Viva Las Vegas (Part 1 of 2)
We left on Friday the 13th. Sitting on my wallet stuffed with cash was making my right leg fall asleep. CK had to check his luggage because of an extra 0.8 fluid ounces of hair product. McCarran International was closed due to the rain, and since we didn't have enough fuel to circle the airport for an hour (Die Hard 2, anyone?) our flight got diverted to Phoenix, where CK and I languished for an inordinate amount of time getting back up in the air. My new shirt, in it's inaugural performance, was chafing the shit out of my neck due to the starch that they put in the collar back at the factory. And as of 11PM Pacific time, I still hadn't eaten anything since lunch. Despite all these harbingers of disaster, CK and I made promises to each other that we'd both be up five hundy by midnight.
It didn't happen.
Our Pai Gow dealer (a bankroll building tradition that we have), sweet as she was, might as well have been channeling William H. Macy's character in The Cooler. My stomach is eating itself, and the waitress hasn't brought me anything cold that I can ice my chafed neck with. Next thing I know, I lose the first of many Benjamins to come. Fuck it, I say. This game is for pussies, I sour graped. As I made my way over to the craps table, where fortunes for real men are made, and memories of Epps and me tearing it up in Shreveport playing in my head, I had a feeling that my luck was about to change.
It didn't happen.
The phrase "casinos weren't built by winners" floats through my head as I wait in the Pho restaurant of Treasure Island. I briefly commandeer a bachelorette party patron to take a picture of our group looking defeated. We are, however, dressed to the nines. Just look the part, a rich man doesn't have to tell you that he's rich. However, a rich man actually has money in his wallet. The pho arrives, overpriced and undercooked. The only thing that can get this bad taste out of my mouth are naked ladies, and lots of them.
It happens. And how.
With hearts set on bottle service (and, we didn't know it at the time, but VIP treatment also), we rolled up to Sapphire in our complimentary limo. Buying a bottle/table at a strip club, if you can afford it, is like being ushered into naked lady mecca. Waves upon waves of strippers descended on our three bottle table, like sharks to chum. Inevitably, we all get sold on the VIP room treatment by their flowery words and intoxicating smell (not to mention the three bottles of top shelf liquor split amongst six guys), where we're greeted by a Tiki Barber lookalike who lays down some ground rules that no one heeds.
And this is the part of the story where my memory gets a little hazy. My version of the events blurred into everyone elses as we shared memories after the fact. While trying to figure out how exactly Kent got charged six thousand dollars.
I remember thinking, first things first, I need to drop a deuce before I can do anything else. I remember getting lapdances left and right. I don't remember antagonizing strippers about their chosen profession, and how they sell their souls for six figures a year. I don't remember [doing something else] to make another one walk away. According to Kent, a couple of them wanted to charge extra for the things I requested. Requiem For A Dream enactment, possibly? Who knows. Apparently one of our guys fell asleep mid-lapdance. Apparently Creepy Khoa contracted hepatitis B and still refuses to wash his stinkfinger. Apparently DYW fell in love with a stripper, and is willing to get professionals to see if they can undelete the photos I took at the club at the not so gentle urging of Tiki. And apparently at 7AM, broke, drunk, exhausted, disgusting, and convulsing with laughter, we walked home.
It didn't happen.
Our Pai Gow dealer (a bankroll building tradition that we have), sweet as she was, might as well have been channeling William H. Macy's character in The Cooler. My stomach is eating itself, and the waitress hasn't brought me anything cold that I can ice my chafed neck with. Next thing I know, I lose the first of many Benjamins to come. Fuck it, I say. This game is for pussies, I sour graped. As I made my way over to the craps table, where fortunes for real men are made, and memories of Epps and me tearing it up in Shreveport playing in my head, I had a feeling that my luck was about to change.
It didn't happen.
The phrase "casinos weren't built by winners" floats through my head as I wait in the Pho restaurant of Treasure Island. I briefly commandeer a bachelorette party patron to take a picture of our group looking defeated. We are, however, dressed to the nines. Just look the part, a rich man doesn't have to tell you that he's rich. However, a rich man actually has money in his wallet. The pho arrives, overpriced and undercooked. The only thing that can get this bad taste out of my mouth are naked ladies, and lots of them.
It happens. And how.
With hearts set on bottle service (and, we didn't know it at the time, but VIP treatment also), we rolled up to Sapphire in our complimentary limo. Buying a bottle/table at a strip club, if you can afford it, is like being ushered into naked lady mecca. Waves upon waves of strippers descended on our three bottle table, like sharks to chum. Inevitably, we all get sold on the VIP room treatment by their flowery words and intoxicating smell (not to mention the three bottles of top shelf liquor split amongst six guys), where we're greeted by a Tiki Barber lookalike who lays down some ground rules that no one heeds.
And this is the part of the story where my memory gets a little hazy. My version of the events blurred into everyone elses as we shared memories after the fact. While trying to figure out how exactly Kent got charged six thousand dollars.
I remember thinking, first things first, I need to drop a deuce before I can do anything else. I remember getting lapdances left and right. I don't remember antagonizing strippers about their chosen profession, and how they sell their souls for six figures a year. I don't remember [doing something else] to make another one walk away. According to Kent, a couple of them wanted to charge extra for the things I requested. Requiem For A Dream enactment, possibly? Who knows. Apparently one of our guys fell asleep mid-lapdance. Apparently Creepy Khoa contracted hepatitis B and still refuses to wash his stinkfinger. Apparently DYW fell in love with a stripper, and is willing to get professionals to see if they can undelete the photos I took at the club at the not so gentle urging of Tiki. And apparently at 7AM, broke, drunk, exhausted, disgusting, and convulsing with laughter, we walked home.
posted by Eric at 10:59 PM
1 Comments:
Awesome dude, vintage vegas babeee!! Chews u up and spits u right out in a complete mouth orgy. bring on part 2.
Sam
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