point my headache was starting to kick in. I desperately needed a cocktail to keep from fading or succumbing to the pain in my head. Nothing can kill a buzz more than walking outside to grab a cab and find a line of 200 people in front of you. We killed time by making circles with our hips and humping the air. People we're pleased.
We dumped our shit at the MGM Grand and then blew over to meet the rest of the guys at Mandalay Bay. In the center of the casino there was a bar with a band playing cover songs. I was astounded at how good a small Asian girl was at singing "Cult of Personality." Everyone was in great spirits at the bar. Drinks were flowing almost inundating people at times. It was great. I ordered 3 vodka red bulls for $34.50, fucking Vegas, and we all got down to business.
Things flew by, but before I knew it, my phone said it was almost 5am. I got dragged to bed. There was some sort of ruckus in the room, but enh i dont know what it was all about. My guess is that no one wanted to take in an aerial tour of the Grand Canyon at 510am. Pussies. Much to everyone's delight, I slept with my mouth open. No tea bags, thank you.
No helicopter looking for a murder Two in the mornin got the Fatburger. Actually, Ice Cube was right. There were no helicopters, but I did have Fatburger at 830 the next morning for breakfast. They had the loudest juke box in there and I made sure that everyone witnessed what could be considered virtuoso air guitar to Iron Maiden's Two Minutes to Midnight. Then we went back to the hotel changed into our swim suits and hit the pool. By 930 I was sipping some sort of cocktail that had 151 in it. I was trying to catch my liver napping, but he was up and all fucking business.
The weather was perfect. 78 degrees and sunny. Some guy lost a bet and had to walk the length of the pool in pink boy shorts and a sports bra. The crowd went wild. I told him that if I had been on my back when he walked by that I would have become a human sundial. Wink wink. So we just sat around drank, and talked about how I claim to have a thumb nail on my dickhead, for digging purposes, and much blood in your stool is a bad thing. When your turd is marbled like a fine $50 steak, you might have reasons for concern.
Eventually we headed back to the room for some more cocktails, and I had to start thinking about leaving. A security guard came by and told us how many people die in a month in the casino on average (3), and that Michael Jordan lost one of his championship rings while gambling here. I finished my drink and hopped in a cab.
Since I had no bags, I went right to the gate. Actually, I went right to the airport bar and sat down. I was feeling pretty haggard by this time and was zoning out watching tv. I had just finished a jag bomb and ordered another beer when our fearless leader showed up on the screen looking smug as ever. "What an asshole," I muttered, loud enough for the guy next to me to hear. Turns out, he was a marine and LOVES GWB. It didnt take long for this to get heated. I dont know why, but I asked him if he was a cowboy. Then I moved seats and tried to make out what the people at the next table were saying. It was Chinese.
I could get into the fact that I had to sit next to a woman so large that we couldnt put the armrest down and needed a seatbelt extension and had brought candy for the in-flight movie, but I wont. I ordered two more Jack and Cokes and sort of passed out.
I got off the plane and hopped in a cab and went downtown to meet my girlfriend at a bar. Three more drinks later and I was devouring my pillow.
So, how was Vegas? Awesome. 18 hours of awesome. I spent more on booze than I did on my ticket, almost got my ass kicked in an airport bar, lost my socks, got a tan, and saw a 6' 8" woman's ass hang out at the bar. So how did I do? As far as I am concerned, I came back even Steven.
posted by Old Overholt at 2:06 PM
2 Comments:
You could be the alcoholic Hunter S Thompson my friend. I think this needs to be a novella.
The alcoholic Hunter S. Thompson? Pretty sure the dude knew his booze.
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