My Vegas Opus is a work in progress, but while I crunch the numbers on my Fegonomic analysis of our trip, I figured I'd get my prose back out into cyberspace with a running monologue while I watch this week's episode of the "Real World."
Scene 1
- Ah yes, there's always that one episode of every season that begins with a "State of the Messiness" montage of the house. This year the 3.5 women of the house seem to be the lazy culprits. A bit surprising, but I've never lived with females before and have seen some messy ass rooms in my day so maybe I shouldn't be so surprised.
- Wow, it's early on and now we already have our Magnavox "Moment that Makes Me Glad I Have a DVR"
JD is making some sort of chore flyer so that the chores of the house can be equitably divided. It reads:
"BROOKLYN ROOMIES
SOME TIME TODAY (SATURDAY) OR SUNDAY IF YOU CAN PICK ONE OF THE FOLLOWING CHORES AROUIND THE HOUSE THAT WAY IT IS A CALABRIATED EFFORT INTO MAKING OUR PIER 41 HOUSE CLEAN, NO CHORES WILL BE ASSIGNED TO ANYONE IN THE HOUSE NOTHING WILL BE ASSIGNED TO" and it stops there.
Now, I realize he hasn't proofread it or completed it and I'm no Bill Shakespeare, but this is the man who a mere episode or two ago was lauding his college education and denigrating Devin for dropping out. I'm not by any means interested in defending Devin's intelligence or honor, but "calabriated?" What were you even trying to say? Collaborative? That can't even be defensible as a typo, you just flat out don't know what you're saying. Let's just say if Dan from Miami is the Michael Jordan of intelligent gay men on the "Real World" and we're looking for his successor, JD is more Harold Miner than Dwyane Wade.
- JD is super excited about his cool gimmick. It's so cool and easy! The coolest way to do it! Cool! Baya isn't buying what he's selling. She says she "loves it" and then proceeds to trash it in the confessional booth. Bitch.
- Hearing Katelynn using words like "subscribe," "phenomenon," and "practicality" to try to sound like an intellectual makes me cringe more than I would imagine seeing "her" genitals would. Ok maybe not, but still it makes me uncomfortable.
Scene 2
- Supermarket webisodes...oh graaayyyt.
- Not surprisingly, Chet gets them fired for his obsession with "Just the tip."
Since this is the first time I've written about this iteration of America's favorite reality show, I'd like to take a moment to expound on Chet. The guy is all over the map. First impression, I actually felt bad for the guy. His Mormon upbringing had him snuggled up in the back corner of a Mariah Carey sized closet. (Come on, I know you've all seen that cribs. Bitch wouldn't show us that piano!) Butters and I would sit and watch the first few episodes and extract the lion's share of our enjoyment from Chet's ambiguously (guyliner to attract chicks) or unambiguously (the song - clip not available) gay moments. He was simultaneously infuriating because of his immature ignorance and his insistence on getting involved in other people's business. Also, his game with Scott's friend was a "first episode of the pick up artist" level attrocity.
Then, he was pretty decent with his interviews of Rete Rentz and some other band. Respect. Then, he tried to get tickets to TRL - his stated dream job was to host the (canceled) MTV late 90s early 00s staple. Moronic. Really, Chet? That's your dream job and you didn't know it was canceled? I hope the Grundle Bug is right and this is all an act. Otherwise, I'll chalk this idiocy up to your Mormon-ness. Really, nothing would surprise me at this point. Chet's in the laid off man's (too soon?) "Tyson Zone".
- JD and the ugly short-haired one (Ed. Note: Sarah) fight. Yawn.
Scene 3
- Ryan's going to film school to become "the next Spielberg." Color me skeptical. I'll give it to him though, he's putting himself out there with the music, his book, and now the film. Getcha artsy on.
- A key piece of evidence in the Chet: Undercover Fego investigation. He laughs after he claims to not be surprised that he was chosen to have a more demanding role in Ryan's 30 second film. So he is capable of facetious fegocity. Noted.
- Here, in its entirety, is everything going through aspiring actor Scott's head as this short film was...filmed: "
"
Glad we could get that inside peak.
Scene 4
- JD's chore plan is kind of lame, but these girls refusing to attend a meeting about it is just petty. I don't really like anyone in the house all that much at this point.
Ok, at this point my DVR decided to delete footage as I watched so I only have a random smattering of thoughts for the rest of the episode.
- Scott finally brings something to the table and hides the car keys. Bitches deserve it.
- This week's "Joke of the Week Made by a Tranny" sponsored by Right Guard is (paraphrased) "They are trying to bate me into this argument. They are really good at it. They are 'master baters.'" Well played, Katelynn.
- Oh here comes a house argument. I bet this is when JD smashes the table. You know, from the clip they've been showing since the preview show.
- Yep, smashed.
- Everything's cool again. Of course that means we get the gratuitous "Scott working out" scene. I wonder if these core exercises he does improves agility.
- JD once again calls the house a "family." I don't have the credentials to begin psychoanalyzing this.
- Katelynn, you are not a luxury cruise liner.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Quantifying Vegas
As I settled back into the real world, I knew I would be asked at least a dozen times, "How was Vegas?" That's an absurd question. Answering that kind of question requires a committed conversation, a storytelling session with a captive audience, or something of that ilk. You can't just be like, "Oh it was great, I lost a few hundred bucks but I nearly did coke off a stripper's ashya. See you at lunch!"
Needless to say I needed to come up with my stock answer that provided enough truth without explicity giving anything away. I settled on, "It was everything Vegas should be." And it was; it really was.
Of course, I can't keep it all to myself so I'm gonna throw my version of a recap into the Fegonomics pot. Since exposition is too hard, I'm also going to use a gimmick a la Mahktar.
We're of the empirical sort here at Fegonomics, so I'm going to use my recap to quantify our trip into a tidy number. Each of my memories will be plugged into my patented "Vegas Utility Metric" and will come out as a discrete positive or negative value. This is especially fitting because with Vegas there are few gray areas aside from the legality of available endeavors. Either something is decidedly awesome or it'll leave you some combination of bummed and creeped out. For instance: hot streak on the craps table - good. Getting badgered about club free passes by a worn out, over the hill Roller Girl - yuck. I haven't decided what that number will be used for, but I don't want to be like the major sports leagues and not record blocks and sacks just because it seems irrelevant now.
(note: I completely ripped this off of NY Mag's recaps of gossip girl. And yes, I realize I probably could have gotten away with not disclosing that information and come out looking less fegoscious, but as my 11th grade English teacher, Mr. Perry, would say...such is life.)
Our Digs: +7
The last time I was in Vegas with Mahktar, Dream, Oden, and Butters we stayed at the Las Vegas Club Casino. The moment you walked in you felt the second hand smoke. It was as if the oxygen systems used to pump life into the weariest of gamblers was replaced by a collection of chain-smoking, blue-haired grannies from Del Boca Vista pulled from the Wayne Newton ticket line. The clientele looked like the people in that first Vegas scene in Swingers. If I wasn't still in college, I would have felt old.
Moving to Planet Hollywood on the strip was just the right move for the karma of the trip. Newish casino, young crowd, plenty of ventilation. The right kind of environment that will lead you to look at your watch wondering it's time for dinner and seeing that it's approaching 4am. Instead of being next to the Girls of Glitter Gulch (Zounds!!!) it neighbored Paris and the Bellagio. We stayed in a basic room but it just felt sleeker. We had a plasma screen and some modern furniture. Minor stuff, but the room on a Vegas trip is really just used to set the mood for your day/night's adventures. And, of course, to provide the necessary venue for the token 6-way with a girl you get from one of those pamphlets the fine street salesmen hand out with numbers like 1-900-B-I-G-G-U-R-L on them. Which reminds me...
Street Urchins: -5
Walking down the strip during the day is a gauntlet of workers with questionable legality trying to hand you hooker brochures. We had the inevitable discussion about how much these people could possibly get paid for standing there and successfully handing out their pamphlet to one out of at least every 50 people. Guesses ranged from minimum wage to 1.50 an hour. Our favorite cab driver, previously mentioned by Mahktar, later settled it with the true answer: Nothing. (Unless you receive services from his girl) That's depressing. I informed my compatriots that they had the right to shoot me if my life devolved in such a way that resulted in me holding that occupation. Just a poor existence. I'd feel worse if they didn't all somehow have iPhones.
Blackjack Dealers: +25
I love blackjack dealers. They are one of my top 5 favorite vegas fixtures (Neither Sigfreid nor Roy occupies any of the other 4 spaces). It's hard to be lukewarm on a dealer. Either you love them or you hate them. Surprisingly enough, when I ran my regression analysis of the dealers I loved and hated, the correlation between money won or lost and my opinion of the dealer was not statsitically significant. My valiant, 150 dollar run on the last night of the trip that only left my grave 3 feet deep was made against a Spencer Pratt level twat. Some Eastern European guy who refused to smile and was called a "son of a bitch" by Dream. Then, the guy tried to pick a fight with Dream, attempting to escalate the exchange so that my man would be thrown out. F that noise. Luckily, Dream played it drunk by pretending not to hear the guy and the danger subsided for a moment there.
Just for fun let's run down the list of my top 3 favorite dealers.
3. Adam at Bill's gambling hall.
A Polish man with a never-subsiding smile. He even laughed at our lightweight babaayy outbursts and high-fived us when we got BJ. Bonus points awarded because I remembered him from the trip I made on my 21st birthday. Just the epitome of the good vibes dealer who wants you to win. The only dealer I tipped the whole trip.
2. Shui.
Shui came early on in our trip at another low-rent casino (we got jobs, but we ain't comp candidates yet). We were yapping it up with the guy and pronouncing his name like the reliable middle reliever in Major League 2. Of course, Mahktar is embarassed by us (he wasn't used to our role as casino jackasses yet), which is coupled with his need to defend every Asian guy from Saw. "Guys, it's "Shwee". First of all, who cares? Shooey is cooler and he doesn't seem to mind. Second, we asked him how it was pronounced and it was indeed the fun way. So, we got to laugh at Mahktar's expense while we all made some dough...good times.
1. Sophal.
I'm pretty sure I lost a considerable amount when Sophal was dealing. Feel free to correct me in the comments, but I think she was the starting pitcher in the Great Analyzation of 2009. Regardless, she was/is my Cambodian dream girl. It would take a far more eloquent man to adequately describe our fair Sophal but I'll put it this way. She was a combination of Ms. Swan, Tia Carrere, a bubbly anime character, and Vanessa Marcil (body type). Mahktar was enchanted enough to be drawn to Bill's Gambling Hall simply to wave hello to her (which we both wussed out on like giggling school girls. Not our finest moment.)
Laughing so hard I got a nose bleed, and there wasn't even any coke involved: +50
Not my story to tell.
Dexter: +15
Most notable celebrity sighting not involving the Olsen twins: -3
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Fego Goes West: Get Money Get Paid
Disclaimer: This is a freeflowing post that occassionally touches upon mature subjects, so a lot of links are NSFW.
So we've been a little delinquent in making a post about our trip to Vegas, but I've succumb to the constant peer pressure by Charles Haley's big unit, and decided to take an initial stab at it. In lieu of a Simmons-esque Vegas diary, I'm going to go the John Lennon/Yoko Ono route and get experimental on you jabronis. In honor of the Academy Awards, here's an Oscars-style awards list of the highlights of Vegas (Using the common award name formula, these accolades would be called the "Veggys" but we'll call 'em the "vaggys" cuz I like the sound of that better).
The Envelope please...
The Vaggy for biggest table jerk goes to....
(Tie) In Oden We Trust/Fegonomist/Makhtar N'diaye/It Was All A Dream/Butters and Fete Fentz
I don't know if the other guys will own up to it, but the five of us were a monkey finding a time machine at the craps tables -- completely overwhelmed, confused, and constantly making obnoxious noises.
Craps is by far my favorite casino game because it is inherently collaborative. There's nothing better than being the shooter and catching fire. Guys will constantly give you fist pounds, and girls will come up and dome you out to renumerate you for netting them a little extra pocket change. However, I think our contingent took the team sports concept of the game a little too far. Whenever the shooter would hit the point, I would get in my best ump stance, and yell "Striiiiiiiiiii" to the entire table (gun hand motions included). The rest of our guys would go crazy, too, acting like they've just seen this....or that they were Gus Johnson in this clip. Everyone else at the table would then give me a blank look and quietly collect their winnings.
Equally annoying was our tendency to yell out random incantations to educe the shooter to roll a certain number. This essentially devolved into us putting a new spin on our most annoying verbal tics. "Lightweight, baby" became Light-eight baybayyyyyy. The "Noice" guy's "Aw sick" became "awwww six" and Noice transformed into "Aw noine noine noine". Needless to say, it was pretty clear that it was amateur hour whenever we were at the tables.
That being said, I don't think that our transgressions were any worse than the emo poster child we saw at the Bill's gambling hall. Obviously a denizen of the emo/hipster lifestyle, we deemed this Fall out Boy wannabe, Fete Fentz (Fake Pete Wentz). Mistake #1: buying in for $20 bucks at the blackjack table. Mistake #2: obviously having no idea of how to play blackjack. Mistake #3: Do not talk about fight club. Truthfully, whenever we were playing, we had a vendetta against the other people at the table, but this kid was a piece of shit. He lucked into getting 21 after hitting like 7 times, the problem was, it took FOREVER for him to realize it. I could just the chimp with an abucus in his brain, trying to sum up 3+3+2+6+3+4. So, writing this, it sounds like we held an irrational grudge against this guy. What your forget is A. I really like hating people for no good reason. And B. We were ready to stomp this guy out Tupac style. Luckily he struck out in 4 successive hands, and got the hell out of Dodge before we could go east coast/west coast rivalry on him.
Biggest Disappointment of the trip was....
So, I bought one of the guys a tag-team lap dance at the streeep tease. I guess the concept was that these two mejicana performers were do his di-ack like the Hyenas did to Scar, just TEAR that dick apart (at the very least, I thought that they were going to go ass to ass [super NSFW]). What really happened, at least from what he says, was some pretty weak sauce. Just a bunch of eskimo kisses and lighthearted banter between the girls. I dropped $40 on that shit?
Don't feel too bad for this guy, because in the same night, he also had....
Moment of the Trip (Strip Club Category)
So apparently, after chatting up this stripper, Heather, at the after hours joint we went to, this person to be named later (PTBNL) got the lap dance of a lifetime. Granted, there was some hood rat shit going on at this place as it was--by far the dirtiest lap dances I've ever experienced, but this guy went for a RIDE. I got a dance from Heather, so I know that she demands that you smack her ass as you're getting a dance. Of course, PTBNL obliged, but at the same time, he quasi-sexily said "I bet you let all the guys do that". Her Response: "Yeah, but I don't let all them do this"--> and proceeds to stick her tongue down his throat. Now, unlike porn, I don't have an encyclopaedic knowledge of strip clubs, but outside of Brady from season 1 pick up artist, I've never heard of someone hooking up with a stripper. That's service with a smile.
Oh yeah, she also propositioned him to do get all coked up and doped up with him backstage. Unfortunately, he didn't follow through. Shit, that was the closest any of us got to going all gonzo (NSFW) in Vegas.
Most Unsettling Taxi Cab Confession goes to....
that sketchy cab driver that gave us a ride back from the Plaza.
Now, I'm used to the cabs in Boston. (i.e. I expect my cabbies to be austere Ethiopian immigrants who talk on their bluetooth headsets the entire ride), but I knew that these Vegas guys were going to be a different breed. I don't really know how to explain this guy except to say that he was acting like me during the walderness party where I hooked up with the lowest rated prospect in the land. Homey seemed straight up drunk.
First off, he was definitely getting all herky jerky behind the wheel on the highway. But the most distinctive tell of this guy was his jarring, unintelligible manner of speech. I think part of this was the fact that he knew that he was in the company of five young, virile human individuals, and was trying to tell the funniest stories he had, leaving himself in fits of laughter. That's all and good. People can laugh at their own jokes and stories--I'm the king of entertaining myself. But imagine someone with a full frontal lobotomy chortling to themselves and trailing off on every sentence...with lots of elbow jabs thrown in.
Miraculously, we were all able to piece together some of the anecdotes this guy was telling us. Apparently, he was involved with some sort of ride/dome exchange with some fresh-faced Ashley Dupree wannabe. Basically, this girl would call him up, and he'd pick her up and drive her to the desperate slob who was retaining her services....I'm not sure what he got in exchange, it was either a cut of her earnings, or the chance to go all Peter North on her belly. Anyway, he started talking about how this nubile young coed was all put off because, throughout the course of their gentlemanly arrangement, he'd never tried to piledrive her. He started making jokes about how he was too old to get his di-ack teased by this girl, which led to this really awkward exchange where I kept on making jokes about his impotence. I'm pretty sure I started throwing around the term "boner stipend"....yeah, ok, I don't really know how to play along with people making bawdy jokes. (Sidenote: I somehow doubt this guy's story as he looked like a cross between that piss-soaked homeless guy who wanted to fight me on the T and this guy):
The most annoying trend of the trip was.....
Constantly getting carded. Everywhere. What can I say, the Fegonomist and Oden we Trust are baby faces (Both in the wrestling, and actual sense).
The Vaggy for hottest white trash goes to......
Danica Patrick. I know, not Vegas related, but I just wanted to get that squared away. MORE:
Dumbest Exchange of the trip was....
We stayed at the Planet Hollywood, which turned out to be one of the best decisions we made the entire trip. One of the big value added pieces of the hotel is the fallaciously named "Pleasure Pit". Basically, this is an "Adults Only" section of the casino floor replete with pole dancers (who don't strip) and dealers dressed in pink negligees. In theory, this sounds great, but upon further examination, the concept is inherently flawed. Girls who want to pole dance and walk around in underwear, but lack the physical gifts to work the pole? Yeah, most of these girls ended looking like this girl, possessing the potential to be hot, but having some sort of deer in the headlights glaze that makes my johnson completely flaccid:
Anyway, one of the nights Butters is able to work his magic and get us onto the list at Tryst, the club at the Wynn (which is simply epic, by the way. The place was a hybrid indoor/outdoor club with a huge waterfall as the centerpiece). After doing a few rep's of Faderade, we headed to the casino floor. The Fegonomist forgot something in the room, so he and It Was All a Dream head back to the room, leaving the three of us in the Pleasure Pit. Earlier in the trip, I had noticed that one of the Pleasure Pit dancers had a tiny tramp stamp tat. I started my approach by waving at this girl with a vigor unseen since Forrest Gump jumped off his boat to greet Lt. Dan. She meekly waved back to the hulking, mute-drunk Asian guy from Saw.
Emboldened by my Popov Vodka fever dreams, I brazenly approached this go-go girl while she was unenthusiastically gyrating, leading to this exchange:
Me: "Hey, nice tramp stamp....what is it?"
Dancer: "It's the Japanese character for "Dance."
Me: *Raising Hand* "I'm Japanese."
...then I stumbled away. What can I say, ever since I've read "The Game," I've been money with the ladies. Speaking of which.....
Best Unfaithful Reenactment....
I'll be the first to admit it, I love an older woman, especially an older woman at a club. There's nothing better than a woman with latent sexual desires that can't be satisfied by her lightswitch husband. Nobody embodied this ideal better than Diane Lane in Unfaithful. She was hot in the early 80's in "The Outsiders." She was hotter in the 90's in whatever the fuck movie this was. But she was Super, Scintillating, SENSATIONAL in Unfaithful (All ridiculously NSFW). Given this precedent, I've made it my categorical imperative to bag an older lady. Vegas seemed as good a place as any. This led to some trouble.
While we were at Tryst, we decided to break up into splinter cells to divide and conquer the cloob. It Was All a Dream and I starting dancing with some pretty women who looked like they were within a standard deviation of our age. Still engulfed in the Faderade haze, I fail to realize that It Was All a Dream only danced with them for a couple songs before moving on. Stranded on my own, and lacking the motor facilities to move onto greener pastures, I just lurked on these women for what seemed like 3 hours. Somewhere along the way, I started dance talking to one of the older looking members of their group. Think a juiced-down Brenda James minus the D cups and perfect Aiss.
During the course of the conversation I was able to glean these nuggets from her: 1. She's 43 years old. 2. She has a 15 year old daughter. And 3. She's in Vegas with some old high school boyfriend that she reunited with on facebook (but I don't think that they were boning). Anyway, by the way that she's talking to me, I get the sense that she's digging the power dynamics and the "this is so fucked up, but I'm going to let my poos do the decision making" aspect of being hit on by a guy literally half her age. After talking to her like a broken muppet for the bulk of the night, the other guys finally find me, they're impatient and trying to book it to a streep tease. Under ordinary circumstances, I would have said that it was very nice to meet her, then given her an ass-out hug. However, we were in fucking Vegas, so I said "Fuck it, we'll do it live!," and asked for her number. Her response: "I could be YOUR MOTHER, get out of here!"
I haven't seen a denial that vociferous since these:
Long story short, this is life. This isn't Maxim Magazine.
So we've been a little delinquent in making a post about our trip to Vegas, but I've succumb to the constant peer pressure by Charles Haley's big unit, and decided to take an initial stab at it. In lieu of a Simmons-esque Vegas diary, I'm going to go the John Lennon/Yoko Ono route and get experimental on you jabronis. In honor of the Academy Awards, here's an Oscars-style awards list of the highlights of Vegas (Using the common award name formula, these accolades would be called the "Veggys" but we'll call 'em the "vaggys" cuz I like the sound of that better).
The Envelope please...
The Vaggy for biggest table jerk goes to....
(Tie) In Oden We Trust/Fegonomist/Makhtar N'diaye/It Was All A Dream/Butters and Fete Fentz
I don't know if the other guys will own up to it, but the five of us were a monkey finding a time machine at the craps tables -- completely overwhelmed, confused, and constantly making obnoxious noises.
Craps is by far my favorite casino game because it is inherently collaborative. There's nothing better than being the shooter and catching fire. Guys will constantly give you fist pounds, and girls will come up and dome you out to renumerate you for netting them a little extra pocket change. However, I think our contingent took the team sports concept of the game a little too far. Whenever the shooter would hit the point, I would get in my best ump stance, and yell "Striiiiiiiiiii" to the entire table (gun hand motions included). The rest of our guys would go crazy, too, acting like they've just seen this....or that they were Gus Johnson in this clip. Everyone else at the table would then give me a blank look and quietly collect their winnings.
Equally annoying was our tendency to yell out random incantations to educe the shooter to roll a certain number. This essentially devolved into us putting a new spin on our most annoying verbal tics. "Lightweight, baby" became Light-eight baybayyyyyy. The "Noice" guy's "Aw sick" became "awwww six" and Noice transformed into "Aw noine noine noine". Needless to say, it was pretty clear that it was amateur hour whenever we were at the tables.
That being said, I don't think that our transgressions were any worse than the emo poster child we saw at the Bill's gambling hall. Obviously a denizen of the emo/hipster lifestyle, we deemed this Fall out Boy wannabe, Fete Fentz (Fake Pete Wentz). Mistake #1: buying in for $20 bucks at the blackjack table. Mistake #2: obviously having no idea of how to play blackjack. Mistake #3: Do not talk about fight club. Truthfully, whenever we were playing, we had a vendetta against the other people at the table, but this kid was a piece of shit. He lucked into getting 21 after hitting like 7 times, the problem was, it took FOREVER for him to realize it. I could just the chimp with an abucus in his brain, trying to sum up 3+3+2+6+3+4. So, writing this, it sounds like we held an irrational grudge against this guy. What your forget is A. I really like hating people for no good reason. And B. We were ready to stomp this guy out Tupac style. Luckily he struck out in 4 successive hands, and got the hell out of Dodge before we could go east coast/west coast rivalry on him.
Biggest Disappointment of the trip was....
So, I bought one of the guys a tag-team lap dance at the streeep tease. I guess the concept was that these two mejicana performers were do his di-ack like the Hyenas did to Scar, just TEAR that dick apart (at the very least, I thought that they were going to go ass to ass [super NSFW]). What really happened, at least from what he says, was some pretty weak sauce. Just a bunch of eskimo kisses and lighthearted banter between the girls. I dropped $40 on that shit?
Don't feel too bad for this guy, because in the same night, he also had....
Moment of the Trip (Strip Club Category)
So apparently, after chatting up this stripper, Heather, at the after hours joint we went to, this person to be named later (PTBNL) got the lap dance of a lifetime. Granted, there was some hood rat shit going on at this place as it was--by far the dirtiest lap dances I've ever experienced, but this guy went for a RIDE. I got a dance from Heather, so I know that she demands that you smack her ass as you're getting a dance. Of course, PTBNL obliged, but at the same time, he quasi-sexily said "I bet you let all the guys do that". Her Response: "Yeah, but I don't let all them do this"--> and proceeds to stick her tongue down his throat. Now, unlike porn, I don't have an encyclopaedic knowledge of strip clubs, but outside of Brady from season 1 pick up artist, I've never heard of someone hooking up with a stripper. That's service with a smile.
Oh yeah, she also propositioned him to do get all coked up and doped up with him backstage. Unfortunately, he didn't follow through. Shit, that was the closest any of us got to going all gonzo (NSFW) in Vegas.
Most Unsettling Taxi Cab Confession goes to....
that sketchy cab driver that gave us a ride back from the Plaza.
Now, I'm used to the cabs in Boston. (i.e. I expect my cabbies to be austere Ethiopian immigrants who talk on their bluetooth headsets the entire ride), but I knew that these Vegas guys were going to be a different breed. I don't really know how to explain this guy except to say that he was acting like me during the walderness party where I hooked up with the lowest rated prospect in the land. Homey seemed straight up drunk.
First off, he was definitely getting all herky jerky behind the wheel on the highway. But the most distinctive tell of this guy was his jarring, unintelligible manner of speech. I think part of this was the fact that he knew that he was in the company of five young, virile human individuals, and was trying to tell the funniest stories he had, leaving himself in fits of laughter. That's all and good. People can laugh at their own jokes and stories--I'm the king of entertaining myself. But imagine someone with a full frontal lobotomy chortling to themselves and trailing off on every sentence...with lots of elbow jabs thrown in.
Miraculously, we were all able to piece together some of the anecdotes this guy was telling us. Apparently, he was involved with some sort of ride/dome exchange with some fresh-faced Ashley Dupree wannabe. Basically, this girl would call him up, and he'd pick her up and drive her to the desperate slob who was retaining her services....I'm not sure what he got in exchange, it was either a cut of her earnings, or the chance to go all Peter North on her belly. Anyway, he started talking about how this nubile young coed was all put off because, throughout the course of their gentlemanly arrangement, he'd never tried to piledrive her. He started making jokes about how he was too old to get his di-ack teased by this girl, which led to this really awkward exchange where I kept on making jokes about his impotence. I'm pretty sure I started throwing around the term "boner stipend"....yeah, ok, I don't really know how to play along with people making bawdy jokes. (Sidenote: I somehow doubt this guy's story as he looked like a cross between that piss-soaked homeless guy who wanted to fight me on the T and this guy):
The most annoying trend of the trip was.....
Constantly getting carded. Everywhere. What can I say, the Fegonomist and Oden we Trust are baby faces (Both in the wrestling, and actual sense).
The Vaggy for hottest white trash goes to......
Danica Patrick. I know, not Vegas related, but I just wanted to get that squared away. MORE:
Dumbest Exchange of the trip was....
We stayed at the Planet Hollywood, which turned out to be one of the best decisions we made the entire trip. One of the big value added pieces of the hotel is the fallaciously named "Pleasure Pit". Basically, this is an "Adults Only" section of the casino floor replete with pole dancers (who don't strip) and dealers dressed in pink negligees. In theory, this sounds great, but upon further examination, the concept is inherently flawed. Girls who want to pole dance and walk around in underwear, but lack the physical gifts to work the pole? Yeah, most of these girls ended looking like this girl, possessing the potential to be hot, but having some sort of deer in the headlights glaze that makes my johnson completely flaccid:
Anyway, one of the nights Butters is able to work his magic and get us onto the list at Tryst, the club at the Wynn (which is simply epic, by the way. The place was a hybrid indoor/outdoor club with a huge waterfall as the centerpiece). After doing a few rep's of Faderade, we headed to the casino floor. The Fegonomist forgot something in the room, so he and It Was All a Dream head back to the room, leaving the three of us in the Pleasure Pit. Earlier in the trip, I had noticed that one of the Pleasure Pit dancers had a tiny tramp stamp tat. I started my approach by waving at this girl with a vigor unseen since Forrest Gump jumped off his boat to greet Lt. Dan. She meekly waved back to the hulking, mute-drunk Asian guy from Saw.
Emboldened by my Popov Vodka fever dreams, I brazenly approached this go-go girl while she was unenthusiastically gyrating, leading to this exchange:
Me: "Hey, nice tramp stamp....what is it?"
Dancer: "It's the Japanese character for "Dance."
Me: *Raising Hand* "I'm Japanese."
...then I stumbled away. What can I say, ever since I've read "The Game," I've been money with the ladies. Speaking of which.....
Best Unfaithful Reenactment....
I'll be the first to admit it, I love an older woman, especially an older woman at a club. There's nothing better than a woman with latent sexual desires that can't be satisfied by her lightswitch husband. Nobody embodied this ideal better than Diane Lane in Unfaithful. She was hot in the early 80's in "The Outsiders." She was hotter in the 90's in whatever the fuck movie this was. But she was Super, Scintillating, SENSATIONAL in Unfaithful (All ridiculously NSFW). Given this precedent, I've made it my categorical imperative to bag an older lady. Vegas seemed as good a place as any. This led to some trouble.
While we were at Tryst, we decided to break up into splinter cells to divide and conquer the cloob. It Was All a Dream and I starting dancing with some pretty women who looked like they were within a standard deviation of our age. Still engulfed in the Faderade haze, I fail to realize that It Was All a Dream only danced with them for a couple songs before moving on. Stranded on my own, and lacking the motor facilities to move onto greener pastures, I just lurked on these women for what seemed like 3 hours. Somewhere along the way, I started dance talking to one of the older looking members of their group. Think a juiced-down Brenda James minus the D cups and perfect Aiss.
During the course of the conversation I was able to glean these nuggets from her: 1. She's 43 years old. 2. She has a 15 year old daughter. And 3. She's in Vegas with some old high school boyfriend that she reunited with on facebook (but I don't think that they were boning). Anyway, by the way that she's talking to me, I get the sense that she's digging the power dynamics and the "this is so fucked up, but I'm going to let my poos do the decision making" aspect of being hit on by a guy literally half her age. After talking to her like a broken muppet for the bulk of the night, the other guys finally find me, they're impatient and trying to book it to a streep tease. Under ordinary circumstances, I would have said that it was very nice to meet her, then given her an ass-out hug. However, we were in fucking Vegas, so I said "Fuck it, we'll do it live!," and asked for her number. Her response: "I could be YOUR MOTHER, get out of here!"
I haven't seen a denial that vociferous since these:
Long story short, this is life. This isn't Maxim Magazine.
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