Hot Las Vegas Nights!

Las Vegas 7

"Eckert, we're gonna get fucked up tonight."

- Chris Weisberg

Greetings.
Well, this morning I had the unfortunate experience of being ID'd in the car on the way to work.
Yes, it seems Bubba Clinton will soon be next door signing copies of his new book "My Life" or whatever. There's a line outside the warehouse a few hundred deep. They have the lawn chairs out, the whole bit. I haven't seen anything like it since my ex set up a free fuck tent after I slept with her sister.
There's something about celebrity that even the most cynical cannot deny. Hell, I might even walk over there, telling myself I'm just going to get a hot dog and coke. Meanwhile, deep in my subconscious I'll know that I want to just get a glimpse of a man whose picture is in the dictionary.
Maybe it's just me. I'm not sure.
Sure, I hate the idea of celebrity and how some toolshed is treated like a prince because of this, that or the other thing. But, hell, it's not like I'll ever hobnob with these folks by their own accord. So, yes, I'll walk over at one and see if I can take a gander at the man. See if he's shorter than what you would expect. Maybe meet him.
Yes, I can see it now.
I walk to get a hot dog and a limo almost hits me. The driver comes out to see if I'm alright and then a hand appears out the window, waving me in.
Inside it's Bill. He offers his apologies and we smoke cigars and drink Scotch. We talk about our mothers and just what went wrong in 2000. We share a touching moment as we talk of our memories of 9/11. We trade jokes about the current monkey in office. Bill soon is so moved by my words of peace and wisdom that he offers me a job as a Minister of Peace in his Harlem offices. Soon, I'm on a plane to New York with trashy Alabama women who know how to please the Minister of Peace.
A month later, I'm lighting bottle rockets at the Republican convention with Bill and Ted Kennedy. We get drunk and go to a strip club and end the evening by writing DON'T on Vote Bush posters with a hooker's eyeliner.

But, we still have to end Vegas. I'm, frankly, tired of writing it. I'm sure you're probably tired of reading it. But, damnit, we must end this monstrosity. Why? Why not? Not a lot has happened since then. Sure, I could tell you about the night I was abducted by aliens from the planet Sagittarius and how they extracted "protein" from me to start a super human race of retarded bed bugs on the planet Caligula. But, first we must finish the epic journey that is Vegas.

When we left our heroes, Chris and Matt were in the Barbary Coast drinking dollar drinks with Jack, Josh, and Jim. Jack and Chris made some outrageous bet on Belmont and soon we were off to the hotel.
Chris and I quickly took a garbage can to the ice machine and filled Scott's sink with ice. We then filled the basin up with beers and began drinking heavily.
Josh came in and we began a Hot Tamale fight that left the entire carpet red with Tamale shrapnel.
Scott and Shanna arrived at some point and Scott walked the room like a general looking at his dead soldiers on a beach in France.
Scott is a fag. Plain and simple. If you ever need a killjoy, invite Scott when he's with a woman. If he was on his own, he might have thought it was funny. I don't know. But, I think the responsibility he preens around women damages his character to the extent that he's like hanging out with your grandpa that's seen three wars.
Scott, here's to you: fag!
In the hotel we found Joe had arrived. Joe is the closest I will ever come to celebrity and he is so far off he might as well be on Jupiter. Joe is a model and bit actor. If you squint and press pause you might see him on The View, Guiding Light, and Sex in the City. He usually has some good stories about drunks (the blonde slut on Sex in the City) and bitchy me-bags (Avril Lavine spl?).
He was with his new girlfriend, Rachel. Rachel was cool as hell and somehow put up with Joe's drunken friends. We made our way to the roulette tables and I proceeded to give the casino fifty bucks for no good reason at all.
We then went to the pool.
Woe to you, oh Earth and Sea: like two beached whales Chris and I flipped our enormous torsos into the pool and drank beer with the rest of the wedding party.
At one point a child tried to climb into Chris' belly button thinking it was the kid's pool. It was horrendous. I, myself, was climbed by three small children that thought I was some sort of water slide.
By this point Chris and I had been drinking since 11 and it was now fivish. We were probably 15 in. We decided that it would be imperative to get a nap in and.....somehow I got to my room and slept for an hour or so.
I woke up disappointed that it wasn't the next day. I really wanted to have a good nine hours between me and my next drink. But, that was not to be.
I quickly hammered a beer from the sink and took a shower.
It's important to shower frequently while drinking. It keeps you spry.
It was now onto the Hard Rock Hotel where I began drinking cran and vodka for the good of the people. A bachelorette party ascended on us and needed my boxers for their Wiccan rituals.
This happens a lot. Especially in Pioneer square. I always oblige as it's a good in to talk to lovely women. But, these women were ravenous. Most of the time, these parties will let you change in the bathroom. But, this group wanted my boxers and they wanted them RIGHT THEN AND THERE. What could I say? The women formed a crude wall around me and I dropped trow and boxers.
It wasn't until the next morning that I realized the middle of the Hard Rock was equipped with more cameras than a Japanese tour bus.
Yes, this was the closest I came to being arrested.
And, this wasn't the last time my schlong would see the light of day...or night, as it were.
I believe I blacked out at this point and the next thing I remember I was in the Barbary Coast with Weisberg spilling a drink on a coin machine.
We then adjourned to the outside for a breather when we came upon a crackhead bangin away on a Casio keyboard.
It wasn't that he wasn't trying, I think he just stole the instrument and was playing it the best he could.
I was becoming sick by then and ventured "What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm playing for money."
"Hell of a job."
"Ah, fuck it!" and he ran his hand across the keys and turned the machine off.
Chris came out and inquired after good strip clubs.
Leave it to Chris to ask a homeless person where the good strip clubs are.
"Well, you look like a gentleman, I bet you want to go to the ritzy ones, huh?" He then looks at me. "But, you on the other hand, look like a crackhead."
Yes, it was then that a crackhead called me a crackhead.
He then explained to us how we could get "a ten dollar blowjob from the crackwhores down the street."
We parted company around then.
Inside, we played penny machines.
At one point, I swung my leg up to rest on my other leg and like a puppet with it's string crossed, I brought my hand down in the same motion as my leg and dumped a screwdriver on myself.
We soon got a table for the 1.99 breakfast.
The last thing I remember was staring at two plates of eggs, bacon, and hashbrowns accompanied by toast and six screwdrivers.
I tell you this: I will never drink a screwdriver again.
When I got in, I forgot that I had taken my boxers off and so went to sleep naked.
At some point Shanna got the sight of my whole package.
As she drifted off to sleep she whispered "The horror....the horror...."
Apparently, Scott got a good shot of my ass, and for that I apologize.
No, not really.

Peace.