Vegas Part Three

Vegas Part II

We change tense as I lost the capability to form words somewhere above Utah.
We're now relying on my memory which is working through neurons soiled by the events in Vegas evermore.

Boredom began to set in on the plane and Scott and I ordered some good old orange juice and mixed in strawberry vodka.
This did little to nothing to sate the ever growing need to not be sitting down. I decided it was time for a good game.
After nine liver insertions, I decided hangman was the only game I could remember and play with any knowledge of the rules.
I began by passing a notebook to Shanna and Scott with such phrases as "We're all gonna die" hiding in the blanks.
Shanna and Scott soon bored me with their lack of putting letters and phrases together and I moved onto the lesbian soccer team sitting next to me.
Yes, and no. It is true that a lesbian soccer team was sitting next to me, but not in the porno sense. No, these lesbians were REAL lesbians; not the girls who make out in a bar to get attention – these were fer real carpet munchers. With that said, it was with great trepidation that I let them join in on the fun. Fer real lesbians have no time for jokes and gimcracks. No, fer real lesbians are all about seriously thinking about ball bearings and soccer. Which is fine if you're passing them a copy of Soldier of Fortune, but when it's a game of hangman on a plane with a drunk, there's a good chance you're going to get your ass beat down.
But, it was with the grace of God that these fer real lesbians were real sports. And what wordsmiths! These women got the game going to the point that I began handing out prizes of vodka.
But, alas, I ran short on vodka and the game had to be stopped.
I put on my headphones and listened to "I'm Afraid of Americans" while looking around the plane paranoid.
As we landed the plane became something like a school bus on the way to a fudge factory. Cat calls and hollers of "Vegas, baby!" began reverberating throughout the plane and I shuddered to think of what kind of trouble I would soon be in; what with these types of maniacs walking the streets demanding fun.
No one should demand fun, and Vegas caters to that idea. Fun is not to be had, fun is to be earned – that's why they hung Jesus up so long ago.
Departing the plane I immediately heard the bells and whistles of manic money machines clinking Medicaid away from the elderly and infirm.
It took me nearly three minutes to get out the door for a smoke.
Outside the air felt like the bottom of a pressure cooker. I lit my smoke by simply waving it in the air.
Inside, I assigned Scott and his pregnant girlfriend the task of retrieving my bags. I had a task at hand, and that task was to shove as much money as I could into the dollar machine in hopes of a jackpot.
There's something that takes over you after about nine minutes of playing the machines. This something is a purely illogical need to get rid of all your money, like some crazy minimalist.
It took Scott and Shanna three minutes of standing beside me sulking before I could be ripped from the maw of rotating dollar signs. I quickly thank them for their help and took my baggage outside and thought about just who I thought I was throwing so much money at a goddamn machine. A good Christian doesn't play these kind of games with money that could be spent on parkas for homeless albinos in Kentucky.
No, only a heathen would attempt to play God with money and simply leave it to chance. Sure, maybe I could have won a million dollars and bought a million parkas, but, no that would be a risk I'm not about to make for my hypothetical, probably never going to happen contribution to Kentucky albinos.
After endless sallies through hotel pickup, we found the first man we would not tip on this adventure. I'd like to think his name was Ed, but I really have no idea. He was a kind man who helped us with our bags and...wait, no, he was a bastard in a real hurry. Cracked up and moody was the state of our driver. He wanted nothing more than to pick us up, drop us off and go do it all over again. He had no time for the card tricks I wanted to show him, the books I wanted to discuss, the love stories I have acquired from endless hours at the zoo.
At the hotel that ugly SPEND YOUR MONEY feeling came over me and I had to down a beer to make it go away. Meanwhile, Scott checked us in and I smoked another cigarette, absently wondering whether you could still smoke in Vegas.
Upstairs we unpacked. The first thing on the trip to piss me off was the refrigerator. Somehow the refrigerator had been stolen! I grabbed Scott by the shirt and twisted. "WHO TOOK OUR FRIDGE!!!!"
I was positive the Bush administration was on to us and had devised a plan to sap me of cold beverages....but, no, it wasn't the Bush administration at all. It was the kind folks at the Flamingo hotel that decided, without notifying me, that refrigerators were not required for the pursuit of fun in Vegas.
But, of course, a safe, blowdryer, and conditioning shampoo were.
BASTARDS!
Where was I to stow the beer I would buy later that evening? What of the leftovers from many a pizza? And where would I place the ice sculpture I planned on stealing from the wedding?