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.
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