When we drove to Vegas in a motorhome, my friends and I made a list. Because we were downing enough rum and Coors Light to fell a mammoth, it was a drunk list. Whoever accomplished something on the list got a point. Whoever had the most points at the end of the trip, won.
A few items from The List:
* Get laid (couples don't count)
* Ride a mechanical bull
* Take a picture with a tranny
* Puke and rally
We kicked off our last night in Vegas by pledging to accomplish things on The List. We started at the Cosmopolitan. It had opened two weeks earlier, and we went because of the three-storey crystal chandelier. The guys wanted to hit on the girls that were inevitably drawn to the gazillion crystals hanging from the ceiling. Shiny things attract girls. They're like birds.
When we walked in, Caitlin Moe, an electric violinist, was playing to the house music that DJ Mia Moretti was busting out. I was in awe.
These women were hot and I was convinced had as much musical genius as Beethoven. If I were a lesbian, I would have proposed lesbian marriage. To both of them. I was so enthralled with the tunes they were spinning that I failed to notice my friend Sinner getting molested.
Sinner's girl kissed him and bit his face. While dancing, she fondled his willy through his jeans. She straddled Sinner on a chair in the Cosmo and moved her underwear to one side. A random girl approached Sinner and told them that they were being inappropriate. Sinner's molester mumbled that it was late, and then she stumbled off him and out of the casino. Her name was Candy, and it was eleven-thirty at night.
T-Rex noticed a semi-attractive female and hit on her. He asked her what her favorite color was. He asked her what her favorite drink was. He asked her to go home with him. She declined. When he pointed her out to Sinner, Sinner said that she was the cockblock who had sent Candy home. T-Rex repeatedly hit on Cockblock the rest of the night, incessantly yelling to Sinner, "I don't care what she did, she's hot!"
I eventually extracted myself from the mesmerizing music being produced, and recalled that I wanted to ride a mechanical bull. Natty Light, Parrot, Baby Bear, Delight, a few others, and I found my brother and cousin looking for food in the Cosmo's empty conference rooms.
According to Cousin, Brother had been demanding food for an hour. While we attempted to find our way to one of Cosmo's exits, Brother petitioned for food. I appealed for a mechanical bull ride, explaining that he could get food at Treasure Island, directly across the way. Brother detoured to look for food up stairwells and down escalators. He inspected under chairs and behind Blackjack tables. We discovered Pakistan dominating the Blackjack tables, but no food.
When Pakistan wins, he is overly generous. Money falls from his hands and his pockets. I wanted to stay with Pakistan for moral support and free drinks, but I wanted the mechanical bull vibrations more. Plus, Brother kept complaining. He wanted pizza, or food, or pizza, or any kind of food, and he continued to announce it.
We went to Gilley's at Treasure Island. Gilley's had swings suspended from the ceiling, a mechanical bull, and a full restaurant with an authentic country BBQ menu. The place was fantastic, and Brother was ecstatic. After thoroughly studying the menu, he ordered one side of baked beans.
Everyone who signed up to ride the bull had to sign a page-long, eight-point font disclaimer. The paper essentially said that if you were injured on the bull, or if you died, Gilley's wasn't responsible.
Cousin was riding the bull when Natty Light walked up to us and said that there was puke in the toilet he used, and the guy in the stall next to him was puking. When he walked out of the bathroom, Security Guard accosted him, saying, "You were puking in the bathroom. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
"But I'm sober, I wasn't puking, and my friends account for ninety percent of the people in this bar."
Security Guard insisted, "My guy told me it was you."
"I'm completely sober. Do I seem like I've been puking? Your guy's wrong."
Natty Light's sober eyes and coherent speaking confused Security Guard, and he let him stay.
"I can't believe I almost got kicked out of a bar for being sober," Natty Light exclaimed.
We rode the mechanical bull until the place closed, and when we left, Brother limped out of the bar. He had pulled his groin while riding the bull.
We returned to the Cosmopolitan to find the rest of our friends. My girl Delight and I were watching Pakistan at the Blackjack tables when we noticed a tranny. Pakistan was rolling in money, but the tranny was wearing booty shorts and garters. He won.
After the tranny called us "darling" eighteen times each, we were walking back to our friends when we noticed a tall man flanked by two girls that looked like models. All I saw were boobs and booties and long, thin legs. Hot Girl #1 said, "You're funny!" and stroked the guy's arm. Hot Girl #2 followed with, "You are sooo funny!" and ran her fingertips along his back. Clearly the guy must look like Brad Pitt. A random man walked by, noticed us watching, nodded towards them, and said, "Those two girls are totally hustling that guy." It wasn't until eighteen steps later that the guy turned around. It was T-Rex.
T-Rex continued to energetically chase down every female that walked past him. His standards lowered every ten minutes. At one point he pursued a girl who closely resembled a manatee. However, her vagina was hanging out, so she was an easy target.
My crew and I gathered and walked through Cosmo when one of our high school friends strolled up holding the hand of an Asian chick who may or may not be a stripper. She wore eight-inch heels, fake eyelashes, bright red lipstick, and a short turquoise sequin dress that extended out in a two-foot radius. We said hi with a few hugs before the group descended into utter silence. To add some conversation, Sinner screamed, "Wow, never thought seeing your friends in public would be so awkward."
After a few forced chuckles, everyone went mute again.
And then Asia yelled, "Hey, look, it's Carrot Top!"
Everyone turned around in confusion, didn't see Carrot Top, and turned back to Asia with question marks for faces.
"Look, it really is Carrot Top!" she repeated.
We still didn't see Carrot Top.
"Right there!" she exclaimed and pointed again.
She had been pointing at Baby Bear's brown hair.
Sinner explained that Carrot Top actually had red hair, and that she was mistaking our brown-haired friend for a firecrotch.
"I'm so sorry!" she screamed, and hugged Baby Bear as if he were a stuffed animal. Asia then placed her face three inches from Baby Bear's and talked about seeing Criss Angel. She repeated the same three sentences four times. Baby Bear smiled, laughed, and looked at us shaking his head, baffled. One second Asia was standing, echoing that she saw Criss Angel, and then she was on the floor. Her legs flew over her head. Turquoise sequins went everywhere. Everyone within a forty foot radius stared.
"Baby Bear, did you knock her down?" someone bellowed.
I grabbed the nearest thing to me, Sinner's arm, and we turned our heads away, shaking violently from laughter. Sinner enthusiastically high-fived a stranger. When we had recovered and looked back around, they had disappeared. Sinner immediately Facebook friend requested Asia. He wanted to make fun of her.
When we were ready to return to the Rio, the taxi wait line was longer than the entrance line to Tao.
Pakistan had won $1,500 and was ballin' it up. He paid for a limo back to our hotel.
As we walked towards the elevators, Pakistan looked at me, said, "One more," and laid $100 on a Blackjack table. He had a soft fifteen, and the dealer had a six. Pakistan doubled down and won $200 on the table. He exited the casino a Blackjack pimp.
Hours later, Cousin ended up at a restaurant in the Rio. He didn't know how he got there, but after twenty minutes of careful consideration, he ordered a two-egg platter. When the waitress asked if he wanted links or paddies, Cousin was confused. It was the hardest question he had heard. Ever. After more careful deliberation, he settled on paddies. Deciding what to order: twenty-three minutes. Receiving the food: eighteen minutes. Throwing up after finishing the food: immediate. Cousin puked and rallied.
Vegas 2011 - You Know You're Drunk When...
* You sneak beer into the club in your pockets, open one, it explodes all over the club's carpet, and you act like it's normal.
* You start a Conga line down Las Vegas Boulevard.
* You get denied entrance to a casino multiple times by the same security guard.
* You pee in a casino's employee locker room next to four sheriffs.
* You funnel champagne into a cardboard horn blower.
* You straddle a guy in public, in a club, move your underwear to one side, and get told by a random girl that you're being inappropriate in public. You then say it's late and go home.
* You enthusiastically high-five a stranger when your friend's girlfriend falls and lies on the ground.
* You request Facebook friendship to the girl who just fell down solely to make fun of her.
* You hit on and literally chase every girl you see down the walkway. You run back to your friends every time.
* You spend an hour looking for food, finally get to a bar that serves food, and order baked beans.
* You don't notice that your vagina and ass are hanging out of your dress while posing for a picture in thirty degree Fahrenheit weather.
* You are more concerned with the previous name on the restaurant's waiting list (Gigi) than you are with getting yourselves seated.
* You puke and rally twice in a day.
* The hardest question you've heard all night is, "Links or paddies?" After twenty minutes of careful consideration, you order a two-egg platter, which you immediately throw up.
* You pull your right groin from riding a mechanical bull.
Any girl can bag a guy in a bar. As long as she doesn't resemble Frankenstein. I've seen my good-looking male friends kissing girls who have the appeal of a banana slug. As long as a chick's face doesn't resemble a vagina, there's hope. Girls just stand in a bar and have options. Guys have to work to get laid. Relationships=consistent sex.
We were still sitting in the Rio. The guys were still trying to lower their standards by alcohol consumption, and I still wanted to ride a mechanical bull. We were talking about sex.
Sinner stood up, demanding our attention, "The thing is, when you're with your girlfriend, you can last forever. When you're single, forget about it."
He placed his hands out in front of him, beer in one hand, and thrust his hips forward, making the O face. After three thrusts, he shrugged and sat down.
"I've found the solution to that one," shouted T-Rex. "You just have to squeeze the tip of the penis. It lasts longer."
He stood up, thrust three times, and then squeezed his hand into a fist in front of his crotch.
"You just squeeze it, 'Oh ya baby, you like that? You like Papa?' The harder you squeeze, the longer you last. It's like Viagra."
Sinner stood up again. "I'm squeezing my dick, it's physics, Bitch!"
"You just grab it and, aggghhhh, aggghhhh," T-Rex screamed like a rapist.
I was giggling and unintentionally squirting beer out of my nose. I felt like a dysfunctional drinking fountain. When I was capable of speech again, I said that as a girl, if I was in the middle of the mattress mambo, and the guy I was with strangled his schlong and shrieked, I would be concerned.
"But girls like it when you last longer. And that is how you last longer," T-Rex said. He then repeated the squeezing motion and screamed.
"And suffocating your dick is the answer?" I asked.
"Dude, by squeezing my dick, I can last like thirty seconds longer."
I choked on my beer.
"Seriously. You squeeze, you thrust, you squeeze, you thrust. I've lasted a LONG time. It's like Viagra. I'm telling you."
"Dude, if you have a girlfriend, you can go all night," one of the serial monogamists said.
T-Rex laughed. "That's impossible. I have a sex mix. With shortened songs. The more songs play, the longer the girl thinks it lasts. I'm serious. Eight minutes!"
Some of our other friends choked on their drinks.
"Ok, wait, let me think. I've gone twelve minutes before. I gave that sex kitten the ride of her life. Twelve minutes, you guys. Twelve. I'm not exaggerating!"
He's never been in a relationship before.
Some of my friends have the texting skills of a crocodile. I can usually decipher. However, when I receive a text message that is complete gibberish at four in the afternoon, I have to assume that whoever sent it was drunk. Knowing my friends, if I get a "qwgr r up pll?" text at eleven in the morning, someone was drunk. When the entire text is impeccably written in coherent English except for one pig latin word, I get confused.
We were sitting in a circle in our room at Vegas' Rio getting our drink on before embarking on our quests. Most of the guys wanted to locate girls with low self esteems. I wanted to ride a mechanical bull.
Sinner blinked at his phone twice and then announced to the room, "I think she's kinda drunk because she just texted me, 'Wanna pipe?' What is that? How do you respond to that? What's piping? What does that mean?"
We stared at our phones for five minutes trying to determine what she might have intended to type.
"Maybe she meant the word sire?" someone suggested.
"Sire? 'Wanna sire?' No way man. This isn't the goddamn Renaissance."
"What does sire mean?" someone else asked.
"But what does pipe mean?"
"Maybe it means dance?"
"What about talk?"
"No girl asks a guy if they wanna talk."
"Who would use the word pipe if they wanted to dance?"
"Agghh what is pipe?" Sinner yelled, throwing his hands up in the air. He was addressing God.
"It's from a girl, right? Just say yes. Always say yes," I advised.
"It must have been a typo. I just responded with, 'What???'" Sinner replied. "Three question marks. I couldn't wait any longer before replying. It had already been eighteen minutes."
T-Rex then shouted, "I just got a text from a girl who said, 'Maybe bady.' I asked her if she wanted to hang out tonight, and she replied, 'Maybe bady.' What the hell is a bady? And what the hell is up with these girls?"
"Maybe she's calling you bad. Like you bad boy. You bady," I suggested.
My brother walked into the room, and I asked him if he knew what piping or bady meant. He said that piping meant to have sex.
"So, 'wanna pipe' means wanna have sex?" I asked.
"Nooo," screamed Sinner. "I'm texting her, 'Let's pipe' right now!"
She never responded.
Sinner went on a drunken tirade. "Damnit, it took me twenty-six minutes after her initial text to reply 'Let's pipe!' She's probably piping some other dude right now. Girls have it so easy. I'm such a loser. I'm not piping anything right now. I'll be piping my laptop in a few days. T-Rex has been piping his laptop since he was sixteen. He's in a long-term relationship."
T-Rex: "She doesn't get viruses. She's clean."
Sinner sighed, "She's got a cute screen."
T-Rex: "She's got an amazing screen. Twenty-seven inches. But seriously guys, more importantly, what is a bady? And why would that chick respond with, 'Maybe bady?'"
Natty Light looked it up and informed us that according to Urban Dictionary, a bady is: "A spelling of baby for people (usually people who think they are gangsters) who are particularly retarded."
"I'm so excited," T-Rex exclaimed.
"Why, because she might be particularly retarded, or because she thinks she's a gangster?" I asked.
Sinner: "Every girl I've ever seen, I've considered sticking my weiner in her."
Parrot: "I feel like sex with T-Rex always ends with an apology."
Pakistan: "Smell this. It smells awesome."
Me: "Mmmm, cinnamon."
Parrot (smells it): "Is this chewing tobacco?"
Pakistan: "It's soap!"
Pakistan: "Even those children Parrot was working with were attractive."
*Note: kids were 8-17 years old*
Ass-Flash: "No wonder you were telling me yesterday that the sex registry is a bad idea."
Sinner: "The fact that I know where I am is good."
T-Rex (singing): "And then I go agh ungh agh agh ungh (with pelvic thrust) in her va-jay-jay."
Sinner: "Exact quote from the girl I'm texting: 'I'm not gonna lie, I made out with three guys last night.' Oh, and her name's Candy."
T-Rex: "I need to find a girl with low self-esteem that will let me stick my pee-pee in her mouth."
Me: "Kissing is easy, you just have to rape a girl's mouth."
T-Rex: "If I was gonna rape a girl's mouth it wouldn't be with my mouth."
Sinner: "A lot of girls say things that T-Rex might say, they just say it a lot less."
T-Rex: "You should hear the stuff I don't say. You're hearing the censored shit."
Sinner: "If girls like wrinkled shirts and weird neck hair, I'm in."
Sinner: "She wasn't great. She wasn't good."
T-Rex: "I think I'm going to lower my standards tonight."
Delight: "Tell me what that means so I can stop you from doing anything you'll regret."
T-Rex: "No one with a dick."
When most people think of Vegas, they think of money, whores, lights, drugs and booze. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Unfortunately for my friends, what happens in Vegas does not stay in Vegas. I write that shit down.
This year was New Year's Eve Vegas Round 4. I had severe reservations about going to Vegas for the fourth year in a row. I would have preferred to be in Ko Phangan, Thailand, drinking rum buckets and getting molested on the beach. However, I surrendered my doubts to America and the promise of temporary alcoholism and excessive depravity. That, and I had no money. After traipsing around the world for two years, I was homeless with no job, no car, and no cash. However, my birthday and Christmas are both right before New Year's Eve. I win. I begged my relatives for monetary donations with the pledge that I would not become a hooker. They obliged.
My friends and I drove from Sacramento, California, to Las Vegas, Nevada. In a motorhome. For ten hours. Alcohol saved my sanity. We began playing drinking games a few hours outside of Vegas. By the time we got to Sin City, dignity had been lost and coherence was in jeopardy.
We arrived at the Rio, yelling inarticulately. A stranger in the casino's reception accused us of sounding like dinosaurs.
We did the only logical thing: continued drinking in our hotel rooms, and then we went out. We didn't make it very far: my friends and I ended up at VooDoo Rooftop Nightclub. It's in the Rio.
While we were in our hotel room playing the game let's see who can get drunkest fastest, I realized that I like big clown hair. Not colorful hair that extends a foot from the scalp that potentially has feeding parasites in it, but I'm a fan of big hair. Hair that says, I don't give a damn. My friend Pakistan (he's obsessed with Pakistan) had big clown hair and a bit of a beer belly. He wore a long-sleeved collared shirt and glasses. Apparently he looked like a drug dealer.
When Pakistan went to the bathroom at Voodoo lounge, he walked past a man that asked him for drugs.
"I'm not a drug dealer," Pakistan responded.
"Yo man, I know you have drugs," the guy said.
"I don't have any drugs."
"I know you have drugs, hook me up man."
"Dude, I'm not a goddamn drug dealer." Pakistan continued walking, and then he flipped the guy off without looking back.
When he was about to exit the bathroom, a guy with the Hulk muscles wearing a tiny wife beater, earrings, sunglasses, and lip gloss approached Pakistan.
"Hey man, you got a problem?" Guido asked.
Pakistan looked up into his gorilla frame and honestly didn't recognize the guy. He was confused.
"No. What are you talking about?"
"I just saw you in the hallway. You got a problem?"
"Oh. I told you, I don't have any drugs."
"I know you have drugs. Hook me up, man."
"I'm not a drug dealer. I don't have any drugs," Pakistan repeated.
"You have drugs. I know it," Gorilla Guido insisted.
"I don't have any fucking drugs."
"I know you have drugs."
This exchange continued for three minutes.
Pakistan was infected with drunken confidence and Kongism. He thought it would be a good idea to stand up to Gorilla Guido. It was not.
Two of our other friends walked into the bathroom to witness Pakistan getting punched. In the face.
He was punched in the head for not being a drug dealer.
My least favorite thing about Christmas is church. My most favorite thing about Christmas is stalking shoppers walking to their cars. I follow unreasonably close and pursue them like a creeper. I flash my lights. I throw the car in park and rev my engine. When shoppers turn and look at me, I shout "Merry Christmas." I smile and wave like a normal person. It confuses people.
This Christmas, my mom bought matching pajama pants for herself, me, and my sister. They were from Abercrombie & Fitch and collectively cost what I had been getting paid for a week's work in New Zealand. I tend to shop at Forever 21 and H&M. All major clothing chains employ children and are ensconced in labor scandals. I might as well get my clothes cheap.
Christmas morning, we opened presents. My mom, sister, and I wore our matching pajamas, and my brother got my mom a big-ass candle.
"It smells so good!" she exclaimed and immediately lit it in her bathroom. Minutes later, my sister changed out of her new pajama shirt and pants. She threw those pricey p.j.'s on the bathroom counter. On top of the candle. The candle exploded.
Christmas casualties one and two: new pajamas, new candle.