I’m going to Vegas this weekend, and while I’d like to follow guy code and pretend I know everything there is to know about Vegas, the fact of the matter is I’ve been there a grand total of one time, and deserve to have the word MARK written in red oil-based paint on my shirt when I touch down on the tarmac.
Five years ago I came for my own bachelor party. One story in particular stands out. There were 10 of us waiting outside the Hard Rock for a cab one night, but the cab line was miles long. So a big black guy who went only by the name of Seven came up to us. He did not look like George Costanza’s son.
Seven explained to us that he could give us a ride, and then gestured over to a very large Hummer limo.
Keep in mind there were ten of us here. One of my friends (or me) could have piped up at any time and said, “I’m not sure this is a good idea,” and we probably would have realized it. But no one did, and everyone was shitfaced, so we all got in.
I don’t know if all Hummer stretch limos are created equal, but if so, they’ve got a lot of room for improvement. There were two long banquettes of seats and a black light. No one touched the minibar out of fear that a glass of Chardonnay would run $7,500. We asked Seven to find us some ladies for the evening. After ten minutes of driving, we seemed to be well outside the city limits. The highway was pitch black, and the limo driver had cranked up The Prodigy on the stereo system so high that I could actually feel the sound passing through my sinus cavity. I immediately pictured in my head our final destination: Nicky Santoro's death scene in “Casino”. I was hoping not to buried naked.
Me: I think we’re all about to die.
Instead, the limo pulled up in front of Cheetahs. Only I got out of the limo. The others were told to wait. Before entering the club, Seven turned to me:
Seven: Now don’t talk to any of the girls about our business while we’re in the club. Just pick two you like and I’ll hook you up.
Me: (retarded) Okay! That sounds great!
We headed into the club. Seven grabbed one girl.
Seven: You like her?
Me: She’s okay. Can we keep looking?
Me: Okay. She’s great! When can she meet us back at the hotel?
Stripper: What are you talking about?
Seven then pulled me aside and castigated me for bringing up our business in the club. I apologized. He pointed out two more girls. I said okay. We got back in the limo and were driven back to Mandalay Bay. We got out. My friend Farooq (not his real name, but he is Muslim), paid Seven $700 cash in advance. Seven told us to go wait in our rooms.
We sat around the room for a solid two hours until someone said:
Someone: Uh, I don’t think they’re coming.
Everyone Else: Oh! It was a scam! We get it now!
But at least he didn’t kill us. I felt very lucky in that regard.
The rest of my trip there didn’t go to waste. There was a French hooker in a g-string in the cabana next to us one day at the pool. I didn’t have to pay for dinner at China Grill. I made a futures bet on a Vikings Super Bowl win that had no chance of winning. I actually made it to the main part of Ghostbar after waiting in 17 separate lines to get in. Once there, a woman came up and said hi to me.
Me: I’m getting married next month!
Hooker: Well, you can always use a good ho.
Me: Yes! That is true! (doesn’t know what else to say)
I tried craps, only to end up throwing the dice off the table twice, which I hear is a bit of a party foul. I studied the rules of that game for five hours on my flight over. It still baffled me. I got so drunk each night that I began talking to my own shadow. And I made $80 at the blackjack table while having this strategy chart out in front of me like the little girl I am. The Pit Boss came over and made fun of me for it. Well, fuck that guy. I made $80. I AM A GODDAMN WHALE, YOU FAT PIG!
So all in all, not a bad trip. What does this go round have in store? You’ll just have to find out next week, dicksmacks.