A few years back, a girl I was dating decided she wanted to take a trip. Or, rather, she decided she was jealous because I got to take all these cool business trips (that she told me as we were instant messaging each other while I was sitting in a hotel room in California should’ve told her that my business trips weren’t all they were cracked up to be). Not wanting to bring her along on business – I didn’t like her a whole lot, which you will notice will become a theme in my life – I said, “Fine, let’s go to Vegas,” half kidding. She took it seriously.

So we went (ironically enough the same weekend a few friends would be there for a bachelor party), and there were a few things I discovered – one, Vegas is really expensive. Two, I should never be in Vegas with a significant other. OK, I guess only two things.

Fast forward a few years and that particular girl was two girlfriends and a major dry spell in the past and a pair of friends informed me that they were getting married on Valentine’s Day in Vegas. They’d invited me several times on their Vegas excursions but I was always nervous about money, but when they told me they were getting married, well, I had no excuse.

Problem was a few weeks after I committed to going I started dating someone, and my friends asked me – in front of the shrew – if I would be bringing her. Hmm, gonna be kinda tricky to NOT invite her now, especially since the alternative was that we’d be separated on Valentine’s Day (I know that particular holiday is supposed to mean nothing to guys, but when you’ve spent as many of them alone as I have you tend to take it seriously). So I booked the trip for both of us, but in a sign of things to come, I bought the trip insurance. This was stupid, because I was too dumb to actually read what trip insurance covers, so because I didn’t cause a month-long illness when we broke up, the trip insurance was worthless.

Oh, right. I broke up with her. Over instant message. Not my proudest moment. However, a few days later when we had dinner (she had to come over to get her stuff and I figured that with the way I had broken up with her I at least owed her dinner), she informed me that she had thought about breaking up with me around Christmas, but she decided to give things a little more time.

Me: So when were you going to end things?

Her: After Vegas.

Wow, fuck you. (I really wish I had the balls to say that.)

The thing is that as soon as I ended things, I went from, “Ok, I’m going to Vegas,” to, “VEGAS!!!!!!!”

And so because the two people who got married represent half of the audience for this wonderful blog, I decided that I was going to write an epic blog post. So Mac Linda, this is my wedding gift to you. I’m guessing you’ll be disappointed, so, um…I’ll get you drinks one of these days.

(BTW, I don’t quite get the idea of “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.” I mean, it’s a great marketing plan, but Vegas is like the adult’s Disneyland. Most people are going to do things they wouldn’t otherwise do there, so why wouldn’t you tell people? Unless you murder one of the never-ending children who shouldn’t be there. You probably shouldn’t tell anyone about that.)

So off we go. I’m going to try to do this chronologically, but if not…well, who fucking cares.

Vegas Flights

We had 15 people in our wedding group. All but 3 of them flew out of Detroit, and 2 of them that didn’t flew out of Flint with a connection in Detroit. None of the groups (6 couples and 2 singles) flew on the same flight. I know the airlines are constantly raping their customers – seriously, try to change your flight – but instead of having 47 daily flights from Detroit to Las Vegas, maybe buy a couple 747s, make 2 flights a day and cut down on your costs. Just a thought.

And here’s another thing. A lot has been said about the lack of quality stewardesses (if you find that phrase offensive, fuck off…I’m not typing “female flight attendants” to satisfy the PC fuckers). My theory is that all the women who were hired because of their looks back in the ‘60s and ‘70s still have their jobs, so it’s not that they’re not hot, it’s just that they’re not hot anymore.

And to top it off, because they’re not hot anymore, they tend to be kind of bitchy. This means that when they tell me to turn off my phone during takeoff – which I don’t need to do because half the time I don’t and I’ve never been in a plane crash – they look at me as if I’ve shit in their salad. “Oh, I’m sorry angry hag, I didn’t hear the announcement about turning our electronics off because my headphones were in and I was listening to Lady Gaga…er, I mean, Guns N Roses. And by the way, these noise cancelling headphones kick ass.”

Sorry for the digression there. Anyway, I think that since we’ve now cut down on the number of flights to Vegas, you should load up every flight to Vegas with the most gorgeous stewardesses in the fleet. Hell, hire some of the cocktail waitresses and put them on your flight. You could go so far as having a specific Vegas wing or at least a series of gates.

The minute you get in your car to go to the airport to go to Vegas you’re in a Vegas mood. Hell, I gave an extra $20 to the gas station because I thought I was playing the slots. I say don’t do anything to disrupt that. I understand the need for the TSA gropings, but I don’t want it done by a huge black guy who doesn’t want to do it, especially if I’m going to the happiest place on earth. Hire a couple of strippers to pat down the people going to Vegas and let them take tips. I’d be out of money before I got on the plane.

The trick there is that because everyone is gorgeous on the way to Vegas, everyone on the way back should be hideous. All those angry now-ugly stewardesses who have worked the same job for 30 years should be working the flight. The flight home should be the last example of “your luck has run out”. In fact, send the worst planes in the fleet to take people home. I’m sure there are a fair number of people who wouldn’t mind if their plane home from Vegas crashed and burned.

Ugg Boots

We have entered a fashion vortex that has led to the introduction of Ugg boots. I bet if we called them moon boots, which is what they are, the otherwise attractive women who wear them might think twice about wearing them. I don’t care how warm they are, they look stupid. Apparently the new uniform for girls at MSU is tights and Ugg boots. It’s a good thing all our women are hot. If we were working with the lack of talent in Ann Arbor people would justifiably shoot the woman for ugliness.

Why am I bringing up Ugg boots in a blog about Vegas? Because people in Vegas still wear Ugg boots. Much as I hate them, they are apparently very warm, so I can understand women (women only…I’m talking to you, Tom Brady) wearing them in the freezing cold of Michigan. But no, walk around Vegas and there are halfwits wearing them in 70 degree weather. I was ready to slash some girls’ Achilles all in the name of ruining their boots.

The message, as always…I am a terrible person.

Saturday Night

There’s one phrase you never want to hear. And you really don’t want to hear it from a guy in a room with 4 other people there.

“Don’t fuck the bed.”

We were pre-partying in someone’s room when I had the unfortunate luck of spilling cranberry juice (it was mixed with vodka, but I wasn’t exactly concerned about the clear liquor) on my white shorts. Only someone was in the bathroom, so I couldn’t get up and get a towel. So I took a look around and realized that my best bet was going to be to wipe myself down with something on the bed. I gave a bit of a determined look at the corner of the bed, which our buddy Nick noticed and stopped me with the fateful term.

“Don’t fuck the bed.”

Trust me, hearing that snaps you out of whatever you’re about to do. Well, I would assume so, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard it.

So anyway, we go out to old Vegas. Let me tell you, Swingers may well have ruined old Vegas. Or not, I can’t recall where they were. But damn was it pathetic in that movie. Fremont Street is where we were at. Fun place and wherever we were had $2 shots of Jager (why my friends insisted on adding Red Bull for an extra $2 is beyond me, especially since I was paying).

Thing is, both my buddy and I managed to cock block me on the same woman. When we were ordering the Jager shots, an older woman – not great looking but also not terrible – asked me what Jager tasted like. “Uh, cough syrup, I guess. ”D’oh!” How about, “Uh, cough syrup. Want one?”

Then, a little while later, someone says something to one of the women in our group and Mac takes offense. Oops. Really, who cares about the details, but what it comes down to is that on our first night in Vegas, the cops asked us to leave a casino in old Vegas. Not like they were overcrowded.

But on the way out, the same woman caught my eye and asked me what was going on. Uh, I think my friend is getting kicked out, so I’ve gotta leave. Oh well. Again, if I had a brain I would’ve stuck around and seen where it went. But I don’t.

So yeah, night one…eventful.

The $800 Belt

The groom arrived in Vegas without a belt. He’s a big guy, so it’s not like one of us could just say, “Here Mac, borrow mine.” So he and I head down to the mall connected to Planet Hollywood and wind up at a place called Napoleon, which I believe is located in Los Angeles, New York and Vegas. So yeah, pricey.

We proceed to the belts, and I realize I’m out of my element. Mac forgot a belt for a reason…he doesn’t wear one. I do, so I’ve got some idea of what they cost. They do not cost $800. Seriously, there’s a belt there that cost $800. I’m sure it was made out of snakeskin or some nice alligator lost it’s life for the sake of becoming a belt. Here’s the thing…it was green.

Now, I don’t know much about fashion, but I do know you match your belt with your shoes. I typically buy reversible belts, well, cuz I’m cheap. Black and brown. Simple. When you buy a green belt, you need to have green shoes. I don’t own green shoes, and I’m an MSU fan. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen someone wear green shoes. So basically, you’re buying an $800 green belt just so you can say you’re buying an $800 green belt.

Thing is, Mac spent $70 on his belt. I’ve topped out at about $40, and remember, Mac doesn’t wear belts. If I had known what he was spending before I heard the guy at the cash register tell him, I would’ve told him to go elsewhere. Hell, I was going to tell him we’d go someplace else and return it until I saw a sign saying that they only offered store credit.

So yeah, fuck Napoleon.


I’ll be honest…Sunday was just kind of a blah day until about 5:00. We went to dinner at Battista’s, which apparently is world famous, but, meh. I’ll take it or leave it. I did, however, learn that people don’t know how to cross the street.

Here’s the deal. I spend a lot of time walking in downtown Detroit. I’ve been able to tell when it’s appropriate to cross a street for a long time now. I’ve only been hit by cars twice, and both of them were by those stupid Smart cars (I was fine, the cars were totaled). So I’m really baffled as to why people don’t follow my lead. I crossed the street over to Battista’s and then waited for 3-4 minutes while my friends insisted on waiting for the Walk signal. I knew a guy who got a jaywalking ticket. The way it was described to me it should’ve been called a Don’t Fuck with the Cop ticket.

So anyone reading this, if you see me crossing the street, it’s ok to go. Unless you see a Smart car.

Later that night we go to a hypnosis show. Again, fun, but it was a fake. I know this because 2 people in our party were among the volunteers and they didn’t get hypnotized…they were instead told basically to just go with it. Still, it is interesting to see one woman embarrassed at what she believes is a huge cock and another talking out of her cooch.

Then it’s off to blackjack. We were guests of the world famous Dealertainers at Imperial Palace; this basically means that the dealers looked close enough like celebrities that they could deal cards as if they were the actual celebrities. I’ll be honest. Fergie looked like Sheryl Crow, only Fergie shows more tit, so there you go. Taylor Swift’s lone resemblance to her doppelganger was the curly hair. Gretchen Wilson was Asian. Gloria Estefan was the cooler, so it actually could’ve been Gloria Estefan, I didn’t stick around long enough to notice. Elvis looked sorta like Elvis, but a lot more like not Elvis. The Bret Michaels guy was good though. Then again, I’m pretty sure it was actually Bret Michaels.

Anyhow, over 5 hours of blackjack, I won $5. Others were better off, and I drank and tipped really well over the course of the evening (I think I tipped Miranda Lambert $5 because I shouted after she beat me yet again and she was startled).

Around 4:00 we decided to call it a night. But Nick and his wife Nikki decided they wanted Burger King, so we stopped at O’Shea’s casino only to find Burger King closed. But we also discovered something that defines what Vegas is. Because at 4:00 on a Monday morning, there was a beer pong tournament in full effect. I’m not talking, “This is the last round and everyone is drunk out of their mind and falling asleep.” I’m pretty sure this was what would equate to the Round of 64 in March Madness.

Ah, Vegas.

The Vegas Hooker Cards

As you walk thru Vegas, tons of what are probably illegal immigrants hand out little business cards adorned with naked women and phone numbers that are ads for “escorts”. Well, they’re not actually naked, they actually have stars over all the naughty bits, which is a bit like hearing the edited versions of songs in strip clubs. Anyway, because I was the only single male on the trip, anytime anyone picked up the hooker cards, they handed them over to me. They were fun to sort, collect, etc., although I would’ve liked it a little better if they had numbers on them and I could’ve tried to collect them all. They could’ve made it a scavenger hunt: “Collect all 20 for VegassEscorts and get $20 off your next order.”

The thing is they were a bit unrealistic. They’d give you a card with 2 very attractive women for $99. I might get 2 girls that look like that to come to my room for $99, but it’s going to cost a helluva lot more to get their clothes off. Or, conversely, I could’ve gotten 2 women to come to my room and take off their clothes for $99, but they sure as hell wouldn’t look like that. It would’ve been nice if you could’ve asked the guys handing out the cards for recommendations, but considering they didn’t seem to speak much English it’s probably wishful thinking.

I’m not going to tell you I didn’t think about it, but I figure the hooker option is a last resort, and I was still taking my chances with a girl in our group (didn’t work out, hopefully mostly because I didn’t put a whole lot of effort into it).

But the cards remind me of a big pet peeve of mine with Vegas. The people who unwillingly collect these cards (and don’t give them to me) typically throw them on the ground, which means that there are now tons of cards of naked women on the sidewalk – not to mention a fair number of vending machines filled with books advertising more hooker services. The problem is that there are a ton of children walking around Vegas, so they’re walking around sidewalks loaded up with pictures of naked women that their dads probably wish they could call.

Back in the ‘90s, when Indian casinos popped up everywhere (why do we call them Indian casinos and not Native American casinos…was it part of the deal that we’d give them the right to build casinos in exchange for raping them of their land but we’d have to be able to call them Indian casinos), some asshole decided to make Vegas family friendly. I’d come up with an analogy for this, but it’s late and I’m too lazy to think of one. Anyway, this guy should be shot. Vegas should be adults only. If you’re dumb enough to bring your kid there, they get taken away from you at the airport, because you’re clearly too stupid to know what you’re doing. Find a fucking babysitter or go to Disneyland.

(The bride may not like that bit because one of her friends actually brought her kid to the wedding…oh well.)


I’m not sure that I would say that everything that happened was leading up to Monday, but it was one of the more memorable nights of my life.So memorable, I’m going to offer nothing more than a summary.

  • Slot machines do not a spectator sport make.
  • I’m pretty sure the guy driving the party bus is a serial killer.
  • There’s a baby on our party bus.
  • The bridesmaid from the wedding party behind us was in Swedish Bukkake 14.
  • The bride’s mom is openly hitting on the Elvis impersonator/minister.
  • Zip lining.
  • Why can you zip line and not talk to women?
  • A Lamborghini from Montana?
  • Pissing around the “Welcome to Las Vegas” sign.
  • That definitely looks like something I would order.
  • Losing at blackjack next to David Silva.

Made for a pretty good night.

Going Home

Alas, it must all come to an end, and after failing in my quest to pull an all-nighter before going to the airport (I ran out of chips at 4:15 and didn’t want to go back to the cash machine), I took a 3-hour nap and headed to the airport. And there are just a few thoughts that sprung to my mind at McCarran.

First off, we’re not a particularly attractive group of people. Not the group I was there with, but really people as a whole. The airport strikes me as an area for some of the better-off people in the world – seriously, there are probably tons of people in this country who have never been on a plane. Yet every time I walk through the airport and see a moderately attractive woman, all I think is, “Hope she’s sitting next to me.” Hasn’t happened yet. My guess is if I’m on a plane with 150 people, there are 10 women I’d want to fuck…and I’ve got fairly low standards.

Next, I love a Detroit flight. Not so much the flight itself, but the people on it. There’s a decent smattering of people wearing gear for the Detroit teams. I love the pride our city has. We just had a two minute Super Bowl ad essentially saying, “Yeah, this place is kinda fucked, but we’ve got pride.” Look at an airport gate for a flight to Detroit and I’m guessing you’ll see a fair amount of Lions, Tigers and Michigan gear. In fact, I think this should be a rule. If you’re going home, wear something that says where you’re from. I’m not saying you have to do this if you’re going somewhere, but definitely on your way home. Tell me that wouldn’t be awesome.

Third, go to any gate at any airport in the country and there’s a printer there. Know what kind of printer? A dot freaking matrix. Can you even buy a dot matrix ribbon anymore? I just saw an ad for a laser printer for $60. For the cost of my plane ticket, the airports/airlines could buy 4 laser printers. Imagine how many a first class printer would cost them. And if they’re using dot matrix printers, what are they using for computers? Apple IIe’s?

Fourth, there’s a paging system at McCarran Airport. There are slot machines at McCarran Airport. Guess which one’s louder. Every 3 minutes I’d hear over my awesome noise-cancelling headphones, “Wheel! Of! Fortune!” BTW, I fucking hate Wheel of Fortune and that vapid twit Vanna White. Has there ever been anyone paid more to do less? Other than Charles Rogers?

Sorry, moving on…you couldn’t miss these damn slot machines. What you could miss is the paging system that sounded like a muted version of Charlie Brown’s teacher calling for someone who was probably about to miss a flight to Zimbabwe. Maybe they’ll be able to exchange their ticket for some coins to give to Pat Vanna.

Finally, I was sitting there waiting for my flight when the guy sitting next to me took a phone call. Now, it’s important to note that my brother once dated a girl from Quebec who would have telephone conversations with her mother in French. So he would routinely basically speak what my brother thought was gibberish with the occasional sprinkling in of his name. He found it very distracting.

The only thing I thought about this was that he was dating a girl for 3 years who spoke French and he never learned how to speak the language. But when this guy took the phone call I finally understood. Because he was speaking some Middle Eastern language with the occasional sprinkling of “Motherfucking asshole.” That shit will wake you up. Then again, it might be locational humor.

So that’s it. That’s the Vegas story. Considering we didn’t hit any of cool clubs and I didn’t get laid, I must say we did it right.

And if this blog post disappoints, well, shit, I don’t know what to say.

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