Saturday, March 19, 2005
Three!
Surrounded by a womb-like red neon glow, I hopped into a bar stool in sight of the Stanford-Washington basketball game, put $20 into the video poker game in front of me, ordered a whisky and lit a cigarette. It was an auspicious beginning to what will forever be an infamous Vegas weekend.
Joined by Dyke, JoeJa, Sleezy, h-bomb jr. and Squealin' Whelan, our small Aggie crew took on NASCAR weekend in Sin City and, with a steady diet of the King of Beers (we resolved to always order Bud as 'The King of Beers' in honor of NASCAR weekend), we prevailed.
After the obligatory champagne brunch with Sleezy and Whelan at one of Vegas's many fine buffets, the remaining members of our group straggled in and we went to a so-so Chinese dinner that featured an $80 round of sake bombs and during which we inexplicably were not kicked out of the restaurant. Afterward, we headed to a swank club on the strip. The line was gargantuan but, using what Joe referred to as the "Power of the Vagina," our girls got the bouncers to let us bypass the line, thus earning us the right to more quickly shell out $30 to get in. Despite the steep cover, $10 lemon drops (a stern lesson to never ever buy douchey drinks) and a crowd that can only be described as verminous, we danced our balls off and had a blast. All in all, it was a strong move.
An aside I could not seamlessly fit into the narrative: early on I introduced several phrases for the weekend including "good game." When one does something noteworthy, or really anytime, you say "good game" while giving a solid smack on the ass a la Major League Baseball players. It was a resounding hit.
The rest of the weekend we tore across the strip like a desert dust devil, pillaging black jack tables, looting bars and relentlessly taunting NASCAR fans with shouts of "Three!" while holding three fingers in the air (three is the late, great driver Dale Earnhardt's number for the NASCAR uninitiated and our battle cry was not well received).
On our second night, Whelan, JoeJa and I pocketed hefty sums from several successful black jack sojourns, aided in great part by George, the greatest black jack dealer ever (quoth the wise man: "Everybody gambles. Anyone who says they don't gamble is full of shit.") Buoyed by our profits, we celebrated with an authentic Mexican meal at La Salsa on the strip. Led by Whelan, who had mysteriously lost his voice through too much demon rum or some mysterious infection (I suspect VD), we blasted our way through many a margarita and, just as we agreed we needed to find a karaoke night we heard, like the voice of God coming over the restaurants speakers, "Welcome to karaoke night at La Salsa." I nearly shit.
The rest of the night we thoroughly hijacked the karaoke machine, putting the fear of God into NASCAR fans and Spring Break sorority girls alike. The hero of the night? Whelan. Despite his voice-debilitating battle with VD, he bravely soldiered on, sporting a pink jacket and making a series of flash cards to communicate. He even croaked through a few songs, including AC/DC's "Back in Black."
As expected, I was the karaoke ringleader and I led us through five varied and beautiful tunes, earning a rousing ovation for my duet with Dyke of Simple Mind's "Don't You (Forget About Me)." Each time we took the stage to the rolled eyes of the needle-dick MC, I would come up with a clever new name for our group. The one they refused to read was Ali D. and the D-bags. Fortunately I loudly introduced us over the PA. Out of tune and out of control, we started making friends with everyone in the restaurant. We convinced one diminutive middle-American to sing Quiet Riot's "Cum On Feel the Noise" while her angry husband shot daggers at us from across the room. The night crescendoed when Dyke and I approached a table of hardcore NASCARians. After we introduced ourselves and asked where everyone was from I said to one particularly gruff-looking race fan:
"Hey, you know what? You should come sing a song with us."
"I only sing David Allen Coe," he said resolutely in a heavy twang.
"OK, but I've got a really good song for you."
"What is it?"
"It's 'Freedom' by George Michael."
"Isn't that that British faggot?"
"Yes, but it's a great song and I think it would be fun."
"Uh, no."
Not that we needed him. And, furthermore, said British faggot has banged more hot models than Billy Bob's wife had teeth. We rocked the piss out of "Freedom" and I think that bathroom-masturbating Limey would have been proud had he seen us.
The rest of the night is progressively more hazy, but at some point Joe and Hilary went off to frolick and the rest of us ended up at Pinkes, the greatest pool hall ever. Once inside we were treated to the punk and ska music from my high school days and Sleezy and Dyke drank that foul concoction known as a Greyhound. Grapefruits have developed an amazing defense mechanism against marauding herbivores: they taste like shit. 'Nuff said. Pinkes had some great features, such as porn plastered all over the bathroom (are they encouraging drunk tourists to cream their walls?) and a square piece of mirror placed perfectly next to the first urinal so a fat customer can monitor his dick's progress.
Despite my balance problems (I distinctly remember being on my back, which I'm sure thrilled Pinkes proprietors), my pool prowess was unmatched and I left the undisputed champion.
We rolled out around 4:30 and headed to the nearest Denny's to reflect upon our victorious evening. There we loudly discussed the virtues of the Icy Mike (use your imagination) and Hot Carl much to the joy of surrounding patrons. Dyke made the strong move of ordering the chicken-fried steak, which I imagine was much regretted the next morning.
With Sleezy and Dyke dressed in their skanky Vegas best it seemed hailing a cab would be a slam dunk. Not so. Dyke even flashed a bit of nip, but no dice so we trudged home (I think. Hmmm, did we get a cab?) and passed out sometime around sunrise.
The final day, we were hurting. In a fog, we spent some of the day in the Alladin, which provides Vegas visitors with exactly what they want: a quaint temperature-controlled Arabic market with none of the Arabs. Like most traditional Middle Eastern bazaars this one features a FCUK clothing store, trendy beauty products and morons on Segway scooters.
We had various ailments that day: for some, it was their heads, for me it was my stomach. It felt like I had developed five ulcers over the course of the weekend. That day was summed up by this observation:
"I think I know why I'm going to the bathroom so much. It's my liver
trying to escape through my asshole."
A small price to pay for the Aggie contingent kicking the shit out of Vegas. Three!
Joined by Dyke, JoeJa, Sleezy, h-bomb jr. and Squealin' Whelan, our small Aggie crew took on NASCAR weekend in Sin City and, with a steady diet of the King of Beers (we resolved to always order Bud as 'The King of Beers' in honor of NASCAR weekend), we prevailed.
After the obligatory champagne brunch with Sleezy and Whelan at one of Vegas's many fine buffets, the remaining members of our group straggled in and we went to a so-so Chinese dinner that featured an $80 round of sake bombs and during which we inexplicably were not kicked out of the restaurant. Afterward, we headed to a swank club on the strip. The line was gargantuan but, using what Joe referred to as the "Power of the Vagina," our girls got the bouncers to let us bypass the line, thus earning us the right to more quickly shell out $30 to get in. Despite the steep cover, $10 lemon drops (a stern lesson to never ever buy douchey drinks) and a crowd that can only be described as verminous, we danced our balls off and had a blast. All in all, it was a strong move.
An aside I could not seamlessly fit into the narrative: early on I introduced several phrases for the weekend including "good game." When one does something noteworthy, or really anytime, you say "good game" while giving a solid smack on the ass a la Major League Baseball players. It was a resounding hit.
The rest of the weekend we tore across the strip like a desert dust devil, pillaging black jack tables, looting bars and relentlessly taunting NASCAR fans with shouts of "Three!" while holding three fingers in the air (three is the late, great driver Dale Earnhardt's number for the NASCAR uninitiated and our battle cry was not well received).
On our second night, Whelan, JoeJa and I pocketed hefty sums from several successful black jack sojourns, aided in great part by George, the greatest black jack dealer ever (quoth the wise man: "Everybody gambles. Anyone who says they don't gamble is full of shit.") Buoyed by our profits, we celebrated with an authentic Mexican meal at La Salsa on the strip. Led by Whelan, who had mysteriously lost his voice through too much demon rum or some mysterious infection (I suspect VD), we blasted our way through many a margarita and, just as we agreed we needed to find a karaoke night we heard, like the voice of God coming over the restaurants speakers, "Welcome to karaoke night at La Salsa." I nearly shit.
The rest of the night we thoroughly hijacked the karaoke machine, putting the fear of God into NASCAR fans and Spring Break sorority girls alike. The hero of the night? Whelan. Despite his voice-debilitating battle with VD, he bravely soldiered on, sporting a pink jacket and making a series of flash cards to communicate. He even croaked through a few songs, including AC/DC's "Back in Black."
As expected, I was the karaoke ringleader and I led us through five varied and beautiful tunes, earning a rousing ovation for my duet with Dyke of Simple Mind's "Don't You (Forget About Me)." Each time we took the stage to the rolled eyes of the needle-dick MC, I would come up with a clever new name for our group. The one they refused to read was Ali D. and the D-bags. Fortunately I loudly introduced us over the PA. Out of tune and out of control, we started making friends with everyone in the restaurant. We convinced one diminutive middle-American to sing Quiet Riot's "Cum On Feel the Noise" while her angry husband shot daggers at us from across the room. The night crescendoed when Dyke and I approached a table of hardcore NASCARians. After we introduced ourselves and asked where everyone was from I said to one particularly gruff-looking race fan:
"Hey, you know what? You should come sing a song with us."
"I only sing David Allen Coe," he said resolutely in a heavy twang.
"OK, but I've got a really good song for you."
"What is it?"
"It's 'Freedom' by George Michael."
"Isn't that that British faggot?"
"Yes, but it's a great song and I think it would be fun."
"Uh, no."
Not that we needed him. And, furthermore, said British faggot has banged more hot models than Billy Bob's wife had teeth. We rocked the piss out of "Freedom" and I think that bathroom-masturbating Limey would have been proud had he seen us.
The rest of the night is progressively more hazy, but at some point Joe and Hilary went off to frolick and the rest of us ended up at Pinkes, the greatest pool hall ever. Once inside we were treated to the punk and ska music from my high school days and Sleezy and Dyke drank that foul concoction known as a Greyhound. Grapefruits have developed an amazing defense mechanism against marauding herbivores: they taste like shit. 'Nuff said. Pinkes had some great features, such as porn plastered all over the bathroom (are they encouraging drunk tourists to cream their walls?) and a square piece of mirror placed perfectly next to the first urinal so a fat customer can monitor his dick's progress.
Despite my balance problems (I distinctly remember being on my back, which I'm sure thrilled Pinkes proprietors), my pool prowess was unmatched and I left the undisputed champion.
We rolled out around 4:30 and headed to the nearest Denny's to reflect upon our victorious evening. There we loudly discussed the virtues of the Icy Mike (use your imagination) and Hot Carl much to the joy of surrounding patrons. Dyke made the strong move of ordering the chicken-fried steak, which I imagine was much regretted the next morning.
With Sleezy and Dyke dressed in their skanky Vegas best it seemed hailing a cab would be a slam dunk. Not so. Dyke even flashed a bit of nip, but no dice so we trudged home (I think. Hmmm, did we get a cab?) and passed out sometime around sunrise.
The final day, we were hurting. In a fog, we spent some of the day in the Alladin, which provides Vegas visitors with exactly what they want: a quaint temperature-controlled Arabic market with none of the Arabs. Like most traditional Middle Eastern bazaars this one features a FCUK clothing store, trendy beauty products and morons on Segway scooters.
We had various ailments that day: for some, it was their heads, for me it was my stomach. It felt like I had developed five ulcers over the course of the weekend. That day was summed up by this observation:
"I think I know why I'm going to the bathroom so much. It's my liver
trying to escape through my asshole."
A small price to pay for the Aggie contingent kicking the shit out of Vegas. Three!
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I read this as I listened to Rico Suave on my computer and nursed a generous hangover incurred by my brother-in-law's 21st birthday celebration. Needless to say, I almost felt a part of the redneck mocking action I woefully missed in Vegas.
Huzzah Heath.
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Huzzah Heath.
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