Watching the movie The Hangover (which I love more than my laptop) established that two friends and I would drive to Vegas once one of the friends got off work. We departed at 11:30pm.
We arrived around 7:30am, alcohol-ample. The three of us were heavy holding five handles of Whiskey and Tequila. I enjoy Whiskey and Tequila about as much as I delight in monkeys volleying their excrement at me. However, the alcohol was free. Regardless of the type of liquor, when gratis, I do what any true alcoholic does: coerce my throat and body to inhale it as if it were Rum infused with ambrosia - the drink of the Grecian gods.
One of the friends recently watched the movie Yes Man and determined he was a Yes Man. Vegas was a yes, alcohol was a yes, and bombarding his sheltered rural-Washington-reared cousin's 21st birthday Vegas celebration was a definitive yes.
The three of us assailed Yes Man's twenty-one-year-old cousin and his friends with alcohol hours before their flights.
We achieved what any accomplished drinker would: we clouted Cousin with Tequila. His brother and friends left for their flights while we kidnapped him for the remainder of our stay. I was so pleased with our kidnapping abilities I drunkenly deliberated the life benefits of a kidnapper. Fourteen seconds later the visualization of me mothering eighty-eight kidnapped children eradicated any serious consideration as a career kidnapper.
Driving from Cousin's hotel to our $22-per-room-per-night hotel - a bit further down the strip, it felt like driving from one side of the Sahara Desert to the other - we halted for gas. The men cleared the car while I stalled inside to sink into unconsciousness. They were apparently under the impression that a drunken twenty-three-year-old in a car in the desert was a good idea. They abandoned me there for forty minutes. When they returned like victorious warriors, they regaled me with visions of them hitting on two girls at the gas station.
After naked ass pictures, wandering the Strip, and free beer pong, we returned to our hotel at midnight so the gas station girls could come over. I lay on the floor, desiring a thirty-minute nap while awaiting their arrival. Cousin and Drunky lay in bed while Yes Man answered the door. I opened my eyes to perceive one of the girls standing over me, her eyes looking down on mine.
"Who are you?" she demanded with the authority of Stalin.
"I'm Kara. Who the hell are you?" I responded.
She didn't reply but evacuated the room three minutes later with Jewish rapidity without saying goodbye.
What was her problem???
Was she a hooker? Thus threatened by the competition?
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