Sunday, November 29, 2009

Edgar Allen Cheeseburger

p>Vegas 3


- Waiter at Lyndies

After finding we had no fridge, I spent nine minutes reading Revelations in the bathroom. Yes, the seven headed dragons, when they come, will make a stop at the Flamingo for the suffering they have caused me.
Finding myself coming down from the alcohol, I demanded that we meet Josh and Monica down at what would be the most annoying bar in Vegas.
It was called the Island or something geographical like that. Apparently the tropical theme got mixed up with South America in general and Marta from Scarface (scary looking chick on bed with Uzi) worked (for lack of a better word) there.
Marta was great at taking nine hours to deliver a drink and give you that phony small talk for a tip that only gorgeous blondes can get away with.
"How is your stay? Win any money?" This is up there with those fucks who say "ahhhh, another Monday" in the elevator at work.
Down at the Island we met up with the soon to be wed and Monica's (forgot relationship) and her husband.
I have absolutely no clue what we talked about, but I remember ordering a drink....then another....then it was on to Margaritaville.
Which brings me to my


So, my brother-in-law's half-sister's, this one dude knows this one guy who works at the Metropolitan Grill in Seattle. Apparently, Buffet came in and got food and then ordered a margarita. But, not just any margarita, he ordered the one that was mixed with his PERSONAL mixing shit.
What an ass.
So, the waiter explains that they don't have it (like they probably don't cook pasta dishes with Newman's Own) and Buffet flips a burger and rages at the staff. Then, he leaves without paying for his meal.
Well, I guess the owner's called up Buffet's handlers and told them he's banned from the restaurant.
This story would make more sense if Buffet was in a Taco Bell, but anyway.
That's my Jimmy Buffet story.

Back to Vegas.

Margaritaville is a Jimmy Buffet-themed restaurant/bar/nightclub. Let me say that one thing again: Jimmy Buffet-themed.
So, we got a table and began to drink. Somewhere along the way we lost track of the bill and I have a feeling Scott and I purchased everyone's drinks numerous times.
So, Monica, Josh, Cori, one dude: please send your money to Matt Eckert at 7431 Evergreen Terrace with a self addressed envelope – I'll send you a recipe.
Anyway. Soon, dancing ensued. I'm not much of a dancer, but felt that I should somehow entertain Monica and Josh, rather than stare blankly in an alcoholic stupor like usual.
So, I got up and pretty much pretended I was a member of AC/DC at some benefit for three-headed toad monkeys. You know, the jumping up and down, swaggering, pointing at each member of the dancing floor and shouting "PARTY" like an overweight Sammy Hagar.
I have a feeling the joke was lost on most, but not I or my comrades.
This lasted a couple of minutes as three consecutives heart attacks hit me like hot coals and Monica rushed me to our table and began feeding me rum until I stopped vomiting blood.
Some other stuff happened that I don't remember and ....oh, yeah, and then this asshole DJ announced a "rump shaking" contest. Apparently, this was gender biased cuz he totally gave me the "not you, sir" brush off when I tried to hobble all 200 pounds of my nasty visage onto the stage.
Hey, DJ-Bastard – I got your number, punk!
Leaving the club, we decided to venture.......Christ, I don't know.... but, we pretty much just walked around Vegas where I (literally) went up to everyone we passed on the street and said "WE'RE IN VEGAS, BABY!" or "HOW ABOUT VEGAS?!" or "WHERE"S LOST VEGAS FROM HERE?!" and other asinine remarks that scared the piss out of people from all nations.
Towards the end of my memories of that debacle I ran into a Kiwi from Issaquah.
They were looking for a club and I noticed the dude had an accent and asked where he was from.
Small world?
No, no, not at all.
This only proves that Issaquah (small town outside of Seattle) is so fucked that it holds the world's population in its Mayberry -sized township.
I lived there and it takes (literally) a half hour to drive two blocks in the fucking traffic.
Fucking Issaquah, who needs it.
More stuff happened that I forget and I found myself stumbling towards the diner in the Flamingo.
I had a mission to eat an omelet and come hell or a stubborn waiter, I was going a cheeseburger in a bathroom.
Yes. I sat myself down in the diner and figured out two things: I needed to eat and I needed to pass out. Well, Vegas is Vegas and I figured passing out in a restaurant is a sure way to end up on CSI or whatever that dumb ass show is.
So, I nixed the idea of actually eating IN the diner for fear I'd pass out, only to be wheeled away to the coroner – my heart stops for 50 minutes around four every morning.
So, I grabbed a menu and ordered a "beer and an omelet – to go."
So, for those of you looking for take-out in the Flamingo Lyndies
WAIT – I JUST HAVE TO COMMENT REAL QUICK – guy who sits behind me just licked his fingers and combed his hair with them in the window. Lord, by and by make it stop.
Back to our story: I'll let you know this – you can order buffalo wings, nachos, and potato skins to go. But, you CANNOT order an omelet to go. The reason? Fuck if I know.
So, I ordered a burger, drank the beer and stumbled to the elevators where a thought dawned on me – where the hell am I going to eat?
Scott and Shanna were asleep, meaning the lights were out and such. Well, they were being sports and not having sex while I was in the room, so I didn't want to give any ill will by waking them up.....what was a fat ass with a burger and a diseased liver to do?
Normally, I would turn on the TV and eat on the bed...but, now?
I couldn't even turn on a light.
So – you guessed it, I committed suicide.

No, I ate in the bathroom. It was the only place where I would not disturb them...and it had lighting.
So, there I was at four in the morning, staring at my reflection in the mirror as I ate a burger. By the time I ate the pickle the absurdity of the situation racked me with fits of laughing that I quickly stifled with a handful of fries.
Throwing the empty burger tray into the closet, I collapsed on my bed and woke five hours later.

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