When my friends and I devour alcohol, I become drunk. My friends become bulimic. The day after the roof ramble Yes Man and Drunky awoke and swayed to Sahara's Nascar Cafe.
Although my body paralleled that of a felled African Bush Elephant, I roused myself and joined them downstairs less than an hour later.
I discovered the two accompanied by 3-foot-tall Brew Towers, racing to determine who could consume theirs first. I conducted what I considered to be as cogent a decision as dessert after breakfast, lunch, and dinner: I ordered one as well. Though I didn't desire to play catch-up to participate in their race, I initiated consuming my fifteen-beer tower as they embarked on the final third of theirs. Alcohol catch-up is as detrimental a concept as Michael Jackson's eighty-seventh plastic surgery. Thus, as they chugged their final glasses of beer, I sipped on my fifth.
Drunky deluged the last of his beer in his glass and inhaled it, completing the beer tower race as victorious as Michael Phelps. Yes Man anchored his alcohol to the counter, glass half-full, and hurtled towards the bathroom like a possessed Lamborghini. I congratulated Drunky, who truly wasn't that intoxicated, while women's screams struck our ears.
"Somebody puked on the carpet!"
We glanced at each other and followed the shrieks. Fifteen feet from the bathroom entrance we located the contents of Yes Man's stomach trailing to the bathroom. We determined there wasn't much to be done now, shrugged, and returned to the bar stools.
The following morning we dragged ourselves like lepers to the pool to refresh before our impending nine-hour drive to Northern California. Drunky declared we needed to depart to make it home at a decent hour. We agreed, evacuated the pool with the swiftness of garden snails, and I detoured to the bathroom. I returned to discern Drunky and Yes Man headed back to the Nascar Cafe in a Man vs. Man vs. Food six-pound, two-foot-long burrito hour-long eating contest. As I was four pounds when born, my friends attempted to consume what could very well be an average-sized baby.
Yes Man does not like burritos but complied with the contest because he is a Yes Man.
Drunky loves burritos like he loves his 1968 Mustang, but doesn't cherish spicy food. The first third of the burrito he consumed was satiated with Jalapenos.
Neither achieved the hour-long six-pound burrito consumption.
Drunky and Yes Man devoted the last twelve minutes of our Vegas trip in Sahara's Nascar Cafe bathroom.
They each left Vegas with pink shirts saying, "Certified Weenie" in cursive across the front.
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