"The Super Heroes Save Vegas", or "Piss Does Vegas Without Moan"

......"So we finish 18, and he's going to stiff me. And I said.."Hey!!! Lama!!!! Hey!!!! How about a little sumpin', you know, for the effort?" And he says.."Oh, there won't be any payment. But when you die, on your death bed, you will receive total, consciousness". So I got that goin for me, which is nice"...........Carl, the assistant greens keeper, Bushwood Country Club.

I must have been a really good person, or done something incredibly selfless in a previous life. It most assuredly wasn't this go around, that I can assure you. Despite my self-centered, egotistical, all around "me" mentality, something very fortuitous happened a couple of weeks ago. I was in absolute dire need of a Vegas fix. Trust me, I was in bad shape. My very obvious, open symptoms were: Watching Vegas Vacation, Rounders, Swingers, Leaving Las Vegas, Ocean's 11, etc, in a very steady rotation, hosting poker tournaments at my house as often as the wife would allow, and reading (and often re-reading some of the greats) trip reports like a yuppie takes in self-help books. I even went as far as checking my email hourly, hoping for a free offer from a casino, and decorating my man-cave (unfinished basement) with all of the garbage I have brought back from Vegas over the years. I nailed Vegas hotel room key-cards to the wall, for Christ sake!!!!!!! What a Rudy. I would be willing to bet that my wife even looked into the possibility of there being an inpatient Vegas detox facility somewhere out there.

Inwardly, my symptoms were even worse. Have you ever heard about the staggering number of times men supposedly think about boobs and/or sex in a day? It is something ridiculous, like once a minute. Please. Who are these people that "they" studied? That is a load of crap. I think it is more like every 7 seconds, if I may speak for myself. Well, I don't think I could put a number on the individual sessions, but I imagine that I mentally spent about 8 hours a day in Vegas. I was having 30-40 minute crap rolls, VP royal flushes, splitting 8's three times at BJ, getting a 3 on all four, hence doubling on all four, and getting 4 beautiful face cards. I was eating EI steak specials for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and that in-between meal that Taco Bell invented. I was dancing at the Carnaval Court for hours on end, being asked for 'my card' by a choreographer who was so impressed, and therefore I must be a pro (by the way, this actually happened once. But since I am white, I know better. I am reasonably certain he played for the other team. But that is a story for another time.) I think I managed the out-of-body experience so well, at one point I thought I actually smelled the casino at TI.

That is what is so great about daydreaming; you are attractive, tough, rich, charming, can dance, and most importantly, you win every hand. The inevitable downside of daydreaming is the harsh slap in the face that reality gives once you snap out of it. "Oh yeah. I'm not knee deep in yellow chips at the Bellagio craps table, swarmed by babes who want to touch me, with a limo waiting outside to take me and my entourage to Pure where I have a table waiting. I'm not even in Vegas. I am sitting at my desk at work, staring at my computer monitor, and it is only 9 AM". I think all of this behavior made me realize one thing; that I am a degenerate.

Now that I have sufficiently described my state of mind, it is time for the fortunate part. One morning, I was sitting at work, most likely staring at my computer monitor, and most likely in a Vegas trance. Suddenly, my phone ringing took me away from a straight flush at 3-card poker (with a black chip on the bonus, of course). It was my Vegas sidekick (I am obviously the super hero) J, aka. Jesus, aka. 'Ahhhhh, yeahhhh, Boooooooooy'. He said Allegiant Air was having a fare sale, and that we needed to go to Vegas. I got very excited, but then, yes, stupid reality checked in. I told him I didn't think that would go over with the wife too well. Recently, when another friend asked her when she was going to let me go to Vegas with him, she replied..."He isn't going again without me". [Quick side note: I love my wife dearly, and with all of my heart. However, some things are better enjoyed with friends. Going with my wife is wonderful. But it's, well, different. You know! Yeah, watching the football game with your loving wife is great. But watching it at the bar with 100 other drunk idiots is something else altogether. It isn't necessarily better, just different. I am sure it could be likened to something chicks like to do with other chicks, but I won't attempt a comparable. End side note] I told him I would take a crack at it, but couldn't promise anything. In fact, I distinctly told him not to hold his breath. Besides, simply asking was a gamble. You see, a very wise older friend of mine gave me some sage advice before my wedding all those years ago. The majority of his dissertation centered on The Point System. Men out there might not recognize the name, but most assuredly recognize the format. Women refuse to admit it even exists.

The Point System:

The Point System, simply put, is a mathematical process the wife uses to determine whether or not you can go do guy stuff. You want to go fishing? Well, first we have to determine if you have accumulated enough points. I suppose this isn't too unlike a casino comp system; yet far trickier. You see, you never know how many points you have. Boiling it down, here are the basic rules, which are in no way all-inclusive, and subject to change without notice:

1) The wife is the keeper of the points. There is no way to check your balance, other than to try and cash them in.
2) There is no set earn rate of points. For example, painting the living room might get you 10 points today, but painting the same room over again might not earn you any tomorrow.
3) Points can be taken away, at any time, or for any reason, and without warning or justification.
4) It is possible, [actually probable is a better word] to run a significantly negative point balance.
5) Again, it isn't set, but little acts than can be perceived as romantic or thoughtful usually earn you double or triple points. However, if the act is even suspected to be done simply to earn points, see rule #3.
6) Cashing in on points (This is the most important one!) Trying to cash in on more points than you have causes immediate forfeiture of existing points, plus a penalty of that same amount. Punitive damages up to 10 times the original amount is up the judge's (wife's) discretion. In practice-Let's say you have 50 points (again, you have no idea how many you actually have, nor what anything really costs. You have to make educated guesses, and roll the dice). You want to go on an overnight fishing trip with the buddies. You ask. Unbeknown to you, your balance wasn't sufficient to cover the request. Now you can't go fishing, you lost your fifty points, and you are fifty points in the hole. Sh$t.

Back to the Report:

About 20 minutes later, well into my Tibetan meditation ritual (trying to muster up the mental courage to call the wife to ask), J rang me up again. He informed me that he wanted to up the ante a little. Despite being a fireman, J is an excellent salesman. The first rule in sales is to overcome objections. So he told me he couldn't help much with her not wanting me to go, leaving her and the kids behind. However, he could help with the objection of spending money, to leave her behind with the kids. Due to a recent windfall, Jesus was willing to pick up the tab for the airfare and room. Whoa. Not one for charity, I asked why. He said he wanted to pay me back for tiling his basement, and more importantly, Vegas needed the super heroes.

Now armed with something to overcome objections, a tiny sympathy play, and a questionable point balance, I rang up the wife and played my cards. I swept the pot. So without further ado:

"The Super Heroes Save Vegas", or "Piss Does Vegas Without Moan"

To say this trip came together quickly is an understatement. Turns out, I like that. The agony of waiting is reduced to a minimum. I wound up booking the trip the very same day J called, and about 7 minutes after my wife said yes. Reason? I am fairly certain that Allegiant Air, or Planet Hollywood, or both, screwed something up. The quoted price for PH and two plane tickets was less than the same offer for Circus Circus, Sahara, Riviera, Tropicana, and South Side General. Plus, PH showed up again on a different page on the website, same offer, but $300 more and in the same category as Mirage, TI, NY NY, etc. My instincts told me to book it before they figured it out.

I was a little skeptical about staying at PH. Not because I have heard bad things about it, but because it isn't Mirage or TI. The super heroes always stay at Mirage/TI. And I am a firm believer in the saying "if it ain't broke, don't fix it". Plus, I am somewhat a creature of habit. Ok, full blown OCD. But saving all the money, and tricking myself into thinking trying something different was a good thing made me rationalize the switch. That, and I am still pissed about the Mirage. If I were Steve Wynn, I would sneak in there and pee all over the floor. Then I would walk back to my hotel, put my feet up, and look out the window and laugh at the hollowed out, whored out Beatles billboard. All he could do is laugh. Or cry. God I rule.

So the super heroes failed to save the Mirage, but I am sure it is due to a lack of trying. Have no fear, Vegas still needs us. And we won't let her down again.

We boarded our Allegiant flight at about 8:00 PM after cleaning out the beer fridge at the lone bar at Montucky International Airport. "Hey, get a refill by Wednesday." We had to give up or resort to drinking Canadian beer. Both J and I (it occurred to me that I don't have a super hero name. Ok, from now on I will be Silent Bob. Not because my name is Bob, or that I am even remotely quite. More because it goes well with J, and someone else (thanks, Kevin) already went through the work of thinking it up) agreed that with the exception of Moosehead, the Cinooks have no business exporting their beer. I took it one step further by including their whiskey, and stating that real super hero's drink Jack. This raised the ire of J, as it included his coveted Crown Royal. At an impasse, we decided that when we do the world a favor as superheroes and stop exports of Canadian adult beverages, we would allow CR to pass unnoticed. Much like politicians, these super heroes have no real integrity.

Overall, the flight was uneventful. Aside from them not doing the bag-of-money raffle, and beers being $6, I guess it was passable. Arriving at the airport was a completely different story, however. It was completely mobbed. On a Sunday night? Are you kidding me? There were 4 flights waiting at one luggage carousel. By the time we collected our bags and made it through the cab line, my buzz was starting to wane. With that, sleepiness was starting to creep up on me, as was a slight headache.

While in the cab line, J and I decided that we would negotiate a rate with the cabbie ahead of time for a lift to the hotel, and to stop somewhere to pick up supplies. The number we decided on was "$30 or less". Turns out, we aimed a little too high. How do I know? One word- tunnel. This was my first trip through the tunnel. And it wasn't cool like going through a tunnel under a mountain. Nope. What surprised me, is what I noticed when we emerged from said tunnel; that we were a long-a$$ way away from our destination. I am not Tom-Tom, or Magellan, but it is my firm belief that the tunnel route is only a quicker way to California, nowhere else. What I did like is I got to see the Welcome to Vegas sign. I was also sad to see the Klondike boarded up. I have very fond memories of crabby, non-English speaking dealers, smoke, broken VP machines, and some of the scariest looking grub I have ever witnessed. I think someone should buy it up and actually put some of the table games featured in Vegas Vacation in there. Who wouldn't play War with cousin Eddy? Just don't go there to think.

With J staying in the cab while I made a mad dash at a couple cases of beer, some Coke, Gatorade, and a Styrofoam cooler, our cabby left us safely at the P-HO valet. I always feel a little guilty having the Bell deal with all that crap, but they always seem to manage with a smile (the substantial tip always helps). Besides, it was me who broke the cooler. With a couple of beers in hand, we headed to registration.

Now if you will recall, I chickened out on doing the $20 trick on my last trip for one very good reason; I am a wuss. Just like last time, I made sure they had decent rates on upgrades, thus guaranteeing not being denied based on availability. Unlike last time, I had plenty of liquid courage coursing through my veins. I wasn't even fazed when my plan went astray in getting a dude instead of a gal (it is much easier for me to pretend to be friendly with the opposite sex). With the 20-spot in between my DL and CC, I handed it to [insert name here]. Once he noticed it, he hesitated only slightly. At that point, I took my shot. He didn't say much, so I got a little worried. When it was all said and done, we got an upgrade. I think it could have been better had 2 beds not been a requirement, as he asked if that was the case. I don't know what the room was dubbed, but both the Bell and housekeeping confirmed that it was significantly larger than a standard room. It was recently renovated, and had the Bellagio fountains filling up most of the 2 windows. Decor? I thought it sucked. Comfortable? Absolutely. Bathroom? Huge. Aside from being visually nauseating, my only wish is that I had room to put some clothes in exchange for being able to run laps in the bathroom. J and I each had a drawer (big enough for 3 pairs of underwear and a belt) and 3 hangers. Seriously. The hanging width of the armoire was literally 24 inches wide, and the frigging ironing board was in there to boot.

After dispatching the ironing board and stuffing clothes wherever we could find, we mixed up some drinks for the road and headed downstairs. This is typically my favorite part of the first day. Upon arriving in the casino, I was somewhat deflated. I am not going to waste a bunch of time and risk carpal tunnel for a lengthy review that will be entirely derogatory, and turn this thread into a pissing match. Let's just say that I am as far away from 'hip' as one can be, so the place is simply not for me. I don't wear $200 jeans covered in beads and holes, and only wear my shirts untucked when they are of the Hawaiian variety, if you catch my drift. It was however, comfortable, quiet, and the staff gets a 6-7 out of 10 for what I call the "How can we be of service to you" scale. I also find the location to be reasonably desirable for the places I frequent. But I wouldn't rate it as being even remotely 'timeless', and therefore, not worth the hassle, wait, or expense of the remodel. End of review.

Even though it has been bought out, we made a B-line for Barbary Bills. Our road-beers were already running low, and we could tolerate whatever Harrah's had done to the place as long as the drink service was as good as it used to be. It was. We plopped ourselves down at some VP machines and went to work. I should note that J hates gambling. Weird, I know. But I thought I should mention it in case you start wondering why I left out the details of my gambling woes. VP is a tough sale, and any table games are strictly verboten unless he is totally pasted. We managed several drinks before heading north on the strip for the walkabout.

We hit all the usual places along the way, including Casino Royal for some cheap beers, and O'Sheas for some BK for J. Our ultimate destination was the Wynn, as I had assured J it was worth the trip. Turns out, I had completely misunderstood the buffet promotion. After the long, cold walk, it was "no buffet for you" from the slot club buffet ****. I think J felt a little let down, so I offered to pony up for a cab back down the strip a little ways. Nothing makes a cabbie happier, I am sure, than picking up a fare at the Wynn and dropping them off at Casino Royale. Sorry about that, buddy.

We grabbed a couple more cheap beers and started our walk to J's favorite Vegas haunt-the Carnaval Court. We had more hooker encounters in the next 20 minutes than I have had in all of my previous Vegas trips combined. It was unrelenting. If I didn't know any better, J must have been yelling - "Hookers! We need hookers, here! We have thousands of dollars and absolutely no morals! Come and get it!". One encounter was very notable, but requires a warning before I proceed-

***********Warning, adult content. Reader discretion is advised.*****************

Just in the north entrance of Harrah's, two hookers spot us and race toward us at alarming speed. I was actually scared that they mistook us from some previous John's who had done them some harm. I now think that they were just trying to beat the other 400 ladies-of-the-night to the punch. Once there.........................................
You know what? I don't think I am going to repeat what happened. I am deeply sorry if that is a letdown. But I am too lazy to go back and edit this. I just don't want to give anyone the impression that we were asking for this in any way. Therefore, these two superheroes are unlike politicians. Both J and I are very happily married, and would never consider partaking. Not to mention, it's: immoral, illegal, disgusting, and a piss poor use of gambling money, in my humble opinion. Let's just leave it at there was some very nasty things suggested, and even some unwanted touching of J's junk. "Dude, she touched my junk" became the running joke for the remainder of the trip. But I could not believe all the hookers. Maybe there was a convention? They were like locusts. Another word I would use to describe them is 'determined'. I guess 2 barely middle-aged men misses the profile for the timeshare hawkers, but garners serious attention from another annoying line of salespeople.

After several hours of drinking at the CC, and having little else to do, we headed south out of boredom. I hadn't eaten yet, and was hoping J was ready for refueling at Ellis. A gentleman in a tux stopped us in front of the former Tequila Joe’s in front of IP. He wanted to know if we wanted free passes to Vegas' newest, most hip club. Sure we are! So he hands us passes to the Rockhouse (hereafter referred to as the Sh$thouse). Then, I just had to ask-"Where is it?" For a second, I thought he was going to say the Wynn, or Mirage, or at the very least, Monte Carlo. Nope. Right here. No crowd. No line. No bouncer, either. So why did we need passes again? We go in the front door, see 3 people, buy a $5 draft beer, and go out the back door. Again, since I know I am not hip, I guess the intent of the place was missed on me.

After obtaining a beer everywhere between there and Ellis Island, it was time for a steak special. The rumor that the famous culinary delight had undergone inflation proved correct. Also correct is the assertion that it includes one of Ellis' passable micro-brews. So really, it only went up a buck, still a smashing good deal. Speaking of smashed, I finally have enough visits (and steaks) under my belt to dismiss something I have noticed as an aberration, and define it as a trend; The Drunk Cut. Simply put, if you eat around normal meal times, the cut of meat is very good sirloin, and slightly filet-esq, in both tenderness and flavor. However, late and night/early morning, said cut of meat is more what one would expect for under seven bucks from a lower-rent casino. It is still a good meal, and a particularly good value just off the strip in Vegas. My theory is that the type of people eating at those hours could be fed warmed shoe leather with steak sauce, and they wouldn't notice the difference. If I weren’t taking part in a very important scientific study, I would have fit into that group nicely.

After several more hours of drinking and gambling on the strip, it was time to eat one more time before we hit the rack. I always thought the Victorian Room at Barbary was a solid deal, especially for their graveyard breakfasts. After being seated, I noticed nothing on the breakfast menu for less than $8. I inquired with our waiter as to the fate of cheap drunk food. He improved our moods slightly when he said they still had the basic breakfast fare (eggs, browns, sausage and toast) for $4.25. "We'll take 2. Each". As with all drunk food, it was excellent, despite undergoing 100% inflation since my last visit. Damn Bill.

We made our way back to the P-HO, collecting porn cards the entire way back (I put together an incredible collection this trip. An even baker's dozen with no stars over the goodies) We hit the casino at roughly 7:00 AM. Not wanting to call it "our first night" quite yet, we bellied up to the bar for one more round and some VP. Gee. I bet you will never guess who was sitting across the bar from us, would you? Yep. An even 6-pack of hookers. When J sees the lonely girls, he tells the barkeep to set them up with a round. "Oh, thanks, baby. We are comin' over to sit with you". Uhhhhhh. Great. And are those your pimps there with you? (Obviously unspoken words). Not wanting to explain to the very large men why we were wasting the girl's time, I drug J off his stool (literally, sorry about that, J) and we did the speed walk to the elevators. In bed by 7:30 AM.

I woke at about 11:00 the next morning, cursing the elf. You know. That little elf that that sits on you all night, rapping away at your head with a ball peen hammer? And right before you wake up, he sh$ts in your mouth. I have to confess that I don't really remember much of Monday. I know I had to start off the morning with a Budweiser instead of coffee. Perhaps that is some indication? Actually, I just don't think we did anything all of that memorable. I remember gambling at the Mirage, and doubling a couple of bets on roulette at TI, then losing it all at 3-card. The most important thing about the day was our 7:00 PM dinner reservation at Joe's Steak and Seafood in the Forum Shops.

If you haven't been, allow me to introduce you. I had the pleasure of dining at the original Joe's Stone Crab in South Beach Miami some years ago. The entire experience was beyond reproach. Supposedly, Joe's teamed up with some famous steak house in Chicago, and this is a joint venture of sorts. Anyway, I stumbled upon the place a few years ago, and jumped at the chance to have stone crab again. Little did I know, not only is the stone crab every bit as good as the original, but they have the best steaks anywhere. Period. Exclamation point. Eat your heart out, Emeril. I had the filet and stone crab combo. J is still reeling from the last time we went there, so he got the filet and the caught-yesterday-on-a-boat-in-Alaska, never-frozen, if-you-have-to-ask-what-market-price-is-you-can't-afford-it-Alaskan King Crab, as he doesn't like that the stone crab is served cold. It was expensive. It was ala Carte' (Atkins meal for these super-heroes). It was phukin' delicious. Best meal of my live.

After dinner, we decided it was time to go to our all-time favorite joint (that I can only afford when someone else is paying), the Bellagio. We were hoping to fool a cocktail waitress into thinking we deserved a free drink for our paltry donation to the VP machines. We were getting no love. So J decides to bite the bullet, and just hit one of the bars. Instead of putting a 5-spot in the bar top VP (like me), he just orders a Crown and Coke. $13. No sh$t. So J decides that the barkeep needs a little ribbing, and asking why he can't cut him a break. I am going to go out on a limb here, and suggest to you that the bartenders at the Bellagio are not accustomed to, nor do they know how to respond to such questioning. He just said that "the eye in the sky" was watching, and that he couldn't do anything for him. So J gives up and forks over the $15. My drink was gratis, and I broke even on the VP. That'll teach you not to like gambling. So I am plugging away at VP, listing to J's banter with said barkeep. J decides that flattery will get you everywhere with a snooty bartender, so he says - "I'll bet you’re dialed in to Vegas nightlife, where would you suggest we go next?" The bartender doesn't miss a beat, and says...."Perhaps you would be more comfortable at the Casino Royale." J doesn't get it, and thinks he is joking. I don't even look up from my machine, and say to J - "He isn't joking with you. That is a rip". Huh? In the words of Judge Smailes, some people simply don't belong. I actually looked up at that point, and the bartender had the yes-you-read-me-right look on his face. On to greener pastures. Or would the Bellagio be about as green (money-wise) as it gets?

Greener pastures meant heading back to the room real quick to have some drinks of the free variety. While taking a break and sipping my drink, I decided to cull my pile of porn cards a little. As you may recall, I take absolutely every single one that is handed me. I even stop on occasion, and ask the slapper which one he likes. "Is she good?", is usually met with an almost terrified stare. Different strokes, I guess. Anyway, this lead to a lengthy discussion about the disparity in pricing on some of the cards. I declared that it wasn't fair that only the rich could afford "Dusty", as she was well north of $100 (yes, but no hidden fees), and the poor and downtrodden were stuck with Hether, who was only $35. The super heroes unanimously decided that what this country needs is universal carnal care. A single-payer, collective type system, where everyone can enjoy Dusty, regardless of his or her ability to pay. And most assuredly, when Dusty is only getting $25 a trick from Uncle Sam instead of $150, she will continue out of her care for community and the common good, and never consider becoming a cocktail waitress instead. As we made our way north up the strip, our conversation continued. Oddly enough, right about the time we were passing the snooty diners on the patio at Mon Ami, our passion was so great that it was reflected in the level of our voices. There wasn't a diner in attendance that didn't hear me proclaim - "Damn J, why is it that only the ugly hookers on these cards have the words 'actual entertainer pictured' below their pictures. The others must be false advertising, and the government must do something about this". Yes, a new game was invented, and repeated, and repeated.

On our way across the bridge over to Bills, we saw a panhandler with a new approach. He was sitting on the ground, looking deadly serious, and had a sign that read - "Father Killed by Ninjas, Need Karate Lessons". I was going to drop him a couple of bucks for his originality, and making me laugh, but he scared the poop out of me.

The rest of the evening was rather uneventful, and followed a similar theme to the previous night. Watch the same band at CC until in closes, then go to the Sh$thouse. Fortunately, we had the free passes that were never taken from us the night before. At the door we were told that it was a $10 cover. Again, phukin' hilarious. Amused, we make with the super-special-secret passes. We are then informed that we can't use those at the front door, and need to go through the back entrance. I am doubled over laughing the entire way around to the back. I have to at least admire their tenacity at trying to keep the image. Once inside, I was pleasantly surprised to find a chick standing on the bar pouring free shots in my mouth, and the attractive bartender pouring very healthy $1 Bud drafts. Ok, so it isn't that bad. After half a dozen shots, and just as many beers, I see something that sours my mood. I am suddenly stunned, speechless. There aren't words to describe my feeling. As J and the Almighty as my witness, I watched a break dancing circle form. No kidding. Swear to it. No, it isn't a joke. I am not making this up. Yep. A break dancing circle. Right on the dance floor. At Vegas' newest and hippest club. J is well aware that I pretty much dislike clubs. But he hates gambling, so we each have to bend a little. I turn to him and say, "Wyatt, my hypocrisy knows no bounds". J didn't understand why I ran out, really fast.

At this point, sauced doesn't quite describe the state we were in. I was heavily medicated, J was flat out flammable. But another drink was needed. And where do you go on the strip when you are visibly intoxicated, but can still get served? Why Casino Royale, of course. Plus, we like that happy hour starts at 1:00 AM. How cool is that? I decide to let J get the beers while I lose a couple bucks in one of those 100-play machines. Childish? Yes. Fun? You bet. Not 3 hands into it, J comes stumbling back cursing up a storm. "Come on, we are so out of here" (just like that, only really slurred). "That mother-bleep wouldn't bleepin serve me". Folks, I didn't believe it. I have never seen anyone get cut off in Vegas, at least not without rolling an entire BJ table. And at CR, no less. I'll be damned. Oh well. I tell J that there are plenty of bartenders in this town that are perfectly willing to serve a drink to someone who at least appears like one more drink would kill them. But the problem is, "That Guy" is here. Who is That Guy, you ask? This is J's drunken alter ego. You know how it goes, right? You are at a party, and you see the really drunk, super obnoxious, loudmouth and ask the person next to you "Who is that guy?". Well this guy, or That Guy, depending upon how you look at it, also has split personality disorder. There is Happy That Guy, and Angry That Guy. Guess who showed up? In J's case, I also call it Whiskey Dick. Don't think of it in the traditional sense. Think more literally. He drinks whiskey, and he becomes a dick. So after he procured himself a 1/2 yard of the grain train at Harrah’s (and spilling half of it all over the bar top VP), we started our pilgrimage back to home base. But we had to stop every 20 feet for 2 reasons: 1) So J could get his balance back, and 2), so he could say to me "never tell me no". Then I would have to listen to how pissed off he was about the guy who wouldn't serve him a drink. Oiy! So I decide that maybe some food would be a good idea. Besides, last night's breakfast was awesome. So back into the Victorian Room we go. J is telling anyone who will listen about the devil bartender. To say it was getting old is an understatement. But we order our breakfast specials, and I eat every last bite. J is picking at his food, not unlike how Nick Cage picks at his spaghetti in Leaving Las Vegas. He finally finds 2 over-the-hill ladies who appear interested in his story. So he goes and sits with them, and I go pay the bill. WTF? Breakfast is $16. Now who's pissed? I actually feel kind of bad about berating the cashier, now that I think about it. But how in God's name can you charge $8 for a plate of griddle grub? Especially when under a year ago it was under two bucks? I know how, but I won't say it.

The one fortunate thing was that J left his big slurpee drink on our table when he went to talk to Thelma and Louise. So I poured in out in the nearest garbage can. Had he known I poured it out, Angry That Guy would have likely given me a beating. So I told him I shared it with a hooker I was talking to out in the casino. All he said was "tight". He also informed me that thanks to the nice older ladies, he was no longer angry guy, he was happy guy. Sigh.

The line I walked back to the Ho was relatively straight. I wish I could say the same for J's. And he continued to insist that we stop every 100 feet, so he could hold on to something. We were starting to get the attention of some sketchy looking characters walking behind us. So I told J that these guys had every intention of rolling us right on the strip, and poking him up the botty. That worked. We made it the rest of the way back with no more stops. Once inside, we saw something that changed our opinions of the Planet a little- the Pleasure Pit. Pictures were taken, and some very harmless gawking occurred. After that, we finally made it up into the room. Right as we hit the door, J bolts for the john and starts his praying to the Porcelain god. I told him he was looking a little loose, and that he needed to tighten it up a little. I forgot to mention that when we were in the room earlier, he took a shot of Crown and puked it right back up. He came out of the bathroom and said that it was just a little warning. Had I put that in the proper place in this story, I guess in literary terms it could be called foreshadowing. By the time he is done puking, I am in bed and almost asleep. Ok, maybe passed out is more accurate. J informs me that he is going downstairs to wash the puke taste out of his mouth with a Crown and Coke. Now this is where a true friend steps up to the plate and tries to convince him otherwise. Or at the very least, accompanies him downstairs to make sure he doesn't wind up in any trouble. I am a terrible friend. I heard the door slam, and I didn't hear him come back.

Things were pretty rough at the Planet Hollywood this Tuesday morning. I awoke after a measly 3 hours sleep. I can't say that I had a headache, necessarily. It just wasn't good. I made sure J was actually in his bed, which he was. That was especially good because my bankroll was getting low, and bail money was out of the question. After showering and choking down a glass of Alka-Seltzer, I decided that I needed to ingest some Gatorade, and pronto. I left J sleeping in the room and made my way down to the casino. While sitting at a table, the cocktail waitress foiled my plan when she told me they didn't have Gatorade. Bummer. But it turns out that Budweiser cures the shakes just as well. After an hour or so of losing money, but gaining several beers, I went back up to the room to roust J. I handed him a beer, and he said that I couldn't be his friend, and that I must be Satan.

Once he was up and showered, and had a few beers in him, things were looking rosy again. So we headed south down the Strip for a walkabout. We walked past the Hawaiian Marketplace. I have to quote JimboRob here - "Crap-O-Rama". Inside McDonalds, we had a strange incident. J was choking down a burger, and I was sipping a bottle of beer. The manager walked up to us and said "no beer". I was dazed, to say the least. He seemed ok with us hiding our beers, but I was really confused. When was the last time someone said that to you on the Strip? Clarification was received at a junk store next door where we procured some more road beers. The checker put our beers in paper bags and said we weren't to open them until we were out of the store. Huh? He pointed to a sign on the counter, but it had too many words. So he boiled it down - Open containers are only allowed on the strip, and cannot be in your possession within 1000 feet of any retail establishment. No sh$t? Walking from Bill's down to Ellis with an open container? Illegal. Walking into Chipotle's on the strip with a beer? Technically, illegal. Really? I am not sure how well this is enforced at, say, the Burger Kind inside O'Sheas. That whole casino is small enough that everyone in there is drinking within 1000 feet of the BK. Oh well. Now you know. But do you care?

I rang up Hurricane Mikey on the way through MGM to set up a meeting time for later. Then we joined the slot club at the Tropicana so we could get a break on the cost of doing something touristy, like taking in Bodies or the Titanic exhibit. While walking the endless halls trying to find the exhibition center, J and I decided on a threshold of $10 to see either. For those of you that are in the know, it will be no surprise to you that it was more than that. A lot more than that. So we took the nearest exit out and headed for Hooters. In the parking lot between the two hotels, J finally fesses up as to how much of a genius I am for making him drink again, and we saw two different people, in two different cars passed out with the motors running. After confirming that there were no hoses running from the tailpipes into the passenger cabin, we made our way into Hooters for some VP and beers. This visit, just like the last, was uneventful, and barely memorable.

Working our way back north, we stopped into MC for more burgers at McD's in their food court, and then didn't stop until we made it to CC for the daytime act, Boogie something. These guys are pretty fun, but do the same bit every day. They did the Love Train, just like yesterday (where they start a train and beg the audience for tips). Unlike yesterday, they had 2 lesbian strippers heading up the train. Also unlike yesterday, the lead stripper was pulling out the 'girls' to enhance the tip intake. It worked. Ladies. If you are in marketing, let me repeat something to you that you have likely heard, but never listened to; when it comes to men, sex sells.

This distraction made us a little late for our meeting time with Hurricane Mikey down at Ellis Island. Hopefully, he understood. After a failed attempt in the past, I was finally able to meet the legend that is Hurricane Mikey. His advice to me over the years has been invaluable, to say the least. Who takes emails from complete strangers about anything, and everything they can think to ask, and provides very friendly, thorough responses? Hurricane Mikey, that's who. I had come into the possession of a Cuban cigar recently. This is obviously a rarity, and thus, hard to let go of. But I was once told that true sacrifice is painful. So I brought it with me as a token of my appreciation to Mike. Besides, would you drive all the way across Vegas to meet up with someone you don't even know? Exactly, a bribe.

We shot the sh$t for a couple of hours in the lounge until we were chased out by the worst ever bar room past time, karaoke. Yikes. So we settled on the BBQ dinner, a first for me. The ribs were quite good, and a bargain at that. We couldn't convince Mike to accompany us downtown, so we parted our ways. I was hoping to stand next to Mikey at a craps table and learn how the game was really played, but alas, it wasn't to be. He gave us enough of his time.

Our trip downtown was postponed indefinitely without being accompanied by Mr. Downtown, so we headed back to the CC. Surprisingly, we met another guy from Montucky going by the name of Mike. Us banjo-pickers can smell our own. He was in town on business, and his coworkers were in his words "lame-assed", and he wanted to hang with us. Misery loves company, so now there were three. We tried the Sh$thouse again, and it was boring as hell. But Montucky Mike informed us that he had super-double-secret passes to Tangerine, and that he could get us all in, as he was also on the guest list. Having never been, both J and agree to tag along. There is only one problem, it wasn't open. So we opted for Mist. I, personally, would change the name to Dark. I couldn't see sh$t in there. It finally dawned on us after a group of kids that looked 15 years old made it past the bouncer that sadly, we are old. I could hear my Judge Smailes voice telling me we needed to move along.

Montucky Mike decided not to accept the job of sidekick's sidekick, and headed back to his room for a little sleep before his big day tomorrow. J and I decided on our annual tradition of walking all the way to Slots-O-Fun for $1 beer specials. While standing at the bar, a gal about our age approached and ordered a couple as well. We said hello and started the small talk while we were all waiting. Then she said "Can I ask you guys something?" Being Vegas experts, we agreed to answer her every question. "What do you guys think of strip clubs?" Just like the tiger says-"They'rrrrrrrrrre Great!". She elaborates a little and wants to know if she should fulfill her husband's request of going to one together. J did most of the talking at this point, as I have little experience with strip clubs, and even less going with my wife. So the whole time, we think we are really doing this guy a favor. J is telling her how much fun it is, and that it will bring them closer together, even strengthen their marriage. We are doing a truly good deed, for a man we have never met. Then her eyes get really big, and she says - "Uh, oh. Here he comes". Moving toward us at a rather good clip is a very, large, angry looking man. I shake it off, as he is going to be elated when he finds out what we have done for him. I stick my hand out, hoping to calm the situation with a handshake. He walks right past me, grabs his beer and his wife, and drags them both toward the door. Still not wanting our good deed to go unnoticed, I tell him that she was just asking us about strip clubs, and the both of them going. To which he replied "she should have asked me about strip clubs, not you two dipsh$ts". Our work here is done.

Out on the strip, we give some money to a vagrant who doesn't drink, smoke, or do drugs. Judging by his breath, what he really meant is that he doesn't drink beer. We had some fun trying to get him to admit that he really was going to have a drink, but that it was ok with us. He didn't bend. Then he had the audacity to ask for another 8 bucks, since he also needed to feed his wife and three kids. The fun was over, he was just getting greedy.

After yelling at the clown in the honor of another guy I have never met, Bigcheese, we were at a loss as to what to do next. With no pressing plans, we decided to reinstate the downtown venture. So we hopped on the Deuce and were downtown in less than 30 minutes. We stepped off the bus, and it was a virtual ghost town. I swear I heard a coyote fart. So what do you do when it is dead and the only people walking around are of questionable character? Quite obviously, you risk your life to leave the relative safety of the Fremont Experience and head down to the El Cortez, of course. Upon entering the door, the writing was on the wall. Well, actually, it was on the face of the first dealer we saw. It said, "You don't belong, get the phuk out!!!!!!!!!!!!!". That is the surliest look I have seen since I asked for ketchup with my steak at a fancy restaurant. Woof. The saying needs to be changed in this case to- If looks could disembowel, slice up, and then drive over you with a steamroller...... Kill just doesn't cut it. Nonetheless, I couldn't be deterred from my mission of visiting some downtown dives. I don't know if it was our attire, or the blinking neon signs on our back that read "Non-Locals", but everyone had us pegged. We got no love from anyone. Even the bartender at the VP bar was an ass. He spoke the words "What can I get you gentleman?". What I heard was - "You don't belong, get the phuk out!!!!!!!!!!!!!" I had to tell Judge Smailes to shut the hell up again. Despite putting 20's into the machines, he still charged us for our beers, too. I also have a hunch that the price was doubled. We cried uncle, and got up. Guess what the bartender said? Yep, "come back anytime, boys". I told J that we needed to hit the door running, very fast.

Much to my chagrin, we weren't killed, or even mugged making our way back up Fremont. Feeling invincible, we decided to visit every casino downtown. Well, not every one. I left my platinum stones back home, so we did skip the Spike and the Western. The message we received at the Cortez was loud and clear. It was amazing how deserted every place was. There were no more than 10 people in any given casino. The LVC had exactly zero. J also pointed out that it was dead silent in there. There wasn't any noise from the machines, or even any music playing. This was turning into a certain Stephen King movie.

Or last stop was hopefully for some food at the Golden Gate. Mermaids and La Bayou were closed. Incidentally, so was the snack bar at the GG. Not wanting to pass up on $3 blackjack, I talked J into sitting down. I suck at BJ, and got my ass handed to me. J couldn't lose. I don't understand how I can love gamble, despite losing all the time, and he hates it, but always wins. I wasn't having much fun, and the pit boss was obviously watching us like a hawk. I couldn't get too pissed, as he didn't have anything else to do. I was surprised when he bought us a drink after we colored up. Go figure.

A quick stop at the GN to try and get a look at the pool, and we were at the bus stop at about 5 or 6 AM. While I was looking the other way, J pummeled me with a traffic cone, almost knocking me on my arse. GD that hurt. Still does, as a matter of fact. But I was happy to provide him with some amusement. Now, imagine this scenario for just a second- You are from a very small town. You are in a very big town, where there is lots of crime. You are in a more seedy area of said town, at 5 AM, and there aren't any other tourists anywhere. You are standing there in the dark, and there are a couple sketchy looking people staring at you, kind of like they want to kick your a$$ and take your sh$t. Lots of time passes, and bus is nowhere to be seen. And more and more scary people are crowding around. If that doesn't pucker up your sphincter, you are either 6'6" and 350, from a big city and have edged weapons training, or you are far drunker than we were. Just as we were about to run for it and catch a cab back at the GN, the bus rolls up. Whew! Most of the riders appeared to be fairly normal. None of them were any more interested in making eye contact or talking than I was. Speaking of heads being down, J's was down about 1 block past Fremont. I turned around to look at him every once in a while, only to see his head bobbing with the bumps like one of those dashboard dolls. Thankfully, I managed to stay awake so we didn't miss our stop and wind up right back downtown. Once off the bus, J hit me with 2 more traffic cones. He missed with the last one, which was good, because it was double the normal size, and might have caused some serious damage. After brushing off the advances of several more hooker advances, it was bedtime.

Wednesday morning was really bad. No longer could we postpone the hangover anymore, as we both had to work the next day. So drinking our way out of this one wasn't an option. The really bad symptoms hit me first. J was unphased as of yet. He was actually hungry. He said he wanted to go to Carnegie Deli, and hang out at the Mirage until we left. I told him that their bathrooms are plenty clean, should I need to barf in one of them. Once there, J decided one of their sammies was a little more than he needed, and was bummed we didn't have a car to go to In and Out. So I said "Kahunaville makes a damn tasty burger". To which J responded, "check out the brains on Brad". Dozens more Pulp Fiction quotes followed, as well as a discussion of who ripped off whom in the Quentin Terintino/Treasure Island arena. I then admitted to J that people who quote movies all the time do so because they have no original thoughts of there own. True. True.

I was feeling right as rain about the time we touched down in Montucky. Coincidentally, this is right about the time the waves of nausea started hitting J. So we didn't bother to stop by the airport bar to see if they stopped selling Cinook beer like we had previously promised. J's wife picked us up, and noticed he was looking a little pale. "What's the matter, honey?". "Oh, I must have gotten some bad food". She laughed all the way to my house. I found out the next day that J spent the night on his bathroom floor. That must mean we did things just right. And to think, right before we left, my wife said, "Remember, you aren't 21 anymore".

 

nice report! sounds like you guys need a new liver soon

 

Absolutely outstanding!!!!!!!

 

Great TR...I love the point system....:evillaugh I used to have one myself....LOL!

 

Great Trip Report. It's to bad that you skipped the Western and the Spike. Lots of Entertainment at those places:evillaugh

 

Wonderful! Your style is like JimboRob, who is one of my favorites, you guys can write about anything and see the humor/irony in it.

Planet Hollywood is the closest casino to the airport, I think you can spit on one of the planes if you're on a high floor, and you got tunneled? Hopefully it was due to the supplies you needed.

Tell your wife you HAVE to make regular visits to Vegas for your material for trip reports...it's not about you, it's about your reading fans!

 

That was hilarious. I cracked up the whole way through. and the point system, so true and realy made me laugh. Thanks for writing it up.

 

Outstanding report, left me wanting more, besides a Pulp Fiction and Tombstone reference in the same TR. Reminded me of hanging out with my friends in what seems like many years ago.

 

Awesome TR Phu-kna. I'd be in jail for murdering my wife if she applied some arbitrary bullshit point system on me.

 

Excellent report! I'm single and will posterize the "Rules" for future reference! I also caught a Matrix quote--"right as rain"! You definitely need to visit Vegas more often for the trip reports.

Moe

 

great report..... next to Mikeys, this is one of the best

 

how do you remember it all ?

awesome report

 

Now that was well worth the read! Hope J has recouperated and you didn't lose any points.

 

Excellent report. You had me lmao the whole time I was reading it.

 

Great report, Chris. Was nice to finally meet you after all these years. And that bribe was one tasty smoke

And, Wyatt, my hypocrisy knows no bounds had me cracking up.

Mikey

 

Outstanding...one of the best TR's I've read in some time...bravo.

 

a beaut!

Thanks for the great read to pass an otherwise ridiculously slow day at work.


Cheers

 

Man, where have you been????

 

A, bombastic review, an awesome and inspiring tirade. Thanks for the blow by blow. My liver salutes you!