FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS!!! (Part 2)

I apologize for the delay in getting to Part II of the story. As it turns out, at my age a weekend-long bachelor party binge in Vegas sets me back a few days. One thing worth noting – the majority of text below was either written in Vegas or on the flight home, I’ve just edited since then. Anyway, on with the story…

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I hate my colon. Not really; I actually love my colon and all it does for me, but I’ve treated it like a step brother the last few days so I can't be surprised that it's trying to pay me back in the worst way now that I'm trapped within the fuselage of this Boeing 747 at 30,000 feet.

I've been on bachelor parties like this before and it's always the same – 9 dudes in Vegas might as well be 9 anorexic supermodels; they lay by the pool all day, routinely throw up (sometimes at the pool) and wouldn't eat a morsel of food to save their lives. My delicate digestive system just doesn't put up with that so it turns me into a guerilla eater, sneaking around taking in meals wherever I can. After drinking our faces off Thursday night several of the guys followed me to a 24-hour restaurant in the casino and watched me eat a meal at 3:30 in the morning. We met a group of girls at the bar - and by "met" I mean “they latched onto to us like blood sucking leeches,” if by "blood" I mean "money," and if by "girls" I mean "not the least but physically attractive with horrible emotional issues that might as well have been worn on their faces,” and by “leeches” I mean “whores” - who followed us to the restaurant and even they ate a meal. It's worth noting that they were seriously pissed when I made them pay for their portion of the bill. Apparently that's not very chivalrous. Well, apparently you're not driving me to or from the airport in a taxi so I'm not going to just give you my fucking money. Whores.

In one epic stretch of time from Thursday night to Friday evening that was split up by just a few hours of sleep and resulted in one dude getting thrown out of the pool for vomiting, one dude passing out on the bathroom floor at 3 in the afternoon, a lost Blackberry, a broken hotel room phone, and unfathomable amounts of alcohol (that's probably the most unnecessarily redundant statement I've ever made), I alone ate two meals and a snack while the other 8 guys collectively ate two meals. The only other food consumed during that time occurred when one dude opened a bag of chips in the pool as a protest statement for the other dude getting kicked out that he then ate out of the pool and chased down with a glass of pool water. He hates his colon too.

Fortunately by Friday night things turned around and we all started eating proper meals, albeit generally around 3 or 4 in the morning. 

I hate Patron. You wouldn't know that based on the number of single and double shots I poured into my mouth, but I really do hate Patron. Suffice it to say I didn't order a single one of them but apparently I didn't need to. We had three at one setting alone, courtesy of the bachelor, at an Irish pub in Old Downtown. Irish pubs are not typically known for shots of tequila, nor should they be. Irish pubs are, however, known for groups of obscenely drunk dudes singing and chanting at the top of their lungs including the chant, "Every-Thing's-A-Chant! Every-Thing's-A-Chant! Every-Thing's-A-Chant!" or "Mon-No-Rail! Mon-No-Rail! Mon-No-Rail!" Yeah, I don't fucking know either, but the place loved us.

I love Old Downtown Vegas, and so does my wallet. After hemorrhaging money all weekend we finally made the wise and frugal decision to head downtown Saturday afternoon. The first casino we saw advertised $2 Blackjack and $2 Corona’s. After spending $17 on a beer the night before, I was more than ready to abuse my liver in the name of economic sensibility. At one point while most of the guys were at the tables I went to the bar to order a round of 4 beers. The bartender looked me up and down and said, “four?”

“Uh, quatro???”

“Are they for you?” he asked skeptically.

What the fuck do you care who they’re for??? “Uh, no. My friends are over at the craps table.”

“Inside the casino?”

What??? “What?”

“Are they inside the casino?”

Listen Shithead; I don’t care if I want 25 beers to I’ll pour down my pants while dancing a jig along Fremont Street. Here’s my fucking money, give me my fucking beer!

I ordered 12 more beers from him throughout the afternoon out of spite. Well, not really out of spite because we drank them all, but suffice it to say that I ordered them with spite.

To be continued…