I Survived My Vegas Vacation: Wrap that S Up, B

I’ve decided to free myself of the albatross around my neck that these articles about my trip to Las Vegas have become and summarize the excursion in a series of bullet points. “John,” weeps the ghost of Oscar Wilde, “what a lazy way to conclude your efforts.” And the spectral sodomite would be right. But this site doesn’t pay anything and I just discovered Hoarders is now streaming on Netflix, so I can honestly say I have better things to do with my day than crank out 14,000 words on how much pleasure I derived from watching young alcoholics succumbing to heat exhaustion on Las Vegas Blvd. as they mutter, “Vegas, baby” in between dry heaves.

Las Vegas Strip Clubs Are Fantastic-Normally I despise strip clubs because to pay a woman is to empower her, and really, why burn $30 dollars to have some lackadaisical cokehead grind her petri dish of a cooze on your pants leg for three minutes to the music that I pay Sirius-XM $15 a month not to have to listen to while I drive? So, why the change of heart? Because lap dances in Las Vegas are only $20. It doesn’t take Blaise Pascal to figure out that’s 50% more lapdance for your buck. On top of that, you get to touch the dancers. And I’m not talking, “Oops, did my hand accidentally brush your bosom as you feign excitement at the golf pencil of an erection you just detected in my pants” touch. It’s honk-’em-like-bike-horns-then-work-her-ass-like-an-accordion touching. As if that weren’t enough, strip clubs out there don’t close until 7 am or, in some cases, at all. My eyes have never burned like they did exiting that den of inequity at what felt like high noon. Eric Northman handles the sun with more aplomb.

Buffets in Vegas Are Pretty Good, Too-Sure, there are duds, like the Old Country Buffet equivalent in the basement of the Excalibur, but the Wicked Spoon, located in The Cosmopolitan, was as close to a sexual experience as I’ve ever had while dining. Honestly, as I ate my third plate of dessert, I locked eyes with my friend Tony and felt the need to high-five him because we were essentially Eiffel towering our dinner table. One would think that, when Cal Ripken, Jr. walked onto the field that night he broke Lou Gehrig’s record, it crossed his mind that he’d never accomplish anything so great again. That’s how I felt while eating that meal.

Gambling Doesn’t Suit Me-Don’t get me wrong, gambling is awesome. Until you start losing money. As a “Well, while I’m here” move, I went to Caesar’s Palace (which, thanks to The Hangover, I felt compelled to keep referring to as “Not the real Caesar’s Palace,” fuckyouverymuch Zach Galifianakis) and put $40 on the Mavs-Thunder game taking place later that night. The bet was a straight bet on the Mavs to win teased with an over-under bet on the total points scored that night to exceed 195.5, made at the behest of my friend Joel Goldstein. Imagine my delight as I flipped to the game near the end of the first quarter and saw the score was something like 6-4 in favor of the Mavs. My heart plummeted. I’ve seen higher scoring soccer matches. The only thing worse than losing money gambling is taking an excruciating two hours to lose money gambling. Given the numerous black players on the court, Maverick’s star Dirk Nowitzki’s German heritage and that I made the bet with the help of a Jew, the volume and variety of the racist shit I was screaming at my television was truly staggering. One of the maids must have heard me, because we didn’t get clean towels for the remainder of our stay. Bitch.

Fin.

Tagged as: Las Vegas.