The Fast Food Connoisseur Reviews Burger King’s California Whopper
Originally, I had planned to spend the day penning another entry in my Vegas Vacation series which, by now, is officially longer than The Stand. My designs were changed, however, […]
After enduring ten hours either in an airport or airborne, not to mention staying out until 5:30 am, I went to bed at the end of my first day in Las Vegas expecting to remain passed out until well after noon. Instead, much to my horror and amazement, I found myself wide awake four hours later, a phenomenon that persisted for the remainder of my time out there. Trust me, it’s nothing you can chalk up to the excitement of being on vacation or the energy of Vegas itself, because I normally have all the pep of Steven Wright after a quaalude enema. I think the city government must secretly spike the food and water supply with amphetamines, something I wouldn’t put past them given that the local economy’s in the shitter and you can’t gamble or otherwise hemorrhage money if you’re sleeping.
Since I knew little of the city and wanted to explore it during daylight asap, I got my two travel companions (my brother Will and former college roommate Tony, lest the ambiguity of “travel companions” suggest I was out there with two male lovers) to join me for a walk outside the hotel as soon as they were awake, the three of us agreeing we’d eat breakfast at the first place that looked decent. The walk lasted all of five minutes (long enough to stride past three men drinking Four Loko in 90 degree weather, which had “fantastic idea” written all over it) before I laid eyes upon the Excalibur, which, with its miniature-golf-course good looks, I couldn’t say no to.
An hour and a disappointing $17 buffet later, we were back on the streets, killing time until my uncle and cousin were due to pick us up that evening. Will quickly grew antsy and headed back to the hotel (where I can only assume he celebrated his solitude by furiously masturbating), but Tony and I opted to walk the Strip, drifting from casino to casino and people-watching, which entertained me to no end. There are very few places on Earth you’re going to find so many individuals making such spectacles of themselves because they’re drop-dead drunk by 1 pm, not to mention the average woman in Las Vegas: 1. Makes your high school’s prom queen look like a slampig by comparison and 2. Wears next to nothing because it’s hot as the ovens at Auschwitz-Birkenau outside. You might as well enjoy views like that while you can. (Did I say that bit about the women in the voice of David Wooderson Answer: Yes.)
That evening, my uncle Demetri and his son Jason made their first appearance of the vacation. I love them both dearly, as their side got all the cool genes in the family and my mom, thus, by extension, me, got all the neurotic, dorky DNA. It’s such a drastic difference between her and Unkie D that, if it weren’t for the fact that they were born a year apart, I’d suspect some sort of Julius Benedict-Vincent Benedict experiment took place, whereby one twin was given all of the dominant genes at the expense of the other being granted all the crappy, recessive ones.
My uncle is a tall, thin, charming musician, and Jason is a younger doppelgänger of him. If I were a gambling man, I’d wager J spends 20% of his waking hours inside of vaginal canals. Normally, I’d be too blind with jealousy to appreciate a guy with all he’s got going on, but, given he’s family, I just watch him operate with a smile on my face, thinking, “There has to be a little of that in me, right?” What did my trio manage to get into with these two added to the mix? C’mon, you know the drill. Keep reading and all shall be revealed.
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