I done went to Vegas And Darth Vader's 25th birthday party, and all I got was this lousy pain in my Prostate.
It being now Tuesday evening, Wednesday for those of you on the East Coast, I am finally starting to feel like myself again - namely, debonair, suave, sophisticated, able to leap small animals with several bounds, and most importantly, handy with the Blog.
So, acclimating such to my triumphant return, I went to upload my pictures to create a substantial, informative, photograph-aided travelogue, an accurate expression of my time in the City of Sin, only to get the following message:
CF CARD ERROR.
Yes, all my pictures had been deleted. Well, maybe they're still there; I have no way of knowing if they do still exist. The irony is, I only took three damn pictures. And I know fully what they are, and can describe them loquaciously and with sufficient veracity. "Lucky Me," You say.
The first picture was of our hotel room at the Motel 6. Where do you stay when you travel to Las Vegas? Motherfucking Motel 6. That picture (not unlike the one seen here) depicted my Hotel Roommate Corey and our drive-accompanying but Imperial Palace-staying-at friend, T to the J. I took the photo to document the bed spreads, a cartoonish seascape, replete with islands and oceanic vista goodness, which set my eyes-a-salivatin'.
This brings us to club Tao, in the Venetian, a Casino where I once won $35 on a slot machine. Yes, that's thirty five BIG 'UNS, mes amis, and I promptly went and bought two Red Bull and Vodkas for $9.50 a piece. Never. Looking. Back. Because, frankly, that's my motto: Never Look Back, and also, One in the hand is better than Two in the Bush. And cleaner, too. More sanitary like.
Oh yeah, the club. Apparently, it was Darth's birthday, although, wouldn't you know it, I never saw him. I did, however, see a line out-the-pissa, about thirty people deep - FOR THE MEN'S ROOM. I tried to pull the whole Dark-Side-I'm-strangling-You-maneuver-with-my-thumb-and-forefinger that I'd seen Darth do in the past, but to no avail: My Jedi voodoo holds no sway in such establishments. Pity.
The dance floor, I must say, was a rockin', and I, it shall be known, did come a knockin'. If you were there, incidentally, I was the one in the light blue-navy blue striped shirt, demonstrating the wholesome complexity of the art of dance, and doing it well. Moths to a flame, I was Bea Arthur to their Shirley Maclaine, luminescent among the minions, who flocked, gratefully, and basked in mine own unexaggerated warmth, and grace.
"Here is something you can't understand.. How I could Just Kill a Man!"
Incidentally, if you were a woman, the theme of the night would have been: U.T.I. IMMINENT. Why, David, could you sense a tangible need for more cranberry in the diet? No, dear reader, it's because unless you were willing do pull a Sienna Miller right there in the corner, you were not going to be able to take a piss unless you lasted out a nearly 100 people deep line. "So Dave," you ask, "Am I to deduce that pulling a Sienna Miller means pissing out in public, among people?" Yes, that is basically the idea. "Why, has Sienna Miller ever pissed in public and been called on it?" No, but it somehow seems appropriate to her idiom. And I 'm down with that.
The best part of the evening involved meeting Adam Vinatieri, famed kicker, Super Bowl Hero, and all around M.V.P. "Wait,"you inquire, "Really?" Well, no, not really. But why not try to get into the V.I.P. room, using the appropriate Jedi mind tricks, convinving the bouncer that you are, in fact, the very famous North Dakotan himself? This technique T.J. did try, only he failed, but not because he was not convincing; the doorman apparently did not know who Adam Vinatieri was. Apparently he's a promise breaking, drug abusing, miscreant, willing to stop at nothing to achieve his quest of maximum-fucked-up-edness, rocking out, and general excellence. For this he is great. He and Sienna should mate, excrete publicly, and make proclamations, exemplifying, and truly, both embodying and exuding grandeur; wonder.
Another one of my compatriots really and truly did have sex in the bushes, somewhere outside the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino, with a woman whom he later referred to as "overweight." His inability to find release in this encounter paralleled his own colonic constipation, providing both myself, the author, and you, the humble reader, with an apt analogy, nay, metaphor for the entire Vegas experience: One Brown Mouse, in a Different Cage.