Vegas Trip - Another Take

It's been over a month since the (in)famous Vegas trip. These scabies are not going away. I'm starting to get a little concerned. Anyway, another member of the trip, the Mighty B, had his own take on the experience. So without further delay, I present to you Viva Vegas, Viva Life.

Friday

5:00 AM - Alarm goes off. No problem. I get up around this time anyways. Also I have been tossing and turning all night unable to sleep. I’m so excited. It’s like I’m 12 years old and its Christmas Eve. I’m about to run downstairs and open presents. But instead of presents… Its Vegas.

6:00 AM - I go to Citibank and pull out enough cash for 50 lappers and one cab ride. I hail my chariot and off we go to JFK where my starship awaits to take me to an oasis in the desert.

8:00 AM - Flight leaves. I watch the film, Tsotsi. Some death ensues. A man kidnaps a kid and has horrible flashbacks. He is reborn. The end. I eat some fruity trail mix and watch Euro 2008. Viva Life.

11:00 AM - I land in Vegas. I turn to look out the window and begin to clap with my two little index fingers so no one sees me. I’m so giddy I even let out a meek “Tee Hee!” This is cut short by applause from people on the flight as we touch down. That tells me they didn’t think they were going to make it. Dicks.

11:30 AM - I literally walk into my friend who is pulling a pink rolling suitcase. *Lame Alert* We exchange greetings as we had not seen each other since 6:00 AM when we walked out the door on the way to our respective ATMs and starships.

11:45 AM - We wait in line for a cab and see many a gorgeous women. I get excited. Finally a cab pulls up that has dice in the mirror and we think that this cab is weird. But we thought “Hey man forget! Yo Homes! To… MAN…DA…LAY!”

12:10 PM - Yes the hotel is literally right next to the airport. We check in and head towards the sports book where I put down $100 on Spain beating the piss out of Sweden. I return to our table and watch Euro 08 on a screen larger than our apartment and ogle at the waitress’s giant yabbos. I lean to Sam and tell him it’s going to be a great weekend. And boy oh boy was it ever.

1:30 PM - The greatest man I have ever met… introduces himself to me. His name is Charlie. And in about 30 minutes, he is about to begin blowing all of our F’ing minds. Charlie informs us that there is a special beach we may want to check out. I’m a bit hesitant at first, but decide to go so I can bask in the sun.

2:15 PM – We all head over to Moorea Beach Club and this is where the weekend truly begins. Apparently, the ladies can go topless in this area of the beach. I let out a meek “Tee Hee!” as I begin checking out the talent.

5:30 PM – Everyone is drunk. Surprisingly, we’re not scoping out any more talent, but rather a potential fight that is about to bring out between two jacked guys in a pool. The fight gets serious when they begin splashing water at each other. Unfortunately, topless girls get in the way and break it up. Bitches.

6:00 PM – Moorea Beach Club closes up shop. We meander out and back up to our rooms to shower / change and musk up for the evening’s festivities.

7:30 PM - I eat dinner somewhere. I don’t recall where. But I’m certain I ate. I was not drunk at this point. I just don’t remember. It wasn’t a highlight of the trip.

9:00 PM – I switch from beer to RBVs. Wise choice. The sun depleted my energy. The RBVs rejuvanated me… along with the oxygen pumping into the casino.

10:00 PM – We go to Ghost Bar at the Palms. I’m not impressed. First, we’re there way too early. Second, the glass you can stand over is dirty so I can’t see through it very well. Third, my armpits burn like a mother from the sun exposure / deodorant. Luckily, Charlie introduces me to a new drink. Goose & 7. Magic in my mouth.

Saturday

12:00 AM – I introduce myself to a Japanese nurse. We get to talking. We leave the club.

(Inappropriate hilarity ensues)

5:30 AM – I go to bed a winner.

9:00 AM – Alarm goes off. Roommate wakes up and threatens to choke me dead. I decide to get up, shower, eat breakfast, and get ready for the Moorea Beach Club. Apparently, we have a free cabana for the day. At this point, I don’t know what that means yet. I’m too busy trying to comprehend the previous night and function properly.

10:00 AM – I meet half the group for breakfast. I pay $18 for a bowl of eggs, some pancake rolls, and some fruit. Oh and pineapple juice. I struggle to form words when I speak. I realize at the end of breakfast that I needed more sleep. I quickly tuned out the common sense in my dome, and headed for the beach. Fuck sleep. I’ve got some intense ogling to do at Moorea Beach damn it.

11:00 AM – I walk alone to Moorea Beach to meet Charlie who is already there. I walk in and up to the cabana which apparently overlooks the topless beach. Ridiculous I think. Then I see our cabana. Giant flat screen tv, couches, opium beds, chairs, personal bathroom, a wading pool, and a cool little spray bottle of compressed water. It was awesome. Water on my face… Out of a can! I’ll never pay for one, but god damn I’ll use it if its free.

12:00 PM – All the guys have arrived. I’m watching Euro football, drinking a beer, sitting in a cabana overlooking a topless beach already incredibly well populated for viewing later. Nice.

1:00 PM – I continue drinking the beer of choice for the weekend, Bud Light. I walk around our cabana area. Life is good. Unfortunately, it lacks women at the moment. The men begin to clamor. Charlie comes up with a plan.

1:30 PM – Charlie and I venture down to the recesses of the topless beach area in search of tail. While discussing our best approach, a gaggle of females makes their way to a huge day bed by the pool. We strike. We win.

2:30 PM – We apparently invited a bachelorette party up to the cabana. And apparently they want to go topless. By no force of the men, the ladies strip their constricting tops. Success.

3:00 PM – The party is going well. The beer maid continues to replenish our bucket. Life is going great. Then we’re given a show. Suddenly we’re drawn towards the ledge where we can see a couple having sex in a hot tub with people all around them. No one notices but us. We begin to cheer. Those around the sex fiends begin to take notice. The cheering spreads. The sex continues. The show climatizes. Fun ensues for all.

3:15 PM – The female counterpart of this sexcapade is being wheeled off in a wheelchair. It seems the sex has caused her to vomit and lose control of her arms and legs. She was carried out of the hot tub and into a chair where she was most likely whisked away to a medical hub so she may rejuvenate herself and return to her hotel room. So that she could then cry for the rest of the weekend about how stupid she was for amusing me with her free public love.

4:00 PM – Topless conversations continue through the late afternoon. I introduce the bevy of bachelorette broads to a new word, “Yabbos.” This word, if you are unaware, is a slang reference for a woman’s breasts. Fantastic word. Upon learning of it, a majority of the women proceeded to fondle their own as they said it. Clearly the alcohol was numbing their minds. Good times were had by all.

A friend of ours passes out. The rest of us take advantage with comical poses for the camera. The passed out friend doesn’t even stir.

5:30 PM – I’m fairly inebriated. A woman decked out in tattoos and body piercings (also had a top on… that bitch) and who was incredibly attractive has the following conversation with me:

Broad: Wow! You have such nice blue eyes!

Me: Thanks. You have… (look her up and down)… nice everything.

My friend nearby hears this and gives the obligatory high-five. The woman giggles and we proceed to flirt until closing time. I win again.

6:30 PM – The topless party is over. We’re all sad. To our utter dismay, no photos were taken with any of our cameras. Greatest party of our lives and we have no photographical evidence to support our claim. We all cry.

7:00 PM – Everyone is drunk. We all return to our rooms to prepare for the evening. Some sleep only to wake up Sunday morning, some go downstairs to gamble, others shower and musk up.

7:45 PM - I walk down to the casino floor I never made to time for and find a $100 chip on the floor. I grab it and cash it. Hot diggity dank!

8:00 PM – Dinner begins. We’re missing a couple people as they have passed out in their rooms. I order a Kobe steak. No one notices. We split the bill. I win yet again.

9:30 PM – We meet up with the topless girls from earlier in the day. I curse heavily under my breath. They’re all wearing tops. I was not expecting such conservatism from this lot.

10:30 PM – I have no energy. I literally consider collapsing on the ground. I go to the store at the casino and purchase what I’m guessing was my 4^th or 5^th bottle of 5 hour energy drinks. About 4 oz of pure energy in between numerous RBVs. See you in Heck, Sleep! I’m never going to bed!

Sunday

12:00 AM – We all begin to split up while at the club. I venture off with one of the guys to prowl elsewhere. The rest stay behind to finish the bottles of vodka they purchased foolhardily. Ha! You fools! I hope you drank every last drop!

(Inappropriate hilarity ensues)

6:00 AM – I can’t sleep. I have too much energy. Luckily I call a friend who is up gambling away. I watch him for an hour or so. I sense annoyance coming from him as I proceed to distract him and the dealer. I leave and meander around.

7:30 AM – I make my way to the room. I fall on the bed. I think I won. I can’t be sure.

9:00 AM – I wake up. Time to go home. I’m surprisingly well; however, unsuprisingly tired. Considering the amount of booze, caffeine, lack of food & sleep I have had over the course of two days, I’m lucky I survived without even a slight niggle or a bout of the sniffles.

10:00 AM - We eat breakfast, collect our crap, and go home. I feel fine until the plane ride which is delayed. A headache develops in the far reaches of the back of my dome. I fight it. I lose.

Lucky for me I took off the following day after we got back to rest. Too bad, I end up leaving work when I return two days later due to an inability to function properly. I lacked the ability to sit at my desk without completely dozing off. Thank god my co-workers who love Vegas and envied my stories and time there sympathized with me and granted me the rest of the day off. While it barely helped for the remainder of the week, it was a nice gesture. Thanks guys.

Well Vegas, you were fun. Thank you. I appreciate the 100s of free breasts I was able to stare at all weekend. I love you. However, I plan to never go back. You are a sleep depriving, money grubbing son of a bitch. Next bachelor party is in Miami.

Letter to the Biker Who Ran Me Over Today

Thanks, I needed that. It really put a solid cap on my day. Here's a little heads up for next time: watch where you are going. Oh wait, I should have been more careful, you say? F that. I looked both ways when crossing the street. You came flying out of nowhere at Mach 2. Congrats, you're the new land speed record holder for the Central Park loop. You also have a scraped knee. Was it worth it? I hope it was, because I'm going to have a bruise on my ass for the next week.

When you say you are "Okay" after I apologize for getting hit by you, don't chase after me claiming that I didn't stop to see how you were. Ummm, when did "Are you all right?" start to not count as checking on your condition? I can only go by what you give me. And an "I'm okay" sounds like a positive response to me. You ran into me. Don't forget that key fact. Am I blameless? Yes, probably. But, I'll throw you a bone and split the fault 50-50. How about asking if I'm injured? A little common courtesy from you would have been appreciated. Instead, you were too busy harassing me for the simple act of jogging across the street. There's only one way I'm getting over there, kind sir. I really wish I had paid attention to what color the light was at the stop. It would have been so sweet if it had been red. Then you would have really deserved the scraped knee.

By the way, you might want to invest in a bell when you go get your "trashed $500 bike" fixed.

Enough venting. I'm going to have enough trouble falling asleep tonight with the skid mark on my right ass check.

Good to know that this isn't an isolated incident. Had I written the following article in New York Magazine, the title would have been something along the lines of "Asshole Bikers Don't Give a Shit About Anyone Else." It's probably better that the editors went with a less easily agitated author.

From NY Mag: Who Owns Central Park

Wieden+Kennedy is the Balls

Wieden+Kennedy. Basically, they only exist because of Nike. But goddamn if they don't do some quality shit for the Swoosh. Above is their latest effort and again they've created a great piece of advertising that could also be used as a inspirational video for high school football players. Here's a look back at some of their finest work. Obviously, this is just a sampling. Check out their site for some other gems. Anyone have any others that I missed?

(PS, any W+K folks reading this, if you're looking for a copywriter or someone to help on the video production, drop me a line. I work cheap.)

Wanted - (Rock) Band Mates

Kick ass lead guitarist currently seeking three (3) Xbox 360 band members for casual, yet bitching, Rock Band jam sessions a few times a week. Drummer, singer and bassist positions available. All membes will refer to the newly formed band by its proper name: Unsanitary Napkin.

Prefer scorching hot chicks, either virtual or real life, ready to rock so hard they can't help but make out with each other. Other desired qualities: ability to handle either hard or expert difficulties, willingness to engage in backstage orgies with digital groupies and competent skills while intoxicated (or patience to deal with drunken lead guitarists barking orders).

Send all submissions, along with any demo tapes and available jam times, to Fletchbox 3000 on Xbox Live.

Fake Living is Better Than Real Living

I have nothing to write about. Nothing interesting is happening in my life right now. Were it a bowl of ice cream, the flavor of my life would be air. Seeing as how I don't have anything compelling to discuss, there are a number of different approaches this particular blog post can take. First and foremost, I can buckle my bootstraps and come up with something creative. Something original. Something like this post from earlier in the year: http://cbsvg.blogspot.com/2008/01/dames-of-square-soft-enix-whatever-they.html

Clearly that is not going to happen.

Honestly, my well is pretty dry right now. So until I drop acid or lick a hallucinogenic toad again, there might be a dearth of awe-inspiring posts. Don't worry, I've got a trip planned to Curacao in the coming weeks and if there is one place in the world to go to procure an amphibian that will cause you to trip balls, it's in the Dutch Indies. So I've got that going for me. I guess my life isn't so boring after all. Especially when I completely fabricate everything about it.

Take this weekend, for example. In my real life, it was spent with a wicked hangover and unimaginable beer wigglies. But in my fake life, I just missed cashing at the World Series of Poker. Distraught over my misfortune, I wandered through the streets of Vegas looking for a whore to beat up. Finding no sluts to pummel, I took a taxi to the airport and randomly boarded a passenger jet to Honolulu. Once there...holy shit, Josh Hamilton just hit a home run a reported 512 feet. Great god that was enormous.

In the midst of a 28 home run barrage Hamilton launched a blast that would have given Babe Ruth a boner had he not been simultaneously eating 3 hot dogs whilst fucking a prostitute. Well that was one of the most impressive things I've ever seen. And I didn't even need to make it up. That actually happened.

Here for no apparent reason, other than she is flamingly attractive and posed topless in French Maxim (or maybe FHM) recently, is a picture of Keeley Hazell:
What is more impressive? Josh Hamilton's 512 foot home run or Keeley Hazell's rack?

Thus ends this stream of consciousness blog post. Blame Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer for this experiment. I feel wholly unsatisfied with this effort. I will therefore bring you gold next time. You hear that? Gold, I tells ya. Solid gold.

Diablo 2 = Fun

Why do I never get tired of playing Diablo 2? The game has been out for almost a decade now and I still can't get enough of that point and click action. And that Charsi, what a looker. If the graphics were not so grainy and nondescript, I would totally do her. Nothing hotter than a blacksmithing wench who can repair your items and imbue a non-magical piece of equipment with extrodinary powers. I imagine she gives great head.

Back in my younger, more pathetic days, I once spent an entire night playing Diablo 2. No sleep at all. The only other game I did that with was GTA: Vice City. That was a great game at the time, but I feel like if I popped that into my PS2, it wouldn't have the same replay value as D2. It's not like I haven't killed Diablo countless times, I have and will continue to do so. It's just that I can't get enough of the loot that drops in that game. It's a fact: I'm a loot whore. Even when Diablo 3 comes out, I think I'll probably still pop in the Deuce every once in a while for a trip down memory lane. That is the ultimate compliment you can pay a game, besides, of course, declaring that one of its NPCs gives great head. I've done both for Diablo 2, so therefore, it must be one of the greatest games of all time. I doubt there are many who have played the game who would dissent.