With immense trepidation I opened the door of the Expedition and climbed out of the car. The sun was setting over the horizon and I could already feel the hate crackling in the air. The hotel seemed busy since there were people running around everywhere but it was hard to tell who actually worked for the hotel and who was a guest since everyone was wearing cowboy outfits. Seeing that many cowboy hats in one place was enough to make my taint quiver, the toothy grin of bellboys anticipating big tips for a modicum of service only added insult to injury. The hundreds of lights above my head cast a sick, yellow sheen on the worn cobblestone beneath my feet. That sick, yellow sheen has come to define the town for me. That's right boys and girls, I was back in Vegas.
Before I go into the details of my trip let me make something clear. I have come to hate Vegas. I don't hate it as much as New York or California, but I do hate it. You must be asking yourself why I would hate Vegas, and it's a good question. I mean, I like gambling, drinking, prostitution, and displays of monetary excess, in fact, they're the cornerstones of my lifestyle. However, as much as I like those vices, and despite the fact that they are the foundation upon which Las Vegas was built, the people that populate the town at any given time are absolutely repulsive to me. I was discussing my feelings for Vegas with Lucas one day and he summed up what I was saying rather eloquently: "Las Vegas is the Cancun of people over 21." A perfect analogy. Everyone in Vegas that's there on vacation feels the need to act completely out of control and do shit they normally wouldn't do simply because they're in Vegas, hence the creation of the most hated of colloquialisms: "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas". Anyone who tells me "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" is essentially saying:
-"My life is so fucking miserable that I can't 'have fun' or 'get into trouble' in my own town."
-"I'm such a fucking automaton that I've bought into the idea perpetuated by Las Vegas PR mavens that Las Vegas is a place where anything goes and anything can happen."
-"My life is so fucking shallow and empty I need to do crazy shit in Vegas so others can see me acting a fool, I can say "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas", my buddies with me can go home and tell everyone what I did, I can be proud of myself for being a 'wild and crazy guy', and when my half-retarded, droid-like grandchildren talk about Las Vegas I can say with a gleam in my eye, "you know what they say…what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" and then proceed to tell them about my idiotic exploits."
It's as if people aren't even going for fun anymore, they're going to Las Vegas hopeful that they can come home with the most outrageous story for their friends/acquaintances that didn't make the trip, where the number of times you threw up in public or hit a girl is the benchmark for how much "fun" you had. Thus, I walk around the casinos, bars, and streets wearily looking out for the next jackass to stumble into me or initiate the next drunk-buddy talk about how it's so cool to be in Vegas where you can do anything you want. Not to mention, why the fuck would you be taking a vacation with people you were worried would rat you out on your activities? You should be on vacation with your friends and if they're really your friends they're not going to go home and talk shit about you so you shouldn't need to tell them any pithy phrase to silence them up. Then there are the other people in the town who feel the same way that I do, except the weary look in their eyes that matches the look in mine can just as easily be mistaken for extreme drunkenness as mutual understanding; and there is no quicker way to a shiv in your ear than locking eyes with a blacked out Vegas drunk.
You can, of course, avoid the hideous masses. You could stay at the Four Seasons and only venture out of your room to visit the Mandalay Bay spa facility or gamble in the Bellagio High Stakes room. While rolling that way will allow you to avoid the foul proletariat you're still faced with the people who actually live in Vegas year round, the cabbies, bellhops, wait staff, etc. who, if they're not hard-peddling drugs or women, expect outrageously inflated tips simply because you're in Vegas. So why have I come to hate Las Vegas? Because everyone in the whole goddamn town is trying to fuck you somehow and it drains the shit out of me trying to be ever vigilant of the next fuckin'. My feelings for Las Vegas didn't mature until recently, so I was particularly worried about this trip given it would be the first time for me to experience the town with opened eyes. Would Las Vegas treat me gently and put it in slow like a loving father or would Las Vegas shove a dirty sock in my mouth and go strait for the butt?
The trip was business related: Deadbolt, our lumber peddler was taking me, Il Duce, Kong, and The Noise Maker on an all expenses paid vacation to Las Vegas and the NFR. Deadbolt was very excited about taking us on the trip, evidenced by his superfluous use of the aforementioned "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" phrase and referring to everyone he ran into as "Haus." The NFR is the National Finals Rodeo, I guess National Rodeo Finals was taken, and is the world's premier rodeo featuring the world's premier cowboys and cowgirls. This NFR business was the reason behind all the swarming cowboy outfits around me and why all the ugly people were here, I hadn't seen that much leather since I accidentally downloaded that CornHoleCruisers In Gaymerica video, and I was quickly filing every asshole with a handlebar mustache and every bitch with a greasy mullet into my hatebox. Generally, I absolutely loath rodeos, and all the fucking cowboy outfits everywhere weren't helping things, but the NFR is a rodeo without all the fluff, it's only 2 hours long and they don't do the stupid shit like the chuck wagon races and calf scrambles where the highlight of the evening is seeing a 7 year old kid get his face caved in my a calf's hoof. We were staying at the Flamingo, one of the older hotels on the strip that's really a sack in comparison to newer hotels like the Bellagio, Mandalay Bay, and The Venetian. Also of note, the Flamingo was the hotel Bugsy Siegel built. Perhaps I too could be mowed down by shotgun fire in my hooker girlfriend's living room…yea right, in my fucking dreams.
As Vice President of Hotel Relations I was charged with managing the check in while Il Duce was in the gift shop wandering around the ladies unmentionables counter. I was given two keys and the woman who checked me in pointed out that the keys were for rooms 23101 and 23105. "That's nice at least", I thought, "this fucking lumber peddler sprung for two rooms." I found Il Duce and escorted him to the elevators. The elevator bank was expansive, there were at least 20 elevators and every one of them went from the basement to the penthouse. The button to summon an elevator was ancient and gave no tactile feedback to show that it even accepted my probe. The hallway of elevators was so long an elevator would arrive at one end and close before you could get to it. Plus, the 'ding' of an elevator arriving was virtually identical to the 'ding' let off by the millions of slot machine just outside the elevator lobby which only added to the confusion. All this elevator bullshit was starting to irritate me, I really needed to get out of that low-ceilinged lobby (read: prison) and away from the sick mother fuckers everywhere. Once we wrangled an elevator (notice my use of the cowboy vernacular), I expected to find a gate that needed to be closed before the fucker would move. At first I was relieved to find the elevator moving up towards our twenty-third floor destination, only to see that someone had scrawled "deathtrap" on the aluminum elevator door with a key or pocket knife of some kind.
The elevator doors opened on the twenty-third floor to reveal the most hideous carpet I've ever seen. Like a fat man's Hawaiian shirt, the floor was very bright and quite the eyesore. I walked down the hallway past 23101 and 23103 to my room, 23105, and opened my door just as Il Duce opened 23101. My room was a nice, albeit fairly common arrangement, king-size bed, dresser with TV, loveseat, and small but well appointed bathroom. Then I heard a noise to my right and turned my head, in a very "Back to School" with Rodney Dangerfield moment I looked past where there should have been wall to see Il Duce walking around. Fuck me. I walked through the door and found myself in a 2000 square foot suite. This fucker had a living room, dining room, kitchen, and a powder room. Our fucking lumber peddler wasn't fucking around. It turns out 23103 was a door that entered into the kitchen. Our suite certainly eased my growing hate.
Deadbolt had made dinner arrangements for us at 7:30, so around 6:00 Il Duce suggested we check out the casino floor and perhaps take part in some games of chance. Walking out of our suite the horrendous carpet caught my attention again and made me wonder how much puke cleaned up from the carpet was directly caused by the nausea inducing color patterns. The casino floor left much to be desired. I don't know if it was because I'm used to the 20 foot ceilings of the newer, nicer casinos or the fact I like ceiling heights to be in proportion to my 20 inch penis but the 9 foot ceilings of the casino floor made me feel like I was trapped in a fucking box. It was similar to that room that Conan gets trapped in with that trixie wizard in the first Conan movie, except I didn't have a sword to break out and I wasn't surrounded by trixie wizards but fucking cowboys. Everyone, and I mean everyone, was wearing cowboy outfits because of the NFR going on. Everyone, except for me of course, I was in a coat and tie like a fucking gentleman. Even the hotel staff was dressed to suit the tastes of cowboys, ranchers, etc. To say that I was disgusted with the staff's outfits would be a gross understatement. Firstly, I understand that everyone and everything in Vegas is whored out to reap the greatest monetary benefits but seeing the staff wearing uncoordinated cowboy outfits was a personal affront. Seriously, it was the most unprofessional looking staff I've ever witnessed. The fact that the staff largely consisted of Asian women only amplified the hate in me. You haven't seen anything filthier than a dolled-up, dead-eyed, emaciated, middle aged, Asian woman in ill-fitting jeans sans back pockets, calling out "cocktail" every two seconds, walking aimlessly through the casino floor, and never looking anyone in the eye. For a casino with so many bodies in it there wasn't a soul to be found, it was then I realized that I wasn't in a casino but a fucking mausoleum.
Il Duce and I wandered our way through the gaming tables and into the back of the casino where the restaurant we were to be dining at was supposedly located. We found the restaurant and continued past to see what else the Flamingo had inside her. We rounded a bend in the hallway and I found myself at the black gates of Mordor. Of course, the Flamingo couldn't call it Mordor due to copyright issues so they called it Margarita Ville. Margarita Ville was a massive bar dedicated to Jimmy Buffet. Complete with dozens upon dozens of TVs playing non-stop Buffet concert videos in sync with the music, fake boats acting as booths, and a giant papier-mâché volcano/bar. The place was fucking packed to the gills with people enjoying giant fruity cocktails. Appropriately, Margarita Ville was the song being played through the loud speakers and everyone was singing along. Fucking lemmings. If it weren't for all the papier-mâché and bright colors I'd have sworn I was in a Borg cube. Across the bar, past the boat/booths was a fucking clown on stilts making balloon hats in the shape of cocks and pussies. How the fuck can anyone not understand that their life is forfeit when they wear a goddamn penis shaped balloon as a hat? I quickly filed through my hatebox… clowns, check… stilts, check… "funny" balloon hats, check… much more time in this fucked place and I would have to impale myself on a boat mast. Close to hyperventilating, I grabbed Il Duce and walked us back out the door. Fuck that place, it was worse than the vomit inducing carpet on the twenty-third floor, and they had obviously put a lot of time and effort into defining hell for me. Cheeseburger in paradise my ass! Rot in hell Buffet, you gimmick pimp!
Finally, 7:30 rolled around and we were able to retire to the relative safety of the restaurant. The name of the restaurant was something terribly generic for a steakhouse, something like "meat house", and its nonspecific name went strides in actually defining the joint. It was ambiguous and boring, decidedly average, and just about all I could hope for in this tomb. At least it wasn't the sense-fucker that Margarita Ville was. The dinner was uneventful with the exception of Deadbolt vanishing as soon as the main course arrived, only returning after everyone else had finished their meal. I thought he had been throwing up in the bathroom, or at least doing coke. It turns out, he took a shit and then was bitten by the "gambling bug." This jackass, our host, played blackjack while we ate, coming back to the table just in time for us to sit around and watch him eat after we had gorged ourselves. Deadbolt also insisted on repeatedly calling our waiter "Haus" and then, to top off his outrageous behavior, called all the wait staff in the area over to the table to tell them, "In central Texas we'd call all y'all Hauses." No shit, he really said that. I wanted to gut myself in the bathroom.
By the time we left the restaurant it was 9:15 or so and the casino floor was packed. Wandering through the crowd of cowboys I felt like I was in Tombstone, I was just waiting for Ike Clanton to run into me, call me a 'pimp', and tell me that 'law don't run around here'. Unfortunately, there was no Ike Clanton, just more and more Asian women. Il Duce and Kong joined a craps table, Deadbolt and The Noise Maker sat down at a blackjack table, and I saddled up to (again, note the parlance) the main casino bar. I've been to quite a few bars in my years and this was one of the worst I've patroned, it was even worse than the bars in Boys Town, at least they had a donkey show. This fucking bar didn't even have any scotch and the only bartender was a squirrelly Saudi named Jihad. I asked Jihad to pour me a vodka tonic, 10 minutes later the asshole gives me a vodka tonic without any ice. "You fucking terrorist!", I wanted to scream, "We're not in goddamn Europe!" Before I could say anything I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I breathed a sigh of relief, I was sure whoever was behind me was waiting with shiv in hand to rid me of this body and this horrible fucking casino. Unfortunately, when I turned around it was just Deadbolt and the rest of our group. "We're going to the titty bar, the Spearmint Rhino, let's go." They turned and began heading towards the exit. I had been to the Spearmint Rhino before, many years ago. It was the most fiscally ruinous event of my life up to that point. It was not so ruinous as The Incident but it left me in the red for several months none the less. "Fuck it", I thought, grabbed the iceless vodka tonic, downed it, and followed Deadbolt. I bet it looked cool when I slammed that vodka but it made me throw-up in my mouth. There was enough puke in my mouth that I couldn't swallow it back down so I had to make my way through the casino and outside to the cab and limo line to spit it all up. Fortunately, the plethora of cops outside didn't see me throwing up; they were busy manhandling a shoplifter into their paddy wagon. While we waited on Deadbolt to lasso us up a limo (I hate myself) I noticed there was a retard hanging out near the cops. The retard looked to be in his thirties, was decked out in full cowboy regalia, and was very upset about the shoplifter. The cops were happy to let the retard beat on the patty wagon doors and yell at the captor inside. With a tear in my eye I climbed into the waiting limo. Oh retard, if only I could live in your world of black and white; this sea of grey I live in is slowly smothering me to death.
We arrived at the Spearmint Rhino in the limo sequestered by Deadbolt. Things immediately went sour as soon as we entered the club and Deadbolt got 'the fear'. The bouncers greeted us and began asking us questions. Deadbolt just looked around, apparently confused, and tried to walk past the bouncers. These fuckers were huge, like partially shaved Kodiak brown bears and I could smell the steroids in their sweat. Since the last thing I wanted was to piss off these fucking bouncers, I took charge. "Yes. We'd like a table and 5 girls", I told the gorilla-like bouncer. He began leading us into the heart of the club and Deadbolt obediently followed the group seemingly on the brink of an epileptic fit. We were seated in a large booth and the girls arrived soon after.
Each of the girls that arrived for our choosing was Playboy quality and exceptionally hot. Where the girls at a quality Big Funky strip club will average a 7, these girls averaged a 10. They were smokin' hot. The alpha stripper in the group asked in a deep southern drawl, "so, who goes where?" I was closest to her, and asked, "Is your name Sunny?" She walked over to me in her 7 inch stilettos, leaned over, and said, "no… my name's Georgia" and licked my ear. Nonplused, I asked a second question, "Do you know the sun?" She seemed a bit confused and rightfully so. Before she could reply I laughed and gave her my stripper grin which eased her confusion. Georgia sat on my lap and began a rigorous question and answer session. "What's you name?", she asked.
"Rooster", I told her.
"That's a funny name!"
"Is it?"
"Where are you from Rooster?"
"Spain."
"Are you really? You don't look like a Spainish."
"Damn, you got me. I'm not Spainish, I'm from The Big Funky."
"Wow, you don't have much of an accent… I'm from South Carolina."
"But your name is Georgia? Why would you pick Georgia as your stage name when you're from South Carolina?"
"No, Georgia's not a stage name, it's my real name. I don't use a stage name."
Our drinks arrived, and none too soon since that last bit took some time to think about. "You wanna go back to the VIP room yet?", asked Georgia. "Sure", I replied. As if on cue, all the other girls got up as well and led all of us sans Deadbolt into the VIP room. Deadbolt, it seemed, had vamped entirely.
The VIP room was the scene of the crime, as it were, of the last fiscally ruinous adventure in Las Vegas. Fortunately, Deadbolt had left his tab open and price wasn't going to be an issue this time around. That said, many connoisseurs of titty bars will tell you that The Big Funky has the best gentlemen's clubs in the world. I don't know about the whole world but The Big Funky certainly has the best gentlemen's clubs in the US, just because of the things the girls will do for a pittance compared to every other city I've been to, and Vegas is certainly no exception. $400 an hour for mediocre dances and no "extracurricular activities" is highway-fucking-robbery…but the girls are pretty hot. Georgia was definitely porn star material, she was about 5'3", dirty-blonde hair, had a pair of rock hard DDs, and the only blemish on her body was the rather nasty stretch marks on her tits caused by the implants. Georgia straddled my lap and began talking again. She was telling me my horoscope but I wasn't interested in her witchcraft and began giving her a mammogram. It felt like someone taped two rather large softballs to her chest and fondling them was satisfying in only the most masochistic of ways. Georgia pulled my hands away and I would have been upset had I not already lost interest. Time went by and Georgia would dance, take a song off to talk to me about something ridiculous, and dance again. Half way through our hour Georgia had built up a rather pungent layer of sweat. My tie and shirt were soaked in stripper sweat. Georgia took a break to wipe the sweat built up under her prodigious tits with a bar napkin, it was about as sexy as watching that video of me in the shower trying to push that piece of shit down the drain with my hands. Georgia mistook my disgust with excitement and asked, "looks like someone's ready for another dance!" I wanted to say, "No, someone's ready for a fucking shower!" but I couldn't say anything because she had already began her routine and the first part of her routine involved my face being shoved in between her tits. I won't lie to you and tell you it wasn't awesome. Despite the fact that she essentially did the same 4 moves over and over again, this one was rather fun. It's difficult to describe the feeling of your head being squeezed so hard between two sweat lathered breasts that you can't breathe. Needless to say, I was like a pig before the trough between those bastards. A bouncer came by to let us know that the hour was finally up and Georgia began negotiating her tip. Seriously, after buying a bottle of champagne and paying $400 for an hour Georgia told me that she usually receives a $100 tip for an hour. Un-fucking-believable. Goddamn Vegas. Oh well, at least I wasn't paying for it. Georgia left me with one last piece of advice, "Always follow your dreams and don't let anything stand in your way." I was dumbfounded. Bitch! I just spent $500 on an expensive fortune cookie! A pretty, smooth candy exterior, hollow inside, except for a witless proverb. Except this fortune cookie had all those attributes along with giant, sweaty tits. The analogy struck me as rather amusing and I looked around for Kong or The Noise Maker to tell them about it only to realize I was alone. None of my group was in the VIP room anymore, and neither were they in the club proper. Wandering around alone in Las Vegas is a bigger deathwish than climbing on the rickety elevators back at our sack hotel, so I hailed the first available cab and headed back to the Flamingo. The cab driver offered to take me to a whore house or to a drug dealer. I declined his proposition by pretending I was too drunk to reply, which in my experience is the very best way to get a cabbie to shut his fucking mouth since talking to a drunk is the easiest way to get a cab full of puke. My shirt stank something fierce and I had to remove my tie entirely since it was completely soaked and beginning to show sweat stains. At the hotel I rushed to the elevators and jumped into the first one available, when the doors opened on the twenty-third floor I shrieked at the hideous carpet and began walking towards my room until the swirling colors of the carpet began making the hallway spin. I closed my eyes and began running down the hall until I dead-legged myself on a room service cart which sent me sprawling, I had knocked the cart over, and covered me in half eaten club sandwich and ketchup. I got up quickly and began hobbling towards my room tearing my clothes off along the way; the stink was really getting to me. I slipped into my room and breathed a deep sigh of relief, this torturous day was finally at an end. The shower I took next was extremely satisfying in the way a shower after a haircut is satisfying since it gets rid of all that fucking hair that fell down your shirt and itched you for the rest of the day, except I was getting rid of a corrupt layer of stripper oil and titty sweat. That night I slept the sleep of angels, well, the sleep of hate angels with an anal douche fetish.
Before I go into the details of my trip let me make something clear. I have come to hate Vegas. I don't hate it as much as New York or California, but I do hate it. You must be asking yourself why I would hate Vegas, and it's a good question. I mean, I like gambling, drinking, prostitution, and displays of monetary excess, in fact, they're the cornerstones of my lifestyle. However, as much as I like those vices, and despite the fact that they are the foundation upon which Las Vegas was built, the people that populate the town at any given time are absolutely repulsive to me. I was discussing my feelings for Vegas with Lucas one day and he summed up what I was saying rather eloquently: "Las Vegas is the Cancun of people over 21." A perfect analogy. Everyone in Vegas that's there on vacation feels the need to act completely out of control and do shit they normally wouldn't do simply because they're in Vegas, hence the creation of the most hated of colloquialisms: "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas". Anyone who tells me "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" is essentially saying:
-"My life is so fucking miserable that I can't 'have fun' or 'get into trouble' in my own town."
-"I'm such a fucking automaton that I've bought into the idea perpetuated by Las Vegas PR mavens that Las Vegas is a place where anything goes and anything can happen."
-"My life is so fucking shallow and empty I need to do crazy shit in Vegas so others can see me acting a fool, I can say "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas", my buddies with me can go home and tell everyone what I did, I can be proud of myself for being a 'wild and crazy guy', and when my half-retarded, droid-like grandchildren talk about Las Vegas I can say with a gleam in my eye, "you know what they say…what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" and then proceed to tell them about my idiotic exploits."
It's as if people aren't even going for fun anymore, they're going to Las Vegas hopeful that they can come home with the most outrageous story for their friends/acquaintances that didn't make the trip, where the number of times you threw up in public or hit a girl is the benchmark for how much "fun" you had. Thus, I walk around the casinos, bars, and streets wearily looking out for the next jackass to stumble into me or initiate the next drunk-buddy talk about how it's so cool to be in Vegas where you can do anything you want. Not to mention, why the fuck would you be taking a vacation with people you were worried would rat you out on your activities? You should be on vacation with your friends and if they're really your friends they're not going to go home and talk shit about you so you shouldn't need to tell them any pithy phrase to silence them up. Then there are the other people in the town who feel the same way that I do, except the weary look in their eyes that matches the look in mine can just as easily be mistaken for extreme drunkenness as mutual understanding; and there is no quicker way to a shiv in your ear than locking eyes with a blacked out Vegas drunk.
You can, of course, avoid the hideous masses. You could stay at the Four Seasons and only venture out of your room to visit the Mandalay Bay spa facility or gamble in the Bellagio High Stakes room. While rolling that way will allow you to avoid the foul proletariat you're still faced with the people who actually live in Vegas year round, the cabbies, bellhops, wait staff, etc. who, if they're not hard-peddling drugs or women, expect outrageously inflated tips simply because you're in Vegas. So why have I come to hate Las Vegas? Because everyone in the whole goddamn town is trying to fuck you somehow and it drains the shit out of me trying to be ever vigilant of the next fuckin'. My feelings for Las Vegas didn't mature until recently, so I was particularly worried about this trip given it would be the first time for me to experience the town with opened eyes. Would Las Vegas treat me gently and put it in slow like a loving father or would Las Vegas shove a dirty sock in my mouth and go strait for the butt?
The trip was business related: Deadbolt, our lumber peddler was taking me, Il Duce, Kong, and The Noise Maker on an all expenses paid vacation to Las Vegas and the NFR. Deadbolt was very excited about taking us on the trip, evidenced by his superfluous use of the aforementioned "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" phrase and referring to everyone he ran into as "Haus." The NFR is the National Finals Rodeo, I guess National Rodeo Finals was taken, and is the world's premier rodeo featuring the world's premier cowboys and cowgirls. This NFR business was the reason behind all the swarming cowboy outfits around me and why all the ugly people were here, I hadn't seen that much leather since I accidentally downloaded that CornHoleCruisers In Gaymerica video, and I was quickly filing every asshole with a handlebar mustache and every bitch with a greasy mullet into my hatebox. Generally, I absolutely loath rodeos, and all the fucking cowboy outfits everywhere weren't helping things, but the NFR is a rodeo without all the fluff, it's only 2 hours long and they don't do the stupid shit like the chuck wagon races and calf scrambles where the highlight of the evening is seeing a 7 year old kid get his face caved in my a calf's hoof. We were staying at the Flamingo, one of the older hotels on the strip that's really a sack in comparison to newer hotels like the Bellagio, Mandalay Bay, and The Venetian. Also of note, the Flamingo was the hotel Bugsy Siegel built. Perhaps I too could be mowed down by shotgun fire in my hooker girlfriend's living room…yea right, in my fucking dreams.
As Vice President of Hotel Relations I was charged with managing the check in while Il Duce was in the gift shop wandering around the ladies unmentionables counter. I was given two keys and the woman who checked me in pointed out that the keys were for rooms 23101 and 23105. "That's nice at least", I thought, "this fucking lumber peddler sprung for two rooms." I found Il Duce and escorted him to the elevators. The elevator bank was expansive, there were at least 20 elevators and every one of them went from the basement to the penthouse. The button to summon an elevator was ancient and gave no tactile feedback to show that it even accepted my probe. The hallway of elevators was so long an elevator would arrive at one end and close before you could get to it. Plus, the 'ding' of an elevator arriving was virtually identical to the 'ding' let off by the millions of slot machine just outside the elevator lobby which only added to the confusion. All this elevator bullshit was starting to irritate me, I really needed to get out of that low-ceilinged lobby (read: prison) and away from the sick mother fuckers everywhere. Once we wrangled an elevator (notice my use of the cowboy vernacular), I expected to find a gate that needed to be closed before the fucker would move. At first I was relieved to find the elevator moving up towards our twenty-third floor destination, only to see that someone had scrawled "deathtrap" on the aluminum elevator door with a key or pocket knife of some kind.
The elevator doors opened on the twenty-third floor to reveal the most hideous carpet I've ever seen. Like a fat man's Hawaiian shirt, the floor was very bright and quite the eyesore. I walked down the hallway past 23101 and 23103 to my room, 23105, and opened my door just as Il Duce opened 23101. My room was a nice, albeit fairly common arrangement, king-size bed, dresser with TV, loveseat, and small but well appointed bathroom. Then I heard a noise to my right and turned my head, in a very "Back to School" with Rodney Dangerfield moment I looked past where there should have been wall to see Il Duce walking around. Fuck me. I walked through the door and found myself in a 2000 square foot suite. This fucker had a living room, dining room, kitchen, and a powder room. Our fucking lumber peddler wasn't fucking around. It turns out 23103 was a door that entered into the kitchen. Our suite certainly eased my growing hate.
Deadbolt had made dinner arrangements for us at 7:30, so around 6:00 Il Duce suggested we check out the casino floor and perhaps take part in some games of chance. Walking out of our suite the horrendous carpet caught my attention again and made me wonder how much puke cleaned up from the carpet was directly caused by the nausea inducing color patterns. The casino floor left much to be desired. I don't know if it was because I'm used to the 20 foot ceilings of the newer, nicer casinos or the fact I like ceiling heights to be in proportion to my 20 inch penis but the 9 foot ceilings of the casino floor made me feel like I was trapped in a fucking box. It was similar to that room that Conan gets trapped in with that trixie wizard in the first Conan movie, except I didn't have a sword to break out and I wasn't surrounded by trixie wizards but fucking cowboys. Everyone, and I mean everyone, was wearing cowboy outfits because of the NFR going on. Everyone, except for me of course, I was in a coat and tie like a fucking gentleman. Even the hotel staff was dressed to suit the tastes of cowboys, ranchers, etc. To say that I was disgusted with the staff's outfits would be a gross understatement. Firstly, I understand that everyone and everything in Vegas is whored out to reap the greatest monetary benefits but seeing the staff wearing uncoordinated cowboy outfits was a personal affront. Seriously, it was the most unprofessional looking staff I've ever witnessed. The fact that the staff largely consisted of Asian women only amplified the hate in me. You haven't seen anything filthier than a dolled-up, dead-eyed, emaciated, middle aged, Asian woman in ill-fitting jeans sans back pockets, calling out "cocktail" every two seconds, walking aimlessly through the casino floor, and never looking anyone in the eye. For a casino with so many bodies in it there wasn't a soul to be found, it was then I realized that I wasn't in a casino but a fucking mausoleum.
Il Duce and I wandered our way through the gaming tables and into the back of the casino where the restaurant we were to be dining at was supposedly located. We found the restaurant and continued past to see what else the Flamingo had inside her. We rounded a bend in the hallway and I found myself at the black gates of Mordor. Of course, the Flamingo couldn't call it Mordor due to copyright issues so they called it Margarita Ville. Margarita Ville was a massive bar dedicated to Jimmy Buffet. Complete with dozens upon dozens of TVs playing non-stop Buffet concert videos in sync with the music, fake boats acting as booths, and a giant papier-mâché volcano/bar. The place was fucking packed to the gills with people enjoying giant fruity cocktails. Appropriately, Margarita Ville was the song being played through the loud speakers and everyone was singing along. Fucking lemmings. If it weren't for all the papier-mâché and bright colors I'd have sworn I was in a Borg cube. Across the bar, past the boat/booths was a fucking clown on stilts making balloon hats in the shape of cocks and pussies. How the fuck can anyone not understand that their life is forfeit when they wear a goddamn penis shaped balloon as a hat? I quickly filed through my hatebox… clowns, check… stilts, check… "funny" balloon hats, check… much more time in this fucked place and I would have to impale myself on a boat mast. Close to hyperventilating, I grabbed Il Duce and walked us back out the door. Fuck that place, it was worse than the vomit inducing carpet on the twenty-third floor, and they had obviously put a lot of time and effort into defining hell for me. Cheeseburger in paradise my ass! Rot in hell Buffet, you gimmick pimp!
Finally, 7:30 rolled around and we were able to retire to the relative safety of the restaurant. The name of the restaurant was something terribly generic for a steakhouse, something like "meat house", and its nonspecific name went strides in actually defining the joint. It was ambiguous and boring, decidedly average, and just about all I could hope for in this tomb. At least it wasn't the sense-fucker that Margarita Ville was. The dinner was uneventful with the exception of Deadbolt vanishing as soon as the main course arrived, only returning after everyone else had finished their meal. I thought he had been throwing up in the bathroom, or at least doing coke. It turns out, he took a shit and then was bitten by the "gambling bug." This jackass, our host, played blackjack while we ate, coming back to the table just in time for us to sit around and watch him eat after we had gorged ourselves. Deadbolt also insisted on repeatedly calling our waiter "Haus" and then, to top off his outrageous behavior, called all the wait staff in the area over to the table to tell them, "In central Texas we'd call all y'all Hauses." No shit, he really said that. I wanted to gut myself in the bathroom.
By the time we left the restaurant it was 9:15 or so and the casino floor was packed. Wandering through the crowd of cowboys I felt like I was in Tombstone, I was just waiting for Ike Clanton to run into me, call me a 'pimp', and tell me that 'law don't run around here'. Unfortunately, there was no Ike Clanton, just more and more Asian women. Il Duce and Kong joined a craps table, Deadbolt and The Noise Maker sat down at a blackjack table, and I saddled up to (again, note the parlance) the main casino bar. I've been to quite a few bars in my years and this was one of the worst I've patroned, it was even worse than the bars in Boys Town, at least they had a donkey show. This fucking bar didn't even have any scotch and the only bartender was a squirrelly Saudi named Jihad. I asked Jihad to pour me a vodka tonic, 10 minutes later the asshole gives me a vodka tonic without any ice. "You fucking terrorist!", I wanted to scream, "We're not in goddamn Europe!" Before I could say anything I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I breathed a sigh of relief, I was sure whoever was behind me was waiting with shiv in hand to rid me of this body and this horrible fucking casino. Unfortunately, when I turned around it was just Deadbolt and the rest of our group. "We're going to the titty bar, the Spearmint Rhino, let's go." They turned and began heading towards the exit. I had been to the Spearmint Rhino before, many years ago. It was the most fiscally ruinous event of my life up to that point. It was not so ruinous as The Incident but it left me in the red for several months none the less. "Fuck it", I thought, grabbed the iceless vodka tonic, downed it, and followed Deadbolt. I bet it looked cool when I slammed that vodka but it made me throw-up in my mouth. There was enough puke in my mouth that I couldn't swallow it back down so I had to make my way through the casino and outside to the cab and limo line to spit it all up. Fortunately, the plethora of cops outside didn't see me throwing up; they were busy manhandling a shoplifter into their paddy wagon. While we waited on Deadbolt to lasso us up a limo (I hate myself) I noticed there was a retard hanging out near the cops. The retard looked to be in his thirties, was decked out in full cowboy regalia, and was very upset about the shoplifter. The cops were happy to let the retard beat on the patty wagon doors and yell at the captor inside. With a tear in my eye I climbed into the waiting limo. Oh retard, if only I could live in your world of black and white; this sea of grey I live in is slowly smothering me to death.
We arrived at the Spearmint Rhino in the limo sequestered by Deadbolt. Things immediately went sour as soon as we entered the club and Deadbolt got 'the fear'. The bouncers greeted us and began asking us questions. Deadbolt just looked around, apparently confused, and tried to walk past the bouncers. These fuckers were huge, like partially shaved Kodiak brown bears and I could smell the steroids in their sweat. Since the last thing I wanted was to piss off these fucking bouncers, I took charge. "Yes. We'd like a table and 5 girls", I told the gorilla-like bouncer. He began leading us into the heart of the club and Deadbolt obediently followed the group seemingly on the brink of an epileptic fit. We were seated in a large booth and the girls arrived soon after.
Each of the girls that arrived for our choosing was Playboy quality and exceptionally hot. Where the girls at a quality Big Funky strip club will average a 7, these girls averaged a 10. They were smokin' hot. The alpha stripper in the group asked in a deep southern drawl, "so, who goes where?" I was closest to her, and asked, "Is your name Sunny?" She walked over to me in her 7 inch stilettos, leaned over, and said, "no… my name's Georgia" and licked my ear. Nonplused, I asked a second question, "Do you know the sun?" She seemed a bit confused and rightfully so. Before she could reply I laughed and gave her my stripper grin which eased her confusion. Georgia sat on my lap and began a rigorous question and answer session. "What's you name?", she asked.
"Rooster", I told her.
"That's a funny name!"
"Is it?"
"Where are you from Rooster?"
"Spain."
"Are you really? You don't look like a Spainish."
"Damn, you got me. I'm not Spainish, I'm from The Big Funky."
"Wow, you don't have much of an accent… I'm from South Carolina."
"But your name is Georgia? Why would you pick Georgia as your stage name when you're from South Carolina?"
"No, Georgia's not a stage name, it's my real name. I don't use a stage name."
Our drinks arrived, and none too soon since that last bit took some time to think about. "You wanna go back to the VIP room yet?", asked Georgia. "Sure", I replied. As if on cue, all the other girls got up as well and led all of us sans Deadbolt into the VIP room. Deadbolt, it seemed, had vamped entirely.
The VIP room was the scene of the crime, as it were, of the last fiscally ruinous adventure in Las Vegas. Fortunately, Deadbolt had left his tab open and price wasn't going to be an issue this time around. That said, many connoisseurs of titty bars will tell you that The Big Funky has the best gentlemen's clubs in the world. I don't know about the whole world but The Big Funky certainly has the best gentlemen's clubs in the US, just because of the things the girls will do for a pittance compared to every other city I've been to, and Vegas is certainly no exception. $400 an hour for mediocre dances and no "extracurricular activities" is highway-fucking-robbery…but the girls are pretty hot. Georgia was definitely porn star material, she was about 5'3", dirty-blonde hair, had a pair of rock hard DDs, and the only blemish on her body was the rather nasty stretch marks on her tits caused by the implants. Georgia straddled my lap and began talking again. She was telling me my horoscope but I wasn't interested in her witchcraft and began giving her a mammogram. It felt like someone taped two rather large softballs to her chest and fondling them was satisfying in only the most masochistic of ways. Georgia pulled my hands away and I would have been upset had I not already lost interest. Time went by and Georgia would dance, take a song off to talk to me about something ridiculous, and dance again. Half way through our hour Georgia had built up a rather pungent layer of sweat. My tie and shirt were soaked in stripper sweat. Georgia took a break to wipe the sweat built up under her prodigious tits with a bar napkin, it was about as sexy as watching that video of me in the shower trying to push that piece of shit down the drain with my hands. Georgia mistook my disgust with excitement and asked, "looks like someone's ready for another dance!" I wanted to say, "No, someone's ready for a fucking shower!" but I couldn't say anything because she had already began her routine and the first part of her routine involved my face being shoved in between her tits. I won't lie to you and tell you it wasn't awesome. Despite the fact that she essentially did the same 4 moves over and over again, this one was rather fun. It's difficult to describe the feeling of your head being squeezed so hard between two sweat lathered breasts that you can't breathe. Needless to say, I was like a pig before the trough between those bastards. A bouncer came by to let us know that the hour was finally up and Georgia began negotiating her tip. Seriously, after buying a bottle of champagne and paying $400 for an hour Georgia told me that she usually receives a $100 tip for an hour. Un-fucking-believable. Goddamn Vegas. Oh well, at least I wasn't paying for it. Georgia left me with one last piece of advice, "Always follow your dreams and don't let anything stand in your way." I was dumbfounded. Bitch! I just spent $500 on an expensive fortune cookie! A pretty, smooth candy exterior, hollow inside, except for a witless proverb. Except this fortune cookie had all those attributes along with giant, sweaty tits. The analogy struck me as rather amusing and I looked around for Kong or The Noise Maker to tell them about it only to realize I was alone. None of my group was in the VIP room anymore, and neither were they in the club proper. Wandering around alone in Las Vegas is a bigger deathwish than climbing on the rickety elevators back at our sack hotel, so I hailed the first available cab and headed back to the Flamingo. The cab driver offered to take me to a whore house or to a drug dealer. I declined his proposition by pretending I was too drunk to reply, which in my experience is the very best way to get a cabbie to shut his fucking mouth since talking to a drunk is the easiest way to get a cab full of puke. My shirt stank something fierce and I had to remove my tie entirely since it was completely soaked and beginning to show sweat stains. At the hotel I rushed to the elevators and jumped into the first one available, when the doors opened on the twenty-third floor I shrieked at the hideous carpet and began walking towards my room until the swirling colors of the carpet began making the hallway spin. I closed my eyes and began running down the hall until I dead-legged myself on a room service cart which sent me sprawling, I had knocked the cart over, and covered me in half eaten club sandwich and ketchup. I got up quickly and began hobbling towards my room tearing my clothes off along the way; the stink was really getting to me. I slipped into my room and breathed a deep sigh of relief, this torturous day was finally at an end. The shower I took next was extremely satisfying in the way a shower after a haircut is satisfying since it gets rid of all that fucking hair that fell down your shirt and itched you for the rest of the day, except I was getting rid of a corrupt layer of stripper oil and titty sweat. That night I slept the sleep of angels, well, the sleep of hate angels with an anal douche fetish.
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