Saturday, May 24, 2014

Las Vegas - 2014 - Brendan's Bachelor Party

Life is an interesting series of events. First you're born, imagery I will exclude. Then you go on to shit your pants a bunch. Then you go to school, and experience recess and how hilarious it is when one of your friends gets injured, usually under some bizarre circumstance. Then eventually hair bursts from your nipples and you discover masturbation, a discovery that typically coincides with pornography. Then there's high school, a period of your life where most people have a delusional sense of self-importance. Most people don't leave. Then you work and have sex, and generally something goes wrong during one of those activities.

Then sometime after all of that, usually after you finish school, move out of your parents' house and find a stable job, it's about time to get married to that girl, or guy depending on who's reading this, and if you don't identify as either male or female, well then it's time to begin the overly difficult process of marrying that organism that occupies your time. Now, most importantly, the part that happens after is the party. In my case, it was time for my friend's bachelor party. After that, people get married, have children and then we all die, so it's hardly worth mentioning. Unless you're eager to get your quarter life crisis out of the way like I did. I'm giving away existential crises at a fair price!

So I get a text one night, and one of my best friends tells me that he is getting married. You can imagine how over joyed I was, partly because I was happy for him, but mostly because I had won the long standing bet of, "Who Will Get Married First?" Come to think of it, I think we all won that bet... Naturally the conversation that took place immediately after between myself and everyone else was, "What are we doing for his bachelor party?" A sentence men use to disguise the true question, "How can we holy fuck with him before he gets married?" It took all of 30 seconds to decide. Las Vegas. There is absolutely no good reason for us to go considering Brendan's preferences in life, but we're going anyway. Fuck that guy. We will train him in the art of acute misery to better prepare him for marriage.

... I think I actually felt Chelsea pick up a hatchet for a second there.

This is the story of our adventure to Las Vegas in May of 2014. As I said in the article I wrote about my trip to Vancouver with Susie, a writing I haven't finished yet for no good reason I can think of, this is my odd way of preserving memories. As you read this story, you'll be surprised to know that I actually remember all of it. I had no business in Vegas, literally and metaphorically, but you can make out with balls if you don't like it. I hope you enjoy the story, and have to pee really bad by the time you start reading about Monday.

Saturday, May 3rd, 5:00am
I just realized I'm breaking the unwritten law of, "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." We now reach the second point in this writing where you can make out with balls. So I wake my ass up at 5:00am, forget to pack my toothbrush because I'm an idiot, and get picked up by Chris at 6:00am. It was around 5:45am, actually, meaning that Chris could be a vampire. I wondered how he had managed this, until I saw the enormous Monster energy drink in his car. That man was wired as fuck. I was almost worried that he was going to drive to the nearest mountain and climb it with nothing but his eyelids.

Chris gave me a tour of his new house, which is notable because of his Saw-like basement that had a set of monitors showing the positions of the hidden cameras set up around his house. I can only imagine he's waiting for the day he sees the girl from The Ring lurch into frame and... begin furiously masturbating. Then Brendan arrived with the help of his Starbucks enriched fiance Chelsea, and we finally tell him straight up where he's going. We had fucked with him for a while, asking if he'd enjoy fishing or spelunking. Of course, Larry spilled the beans right infront of him at wing night one week, so he knew what was going on, but it was entertaining nonetheless. Emotional distress is recreation for us. On reflection, kidnapping Brendan and putting a bag over his head for the duration of the flight to Vegas was a far better plan.

So we drive to the airport and realize we don't have to go through customs, as we have a connecting flight in Regina, Saskatchewan. Chris, on the other hand, had a direct flight to Vegas, so he had to clear customs. This resulted in Brendan and I having to wait forever until we got to board. We waited so long, I'm pretty sure Jesus came back to life. I was a little upset that we couldn't pre-board as well. I love getting on the plane before I get on. So we're about to board the plane, when we realize we're being led on to the tarmac. We had to take a fucking bush plane to Regina. I'm almost positive I saw the pilots' feet coming out of the cockpit. Needless to say, our flight to Regina was interesting. I'm certain the interior was made out of repurposed refridgerators, and the propellers just had some playing cards stuck on there so the plane sounded like it was going fast.

We land in Regina and located a Tim Hortons. For my American readers, Tim Hortons is a haven for those eager to eat and drink bullshit while developing caffeine addictions. Of course, it wasn't a real Tim Hortons. It was just a counter with a vending machine beside it. In order to earn my place in that shitty Tim Hortons, I had to go through security, where some lady threw out my fucking sunscreen. Goddamnit, I paid like 10 bucks for that yogurt that deflects UV rays. I wish we had a flight back to Regina so I could jam a cactus up her ass, or maybe just get my sunscreen back. I do find it a little strange how they confiscate and dispose of anything over 100mL. Great, I'm no longer a danger on the plane, but the entire airport is fucked up now because of the cream I intended to masturbate with.

The flight to Vegas was alright. The guy sitting beside me, who wasn't Brendan thanks to the brilliance of airlines, ordered just about everything on the menu. The dude opened a cafe right next to me. I can't believe they have menus on planes now. I find that obscene. I remember when they used to just give you a bag of something crunchy and told you to shut up. For longer flights, they gave you something that resembled cheese with a sausage under it. After that, people filled the lavatories faster than a strip club on two dollar titty night. Good times.

Now, for anyone reading who's eager to travel to Vegas, let me mentally prepare you. When you begin your final descent, it's going to feel like the back of the yellow school bus. Then, when you're about to touch down, the plane is going to turn into an enormous teeter-totter, almost as if the aircraft itself prepares for Vegas by drinking. Don't worry, you'll live. But like me, bizarrely, you'll develop sympathy for popcorn kernels. All you can hope for as you wait for your brain to erupt from your head, is that it becomes delicious when smothered in butter and salt. I felt like someone had bounced a basketball on my head for about 3 hours, and I was hungry and thirsty. McCarran airport did little to help. You could find more food in the desert. Come to think of it, they may have been trying to hammer that point home.

So after landing, we had to clear customs. You have to fill out a declaration or something when you land. Not knowing this, I had to find a pen in the airport, which is far more difficult than it sounds. There were counters upon counters with pens on them, but they had all been forcibly removed from the tiny chains via assholes. So we found a nice Albertan couple willing to lend us a pen, and thus began waiting at the very back of the longest line I have ever seen in my life. It looked like everyone was lining up for the new iPhone. Luckily some guy spotted us and asked if we were on the West Jet flight, and we were rushed to the front of the line. After that we had the pleasure of standing in another line waiting to give our declaration form to some dude that I was really hoping would be dressed as Elvis. Sadly not. Missed opportunity, McCarran.

Stepping outside for the first time in Las Vegas is fun. You get hit with this blast of hot air that leeches all the moisture in your body in under 2 minutes. It's not like Hawaii where a muggy blanket washes over you. No, this is like stepping into a gigantic oven while walking into a blowdryer. There we encountered our third line of the day, the line-up for taxis, which was more or less as long as my penis. So like, really long. I would liken it to Godzilla's tail. For all the ladies reading, I'd like to add that there's more where that came from. So we got a Shuttle to our hotel instead, Treasure Island. Driving to the hotel from the airport is really incredible for the first time. The whole drive there is like an advertisement with a pulse. Giant screens showing everyone performing in Vegas, for ages and ages. Out in the distance there's probably someone having sex with a camel, but I didn't look.

The view of the city driving in is stunning. It looks like something ridiculous you'd build in Sim City. The whole time I was waiting for the giant eyeball to loom over the city and vaporize The MGM Grand. We dropped our bags off in our room and headed up to Chris's room, where the troops were stationed. Chris, Braeden, Chad and Kyle were there, laughing at us and our relaxing flight to Regina. Brendan and I were on the verge of starvation, so we went to a restaurant in the hotel called Gilley's. Don't ask me why it has a dumb name. We sit down at our table, freezing our balls off because every indoor area in Vegas is like the arctic north. The transition from sauna to crisper drawer delivered more of a shock to my system than... something shocking, I can't think of a good example.

The hotel is littered with games upon games upon games, but the moment I truly realized I was in Vegas was when our server walked over to our table and had more ass hanging out than a baboon. Her titties could have popped out the top of a turtle neck. Then she delivered a burger to my table larger than a newborn child, with a side of fries that could feed the population of Belgium. Chris got a pretzel the size of the steering wheel on a city bus. In the middle of the restaurant there was a mechanical bull, surrounded by drunken bachelorettes. Needless to say, it was dinner and a show. Although, the best part was the one guy who attempted to ride it, got bucked off faster than the spider on my hand two weeks ago, and was subsequently teabagged by the bull. Owned.

After dinner we went to Margaritaville to purchase some drinks called "Yards". They're essentially giant slurpees served in an enormous crack pipe, laced with alcohol. It's like the version of 7/11 you regret less, depending on the involvement of hookers. Now that the guys were armed with yards and I had a bottle of water, because I was ready to get FUCKED UP, naturally it was time to show Vegas just how classy Canadians are, by bursting into The Venetian wearing orange shorts, wielding towering slushy alcoholic beverages. We watched people gamble and stuff for a while. It's quite a place, The Venetian. As I rounded a corner, Braeden turned to me and said, "Welcome to the world of sports gambling." There was a wall of monitors the size of movie screens, and the wall stretched the length of the CN Tower if it fell over. Just one of the many areas in Vegas filled with people who might be trying to avoid foreclosure.

We went back to the hotel to have a bit of a rest, and then we decided to dress up super fucking good to see the volcano show infront of The Mirage. Damn did we look good. One girl got pregnant on our way to The Mirage. Speaking of our journey to The Mirage, we also saw a dead dude on the sidewalk beside Margaritaville. That man either had the best night of his life, or the absolute worst. I like to think he achieved the former. So we watched the volcano erupt and stuff, which was cool. Not as cool as the volcano that erupted two states north, mind you, but cool nonetheless. Had we brought the dead guy with us, we could have partially cremated him for free. Yes, I'm tasteless, but look on the bright side. When I go to hell, he'll slap me.

The rest of the guys went out to the club after that, while the groom and myself mosied on back up to our snug hotel room for a rousing session of oily ass spanking. Like I always say, it's not gay if you beat them up afterwards. Really though, I was a fucking zombie by the time I got up to the room. I laid in bed, and 30 seconds later I was gone. I don't remember any anesthetic drugs entering my system, but I was gone faster than Rob Ford's dignity. Somehow the rest of the guys partied until about 5:00am without collapsing. Myself and Brendan have a theory about this that I will share with you on Monday morning.

Sunday, May 4th, 10:30am
I woke up around 10:30am feeling absolutely incredible. You know that feeling you get after you indulge in a guilty pleasure? Ignoring the shame, that's what I felt like. I was your guilty pleasure. I felt like I wanted to fuck the sun that morning. Instead we got up and went to Larry and Steve's room, which was so far away from the elevator we had to bring supplies and find shelter. When we got inside, we, as well as Steve discovered that he had somehow drunkenly stocked his fridge full of beer, and bought two litres of water. I find it amazing that he transported that much shit to his room without damaging anything, including himself.

After that we had our second run-in with American food. Specifically, the portions. We went downstairs for breakfast at "The Coffey Shop", where they misspelled "coffee". We truly were in America. I ordered a pancake tower for some reason. Four pancakes with sausages in the middle of the bottom two, with eggs on top. No one should be capable of finishing that amount of food. I suppose this explains why Americans are huge. I always thought it was because the country is prone to tornadoes, and it was all in an effort to stay on the ground if one touched down. So after we all prepped ourselves to give our respective toilets an absolute beating several hours later, we started walking down the strip.

First everyone went to buy more fruity, alcohol laced drinks from Margaritaville, which came in adorable little sand castle buckets. Then we walked by The Bellagio, where we stopped to watch the fountains. Shortly after the fountains that wonderfully simulate your mom having an orgasm (burn), Steve suffered an allergic reaction to whatever the fuck the guy put in his drink. I've never seen full body adema before. I made the suggestion of seating him in the shade, putting a hat on the ground and having him clap his hands together like pincers like a lobster. He decided on the more sensible option of Benadryl. Then we walked through a part of The Bellagio which, if I remember correctly, was filled with fancy fucking shops. Gucci and Dolce & Gabbana for starters. The shops we were walking by would make our girlfriends panties wetter than Kobe Bryant in the fourth quarter.

We ended up at Planet Hollywood, which Britney Spears appeared to be performing at, according to the enormous building-sized advertisement on the side of the building. I was disappointed to discover that she wasn't beating cars with an umbrella. Our purpose at Planet Hollywood was to eat at a sandwich place called Earl of Sandwich. I highly recommend visiting this place should you find yourself in Vegas. That shit was amazing. It's like Subway, but nothing like it at all and it's made inbetween Jesus's tits. Make peace with however that makes sense in your mind. Afterwards, the guys went off to the pool party we had booked that Brendan wasn't keen on going to at all, so myself and Chris stuck with him and walked the entire length of the strip. I counted exactly 13 towering structures that looked like dongs. I regretted not going to the pool party just a little bit, if only just to see Steve high off of his balls from the combination of Benadryl and alchohol.

We were in Vegas on a fight weekend, Mayweather versus a dude named Mariana or something, I don't care. The fight was taking place at The MGM Grand, which I was eager to visit. Not only because Tupac was shot there, but because it was mentioned in Ocean's Eleven and I've been told it's cool and stuff. We were approaching the main lobby, and I changed my mind. That was the longest line I've ever seen in my life. Holy shit. I think fewer people stormed Helm's Deep. We ended up at The Luxor, which is the pyramid with the sphinx infront of it. Once inside, we accomplished one of our goals of the trip, which was getting Brendan spanked. It was our dream to deliver a woman to Brendan's bedside every night, for the sole purpose of spanking his sweet ass before bed. We didn't get to see him spanked every night, but we did get him spanked once at random, so it's a victory for us. I say at random, because we were just walking through the hotel and some girl grabbed us and offered to spank him. Had she summoned a toilet for me to shit in at that moment, she would have made two of my dreams come true in that moment, but alas.

We ended up back at Treasure Island relaxing in the room, since we had just walked through the desert like The Alchemist. A considerably nicer desert, mind you. But eventually it became time to dress up fancy again and go to the strippers. The strippers are interesting for me, because I've never been. I'm not a fan, but I am a fan of titties, so since I was basically forced to go, I realized worse things could happen in life. We took a party limo short bus thing to Sapphire. Luckily the entrance came with instructions so we knew how to get inside. There's a hilariously tacky sign over the doors that looks like it was made out of Lite-Brite that says, "Enter Here!" I will admit, I was a little curious if any of the strippers assholes were labelled in a similar fashion.

So we go inside and have to go through about three checkpoints littered with enormous intimidating gentlemen before we could get to the strippers. I resisted the urge to tickle one. We get inside, and there's about 10 strippers waiting to pounce on us, with maybe 6 servers wearing slightly more clothing. One of the strippers rubbed my arm as I was walking in. Not understanding the social structure of this establishment, I turned and said, "Sorry!" She looked a little bewildered. Then one girl reached for my dick, but I dodged her. We also lost Kyle at this point. Keep in mind we were maybe 30 seconds in, and Kyle had disappeared about 5 seconds in. It's like we were playing British Bulldog on the way in, and one of the strippers got him and took him on the tour of the club. Secretly, she wanted to take him on a tour of her exposed vagina. I like to think that she did.

We sat down at a table, and if you're like myself, somewhat socially awkward and inexperienced in the art of strip clubs, and somehow find yourself in Las Vegas, be warned. You will be swarmed by women eager to squish your face inbetween their tits. Worse things could happen in life, I suppose. The first woman that came up to me and sat on my lap was this scary sounding Russian girl who offered me, "a very sexy dance" and potentially a needle to the neck. Felt like I wanted to stir my pasta with her. She was built like a popsicle stick. I wanted to lift her up and throw her like a spear. I turned the dance away, only to be faced with another dance a few seconds later. All I could hear was the supporting cheers of my friends as I said, "I guess so" and gave her 20 bucks. Thankfully, this isn't the part of the story where someone actually makes out with my balls. Mostly for their sake. I walked a lot that day.

The sounds of their cheers were then muffled as this woman encapsulated my entire head with her enormous breasts. I became an Oreo. I heard what sounded like immense laughter as her tits covered my ears and I began to struggle breathing. Then a minute later it was over and I felt no different. My head probably had a little more baby powder on it than it did previously, but oh well. Then I got another lap dance from, I would say, the hottest girl in that club, courtesy of Chris. The rest of them were about as appealing as dentist tools. The first girl just kind of seizured on top of me for a while, but this second one was a tad dirtier. The first thing she did was put her head inbetween my thighs and put her hand on my bulge. Then she rubbed it for two seconds. I realized in that moment that I had to pee really bad.

Then she rubbed her tits on my face, which I realized was unfortunate for her because I had stubble that day, so she essentially massaged a cheese grater for a few seconds. After that I watched the girl on the main pole in the club nab a dollar bill out of Brendan's mouth with her tits, and I believe the same girl grabbed two dollars off of his thigh with her mouth. Braeden leaned over to Brendan in that moment and said, "Dude, I think she just robbed you." Then I watched Steve get a lap dance with a ridiculous look on his face as she started moving her ass up and down. The smile that erupted on Steve's face was pure gold. The dude looked like Elmo. There was also an extremely old stripper that inhabited the club that I believe gave the unwilling Brendan a lapdance. Brendan and Chris described her as, "leathery" and "so wrinkly" respectively. Steve chimed in later, saying she "felt like bacon". Needless to say, I ended up actually having a good time as we were all laughing our asses off.

Then four of us cabbed back to Caesar's Palace, which is an incredible building that's about the length of the Bering Strait. We were walking down the strip earlier, when Chris tells me, "This is the beginning of Caesar's Palace." A solid 20 minutes later and we had walked to the end. If they sold that building they could probably pay off the country's debt. I can't remember who came with us to Caesar's Palace. I remember Chris and Larry distinctively, but the fourth member remains a mystery. Who the fuck was it? Tell me. Was it you, Steve? You ordered the uncooked burger, right? What the fuck is it with the United States and uncooked meat? One thing I did forget to mention was our hilarious cab driver. There are thousands upon thousands of cabs in Las Vegas. You will never struggle to get one, except perhaps from the airport. If you think you've seen some shit in your life, you can only imagine what a cab driver in Las Vegas has seen.

Our driver to Caesar's Palace was some russian guy who said he could direct us to a club where, for $10.00, we could "smell the pussy" and "have them sit on our faces". A small price to pay for bad tasting herpes. The four of us got dinner at Central in Caesar's Palace, and goddamn. Everything on that fucking menu looked good. If someone had brought that menu to the strip club and rubbed it on my face, my dick would have been hard enough to have a trapeze artist swing on it. Chris and I argued over the proper pronounciation of Carbonara, while I ate my delicious sandwich. I ordered a Clubhouse, if you care. Word of advice should you ever find yourself in Central, however. Wear something warm. The second time we went to the restaurant, I'm pretty sure Larry got frost bite.

We walked back to the hotel at around 4 in the morning, where we saw a guy begin to experience what looked like altitude sickness mid-stride, then he performed an epic face plant. Rather than help the man to his feet, Chris got down on the ground with him and started counting to 10. Originally it was ruled a knock out until he rolled over with an unmistakable look of joy on his face. I haven't seen anyone that happy since Steve got a lapdance a few hours prior, from that stripper with the crescent moon shaped head. I neglected to mention this until now. Then we walked away and left the guy on the ground. We saw him at the airport two days later.

Brendan was in the room when I got back. He and the rest of the fellows went to McDonald's. Had I known they were going to be fine dining, I wouldn't have ate at Caesar's Palace. Fuck. I think Brendan was eager to get the taste of old stripper titty out of his mouth, so he actually went into McDonald's to deep fry his entire head. I remember looking at the clock before I passed out. It read 5:03am.

Monday, May 5th, 8:00am
I remember hearing a knock on the door from someone who clearly didn't speak english, and Brendan jumping out of bed like me if I smell pancakes ever. It was house keeping. Brendan told them to suck the farts out of his ass and die, then he went back to bed. I forgot to mention this up to this point, but Brendan and I shared a bed. He spooned me the first night and tickled my ass. We had two beds in the room, we just preferred to leave the second bed for all the hookers we intended to kidnap and shelter. We were both awake at this point, and this is when I realized something is amiss about Vegas. I was operating on 3 hours of sleep, and I felt incredible. Not delusionally incredible, I mean I was ready to dropkick a lion. They pump extra oxygen into the rooms in Vegas. I can't wait to purchase a hooker next time I'm there and bang her diseased ass for 10 hours straight, then do it again after a 15 minute power nap.

... ok, that's a little gross.

We decided to squander this shot of adrenaline by eating at the restaurant downstairs again. I'm sure there's plenty of breakfast places in Vegas, but that one was just so convenient. We watched Scooby Doo before we went downstairs. That dog, I'm telling you. Ruined some guy's plan to steal a diamond, what a fucking idiot. So we ate downstairs, and I ordered Eggs Benedict this time around. I'm not sure what sauce they used to drown my eggs in, but I don't think it passed for hollandaise. Maybe a melted shoe. I more so enjoyed the cheese that only sort of resembled cheese on Brendan's omelette. Much like how a barnacle resembles a vagina. Don't think too much about the previous sentence, I certainly didn't.

After breakfast, I think that's when Chris won $350 on roulette, and for stark contrast, the Raptors lost game 7. Poor Brendan and Kyle. They looked like someone took a piss on the Mona Lisa, though I would seriously question why anyone would like any team residing in Toronto. You might as well cheer for Calgary. Ok, too far, too far. We went to an outlet mall after breakfast, or as I came to refer to it, the portion of the morning where I felt like shitting myself. We took a limo to the mall like goddamn G's (I never had occasion to use that singular letter up to now). Pasty white G's, but G's nonetheless. I should stop using the word G's now, I think I just heard my soul vomit in its own mouth.

We got to the mall, and I finally realized what an outlet mall is. It's just a mall, but it's outside. I suppose that should have been obvious. The group branched out. To no ones surprise, Steve went straight to the sunglasses outlet, while Brendan and I confusedly roamed the shops that were either too expensive for us to shop in, or shops that would make Brendan shit. I'm referring to Dairy Queen, of course. Michael Kors is a basket of asshole. I saw a sea foam green repurposed garbage bag made out of potato skin and fish scales, "on sale" for $800. That's US dollars, so it's at least $4000 Canadian, if I know my exchange rate properly. It was a little amusing standing in that store. It's fun watching all of the men with broken souls following their horrible women around that store.

I went to the Disney outlet after that to see if I could buy something for Susie, but the only thing I could find was a giant pillow that looked like Kermit The Frog's severed head. That would have been traumatizing for her for several reasons. Chief among them is the memory of the video "Kermit The Frog watches Two Girls One Cup", where he begins masturbating shortly after the video begins. I reference it whenever Susie forces me to watch a romantic comedy. Every time I say, "eat that shit" in my Kermit voice, I can feel the regret in her heart grow a little bit more. Don't ask me how our relationship has survived for four years. It's a tribute to the depths of human patience. What a lovely depiction of our relationship.

Anyhow, we left the outlet, and realized we were hungry as fuck, so we ate at a place called Senor Frogs. Mexican food coupled with the shitty breakfast we ate? The likelihood of gastrointestinal imbalance was great that day. I wasn't a big fan of the table we were sat at. Had we known we were going to be seated in the restaurant's wind tunnel, we might have asked to move. But we didn't, so we watched as condiments and Chris's nachos rocketed off our table. And when I say Chris's nachos flew off the table, I mean we were throwing olives at the people leaving the hotel. This is when Braeden and Chad had to leave us, sadly. They probably had a good reason for leaving, but were immediately branded the light weight quitters of the trip regardless. It's true, we made a lot of jokes at your expense, dudes.

We celebrated Braeden and Chad's depature by going to Walgreens so I could buy juice, marking one of the many points in the trip where I was ready to get FUCKED UP, and everyone else went to Kahunaville or something to buy Yards. The plan was to go back up to mine and Brendan's room to get drunk. Chris, Brendan and Kyle failed to get drunk, but we did succeed in having a great fucking time. Eventually Larry and Steve got to the room, and... I totally fucked up the story, because I know Braeden and Chad were there for a brief moment. It's possible that we hung out in the room, then ate at Senor Frogs, then Braeden and Chad left. I don't care enough to rewrite the story up to this point, so that's what happened. Braeden and Chad went to the airport after Senor Frogs, came back to the room, then Chad lost more money on roulette. Perhaps I shouldn't have so boldly stated that I remember everything about this trip... Thankfully no one has managed to read this far, so I'm good.

We definitely ended up back at the room though, which we referred to as "Home Base". It also smelled like shit in there, as everyone was quick to point out. I never told anyone that warm weather makes me fart. Brendan blamed it on everyones feet. Fool! Although our disgusting feet may have contributed. Walking around in Vegas is fun, because your feet sweat so much, you could drown someone by emptying your shoe after a 30 minute walk. Our feet smelled about as pleasant as deep fried condoms. So we wallowed in our own decay and filth for a couple hours, watching part of Euro Trip, something about golf briefly, I believe a basketball game, then a hockey game, like true Canadians. We really had no solid plan for the evening, until Steve suggested we visit Old Vegas, or The Old Strip, or Freemont Street, whatever the fuck it's called. The only alternative was ordering pancakes to the room in the hopes of eventually horrifying house keeping.

We ended up infront of The Golden Nugget, and beside that, a giant billboard covered in tits. Yes, we were still in Vegas. Everything else looked like the set of The Hills Have Eyes. We ended up at a place called Binion's, where the Mexican food finally caught up with me. My bathroom venture was notable, because as I sat there on my porcelain temple, a man plopped down on the dirty bathroom floor to see if there was a person connected to the feet he could clearly see. I just looked at him and farted. He said, "Cool maaaaan" and slithered away, probably into a drain pipe. I assume the man was drunk. I'm almost certain he took a urinal cake to eat later.

So the guys started playing Craps (interestingly enough, the game I had just invented in the bathroom) after we took an amazing picture with "Binion's Million", where Chris bent Larry over the money like a bitch. I was sticking my tongue out and masturbating behind Steve, though the latter part isn't overly clear in the picture. Brendan looked like he belonged on a bus stop advertisement. Old Vegas is pretty goddamn cool, I have to say. It's what I imagined Vegas to be. Loud as fuck with a million people everywhere. Old Vegas is encased in a shitty building that looks like it's made out of aluminum, and there's actually a street that runs right through it. I had no idea until I saw an enormous bus seemingly attempt to run over 100 people. If you ever find yourself there, look both ways. The ceiling also lit up at some point and played Bon Jovi, but that's hardly worth mentioning. Had the ceiling lit up and played Backstreet Boys, then it would have been a party.

After we all began to die from the enormous amount of smoke trapped in Binion's, we travelled back to Caesar's Palace to gamble some more in marginally cleaner air. Eventually we walked back to the hotel, where a cab driver asked if we needed a ride there. We said no. Then he asked in the always hilarious 7/11 accent, "How about titties?" We considered.

Tuesday, May 6th, 8:00am
I'm not sure what the fuck is wrong with house keeping in Vegas, or at least at Treasure Island, but my god. The "Privacy Please" sign is sacred. It means reverent silence, like Shaolin Monks. I can only assume house keeping is trained to wake everyone the fuck up so the casino can make the most money possible. I was dreaming about vegetables and biking, and they had to go and wake my ass up. I consumed about 36,000 calories daily, I needed some broccoli immediately to reverse some of the effects. Luckily we were going home, so I was close to that beautiful, enriching vegetable that smells like grandpa.

At this point we were tired of The Coffeey Shop and its food with shockingly efficient diaretic properties, so we went to go get pizza instead. It was around noon anyway, so whatever. Everyone needed to experience Grimaldi's. I'd say Grimaldi's is incredible and that you should eat there, but let's be honest. It's hard to disgrace pizza. So long as you're not slathering ketchup on dry wall, you're doing well. I must say, it is fun being a pizza chef myself and watching other people make pizza. We all look so stupid. I saw one of the guys put his fist straight through a dough that I'm sure became Steve's pizza. It is fun watching them put the pizzas in the oven though. They put the pizza on a shovel that's about 20 feet long, and launch it into the oven. I assume the pizza ends up on the desert floor outside 50 yards away. I mean they really belt those fucking pizzas into the oven. They might as well hire Ben Roethlisberger to cook pizzas, and then have sex with them after.

Afterwards we ended up back at the hotel, where we all decided to play the Megabucks. It's $3.00, and you could win a bunch of money that you'd get taxed for and subsequently harassed at the border for, but it's worth it to try. It was my first gamble ever, as I took the seat. I heard Steve's friend shout behind me, "Play max credits!" So I pressed the button, the slot machine did its thing, and suddenly everyone around me started cheering madly. I had no idea what the fuck happened, so I figured it was the classic prank, tell the blindfolded guy at center court he made the $100,000 shot. Then Larry pointed at the machine, and it said I had won $15.00. Then I started cheering and high fiving everyone madly, because goddamn, who doesn't love $15.00? I could buy some chocolate milk with that. Everyone there must have thought we had won the Megabucks the way we were cheering. I would have bought none of you houses had I won, just so you know.

Then, sadly, it was time for Brendan and I to go home. We watched Chris, Steve and Kyle play roulette for a while, and some enormous black dude at the black jack table next to us win a whole shit load of money. Dude knocked his chair over and shouted "BAM!" three times in a row, alarming everyone but the stone faced black jack dealer. There were a lot of black people in Vegas. Just an observation of mine. Though I did wonder at some point how many of them were actually just white people who had stayed there too long.

So Brendan and I ended up back at the airport, ready for our needlessly long journey home. Not much to say about the flights home, other than the landings in both Seattle and Edmonton were far more comfortable than the landings in Regina and Vegas. It was nice landing back home and not having to seemingly dodge anti-aircraft fire. Also, Seattle is a beautiful city, my god. My attention was equal parts on the city as we flew away, and on the tiny girl next to me that managed to consume an entire pizza by herself in about 2 minutes. That's not a joke. She ate the whole fucking thing in 2 minutes. She looked like Goku eating anything in Dragonball Z. If you understood that reference, you may not know what a vagina looks like. Also, Brendan ate grilled cheese in Seattle for some reason. Brendan plus cheese on an enclosed, airborne metal tube? Free entertainment.

Then we landed in Edmonton, where I accidentally farted near a guy sleeping on a bench, and realized that Larry, Braeden, Chad and Jeff still owe me $111.00. I'd conclude with something sappy like, "I'll remember that trip for the rest of my life, it was a kick ass time, guys!" Instead I will just say, I'm glad none of us got herpes, though I did have money on Steve.