Hotter Vegas Nights!

Vegas 4

"I've already had four!"

- Chris Weisberg deplaning at 11 in the morning.

Saturday left one large dent in my liver.
When I'm finally diagnosed with cirrhosis of the liver, the doctor will point at one of the many large blemishes on my liver and the largest one I will name Saturday.
Normally, after an all-night drinkathon, you take it easy the next day; if only to clear the pallet with junk food and Perrier. But, I was in Vegas, and Weisberg was now in the general vicinity.
Weisberg works nights and rarely shows his face out in the bars these days. Now, no one will ever admit to being happy to see Chris, but, when it's been awhile, and he's loaded, it can be quite an adventure.
It's like having Tang. Sure, it tastes like shit if you drink it daily, but after a long – wait, no, it's not like Tang at all. Chris is an anomaly all unto himself.
With whatever I was rambling about in mind, it's important to remind ourselves that George W. Bush is the biggest scum bag America has known and voting for him IS a character flaw. Nixon would wet himself if he saw the viciousness of this right wing, Christian, bible thump of a Presidency.
Boy, that's like coming.
But, all flatulence aside, where were we?
Vegas.
Scott and Shannon had fled my beer farts early on and I was left alone in the room to receive Chris' multiple calls.
1. "Matt, I'm getting off the plane. I'm four in!"
2. "Matt, I just bought a chocolate bar from a vending machine. Vegas, baby!"
3. "Matt, I'm taking a leak – we're going to get fucked up!"
4. "Natalie, did you pick up Carson's cold medicine? Wait – sorry, hey Eckert – Vegas, baby!"
5. "Matt, I'm hailing a cab."
6. "Matt, my dog just ate some paint balls – what do I do?"
7. "Matt, I'm down in the lobby – Vegas, baby!"
And so forth.
It was now around 11.30 and I knew there was no chance of hanging out with Chris sober. Chris is the Immaculate Drinking Buddy. That's why God put Chris on Earth. He'll drink as much as you, make just as big of an ass of himself, and will not fall into jags of depression that leave you trying to talk him out of suicide.
Now that I have typed that, I'm not sure it makes any sense.
Doesn't matter.
This is a free nation and I can type whatever I want: fuck shit piss cunt fuck shit piss cunt fuck shit piss cunt fuck shit piss cunt

And now a message from Michael Powell, FCC

Oh, Lordeth, you walketh with me in valleys of lycra and velveteen rabbits. You locketh mine enemies in dead bolt veal cage vaults and maketh me to lie down with prepubescent, arrogant Texans where I geteth saddle sore from wrastling with oil soaketh'd cattle rustlers who stuffeth me full of Atkineth dietary supplements of Iraqi flesh. You woo me with country anthems about whateth an American should be, nay whateth he must be. I lie down on this hammock and sucketh lemonade and whilst doing your work. Oh, Lord hear me roar with pride as a smote my enemies and lay them down in thorny brushes where I dawn blackface and do chores in the White House kitchen. Amen.

Chris and I then determined that we would need to procure a case of beer, as the constant charge of 3.75 was putting a substantial dent in my fundage.
Before we embarked, we also determined that we would need a beer for the journey to Wallgreens.
After paying another 3.75, we headed out.
The heat was a mean beast that day, and we had to shelter our lily-white skin from the constant barrage of UV rays. I donned a large Chewbacca outfit, while Chris went with the more trivial tiger costume.
Wait.
Nevermind, that was actually another trip.
Anyway. So, then we walked to Wallgreens.
On the way, Chris decided it was imperative that he patron every 1.99 shop on the way. Apparently, his child wanted, nay, needed a Las Vegas shirt that cost a buck on the opposite end of Vegas.
And Chris needed sunglasses.
Oh, and a tank top that I'm sure his fiancé is using to wash a window as I write this.
"I'm starting to feel it."
This came from Chris. Now, when you're over the age of 17, you don't generally use this phrase when talking about alcohol. Ecstasy – sure. Bud Light – no. I was beginning to think my drinking buddy was not as formable that my later rambling would attest to.
This was around the time Chris and I walked into a dead end out into the middle of the street. I knew Chris was drunk when he ventured to climb a barrier up through bushes to get back to the main sidewalk.
After pulling Tarzan from the brush, we made our way to the sidewalk and I quickly lectured Chris on not getting me arrested for brush climbing.
Back on the concourse, we visited nine shops in search of a "killer deal" on sunglasses.
I'm not big on sunglasses and I don't understand why more people don't choose to squint.
Finally, Chris decided on the sunglasses we had seen an hour early and we were perusing the price of beer at five local merchants. I was adamant that Wallgreens would be cheaper and our journey ended there.
To my chagrin, Wallgreens sold everything BUT beer.
It was at this time I dropped to my knees and screeched "OH, THE HUMANITY."
We purchased beer from a store that also carried a wide variety of things to stab, shoot, spray, dismember, and burn any human that would dare to work at the register of said store.
I'm sure this comes in handy when you're out and about and need to pick up a pack of smokes, some milk, and a belt of throwing stars.
Chris got his glasses and I received a phone call.
It was Josh.
"Matt, we're at Barbary Coast with my Dad and Jim, you guys want to meet us? Dollar drinks-"
I hung up the phone, grabbed Chris by the lapels and shook him violently. "DOLLAR DRINKS!"

Imagine Saturday Night Fever as the following occurs.

Chris walks in, wearing shades, smoke and beer in one hand, and rack of beer over the shoulder like a Van Halen video. I'm surprised we didn't get kicked out for bringing our own juice.
But, when you're shilling out dollar drinks – what does it matter.
After waiting 45 minutes I finally got the waitresses attention. I ordered eleven beers and we sat down and discussed the Belmont stakes....and I just realized I left out Friday.
OK, well, I suppose this journal will now operate like a Quentin Tarrantino movie, with the scenes all screwed around.
Damnit. This is Chris' fault: "When do I make an appearance? When am I going to be in the blog?"
Ass.
Well, with that in mind, let's move to the next scene.

I'm hung over and staring at a penguin. It's 9 in the morning. I'm so hung over that pure screwdriver is seeping from my pores. The penguin mocks me. He squawks obscene gestures and humps a turtle nearby.
The putrid taste of cheap Barbary Coast OJ and vodka is still in my mouth after brushing my teeth nine times. The act of even summoning up this morning is making me sick now. In fact, I just puked on the Guy Who Sits Behind Me. He said "That's cool. I was going to wash this shirt tonight anyway."
A daisy chain of children walked by, and I grabbed one and shook her hard yelling "Don't become like me!"
I was quickly assaulted by the rest of the children who had purchased throwing stars and samurai swords from the liquor store. As the stars hit my belly a noxious gas made of pizza and vodka began hissing out of my body and when I opened my eyes I had killed the entire "Flamingo Garden" population of random animals.
But, most of this is hearsay.
We now cut to the next scene.
Walking into the room, I chanced upon the mirror and found that the pizza had dripped cheese runoff all over my shirt. I sat in my own filth and began eating. Later, Shanna came in and the absurdity of me eating a pizza on a desk with stains all over my clothes while watching CNN out of the corner of my eye hit us like a brick.

Lord. I'm sick. Need to go home. Bored. I have the day off tomorrow. Coffee is cold. Need oxygen, pure oxygen. They sold it in Vegas. Running out the clock. Need to get an hour of writing in. Realize I have no plans for my day off. Must eat Cheetos and watch daytime TV. Play scrabble. Why did I just wish an employee a "good night" at 11.40?

P.S. P.S.