Vegas: Part 2

Previously on Boozin’ Blog, Vegas:

-En route to L.A., our fearless partiers realize there’s nowhere with an open room as it is the weekend of the Billboard Music Awards (We would’ve crashed with Justin Bieber, but I’m still pissed that he stole my haircut and my girl, Selena).
-I propose that this is not a problem: We can just party until check-in time tomorrow and try our luck again.
-I realize that I have a friend in Vegas who will allow us to sleep on her floor.
-We all breathe secret sighs of relief.
-We successfully party until 6 a.m. without doing anything but walk aimlessly up and down the strip. Vegas, baby!
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Vegas, day two began with possibly the greatest wake-up call ever: A freezing cold cylinder being forced into my frail, near sober hands.
“Here. It’ll help.” Our host – or should I say beer angel? – gave each of us a Heineken on her way out the door. For a moment, we were in disbelief at our good fortune: a place to sleep that promptly delivered you beer upon awakening. Is this real life? Can we stay here forever? Can I at least give this place five stars on Yelp?
Sucking down our Heinekens and moving on to the nice stuff – by “stuff”, I mean tequila, and by “nice”, I mean warm – we were determined to postpone our hangovers to at least that afternoon. In the meantime, it was noon in Vegas and we were rockin’ a strong buzz. What to do? Strippers? Gambling? Prostitutes?
Brunch. Say what you will, but the best way to start a day of heavy, sustained drinking is with a Bloody Mary. Which is why we accidentally picked a brunch spot that did not have their alcohol license…
Okay, I think it’s time for me to level with everyone. I thought I could lie to you all, but I can’t. My friends and I… we messed up. We went to Vegas, we drank constantly, and somehow we got into no trouble, shenanigans, or near-death situations. The wildest thing I did was spend ten dollars on a bottle of Miller Lite (Thank God it was the vortex bottle or else it would’ve been a total waste).
So let’s forget about what really happened and let me drop some fiction on ya’:

8:00 a.m. We are WIRED. Why are we wired? Oh yeah! We just did cocaine. Who gave us cocaine? Charlie fuckin’ Sheen. He’s passed out. Wait, that’s not Charlie Sheen. That’s Emilio Estevez! We did coke with Coach Bombay!
8:04a.m. Emilio Estevez wakes up and leaves. He signs autographs, but refuses to write “Quack, quack, quack” in permanent marker on my inner thigh. The man has limits. We respect that.
8:15a.m. What to do? Brunch, maybe? NOPE! Brunch is for pussies. Prostitutes!
8:16a.m. One of my friends exclaims, “Yeah, I watched a True Life about prostitutes once! They seem nifty!”
8:17a.m. We beat the crap out of him. Don’t remember if it was for watching MTV or using the word, “nifty.”
8:36a.m. We’re still beating the crap out of him. It’s not even fun anymore. It just feels right. He’s on the ground and hasn’t moved in a while…
8:37a.m. Ohshitohshitohshit, he’s dead! What the fuck, you guys?! “We gotta go to the cops!” “The cops? Are you kidding me? I’m gonna be a fucking senator one day and this dead schmuck isn’t gonna stop me!”
8:38a.m. We agree never to talk about it again.
8:39a.m. We go to 7-11 to treat ourselves to taquitos and slurpees. It’s been a rough morning.
9:15a.m. Someone suggests prostitutes again. We look up the address for the Bunny Ranch. It’s eight hours away.
2:18p.m. We make it in five. Some messed up stuff happens on the way, can’t talk about it. Probably shouldn’t have spilled the beans on the accidental friend murder either.
2:30p.m. Instead of picking our own prostitutes, we decide to pick for eachother. We make a game of it. Who can pick the ugliest?
2:42p.m. We retreat to our respective rooms with our respective prostitutes.
4:02p.m. Simultaneously, we each step out of our prostitute rooms, slyly zipping up our pants. We jinx eachother.
8:15p.m. We arrive back in Las Vegas. This time, we did it in four. We found a shortcut.
8:20p.m. Someone shouts our names on the strip. We turn to see Justin Bieber. That motherfucker.
8:21p.m. I tell the Biebs that the only reason I’m not beating the crap out of him is that I’m in a good mood because he just unjinxed me. He walks away like a coward, but later tweets that I was a coward. This results in an all out war that briefly shuts down Twitter.
9:15p.m. We steal a keg of Natty Ice from a package store, tell the owner “We’re just borrowing it.”
11:00p.m. We finish the keg and toss it in the Bellagio fountain. I feel bad. I really did intend on returning it to the package store.
11:30p.m. We realize we’ve done no gambling yet.
11:57p.m. We put our money on black. All of it.
Midnight We lose. All of it. We finally decide to get brunch. Because we are now losers. And only losers eat brunch in Vegas.

~Don JulianNo Tags