I Went To Las Vegas For The First Time Last Weekend And Was Completely Unprepared
I’ve waited 27 years to take a trip to America’s playground. Part of the reason I hadn’t lost my Vegas virginity until last weekend is because I was scared. Scared because I have absolutely no self-control. I’m the type of dude who could close down a Chili’s on a Tuesday night if the vibe is right. Straight carried out, legless. So the unlimited number of shameful decisions I could potentially make in Vegas would probably put me in a casket, or even worse, a marriage.
But when JCamm asked if I wanted to go for a media trip, it was an absolute no-brainer. Like most of my decisions. I threw some of my least wrinkled shirts in a suitcase and was off to get my ass kicked.
Here are some of the ways I was grossly unprepared for Sin City.
I learned quickly that there are two types of bros chillen at the Las Vegas pools: the egregiously obese dudes who can pay ladies into believing they’re skinny, and absolutely jacked dudes who seemingly have more veins in their biceps than I do in my entire body. But there isn’t much of a demographic for guys like me: the premature #dadbod. You know, the kind of guy who got in an aggressive workout a week ago and uses it an excuse for the rest of the week to suck down craft beers and order chinese combo platters late night. So my biceps looked respectively beefy but my torso resembled a duffel bag filled with sand. Pick a fucking side, Matt.
Pictures probably tell the story best.
You know how Viagra says to consult a doctor if an erection lasts longer than four hours? What’s the protocol on having an erection for four days? I guess I should be thankful to be alive. Can you guys guess how many of those girls I hooked up with? Hint: Less than one.
Sidenote: My hotel room had a mirror on the ceiling. Have you ever jerked off while looking yourself directly in the eye? Well, don’t.
There’s always one person on a trip like these who sets the tone. The torch holder. The MVP. The Heavyweight belt holder of this trip was undeniably Liquid Todd. Liquid Todd is a DJ for Sirius XM radio who probably has a good 15 years on me but it might as well had been his 21st birthday because he was turnt the fuck up the entire trip. LT was so at-home and so comfortable with the intricacies of Las Vegas, I would bet he ate Thanksgiving dinner at the MGM Grand buffet. So poised, so in his element. I’d follow that man into battle.
Here’s Liquid Todd being Liquid Todd at Manadalay Bay’s insane club, Light. This video was taken before his first drink.
Absolute savage. Never change, never apologize.
On the first night, a few of us thirsty media dudes went to Vegas’ signature strip club, The Spearmint Rhino. I always get anxious at strip clubs because I have shallow pockets. Like kiddy pool shallow. Like texting your ex on your current girlfriends’ birthday shallow. I still haven’t paid April’s month rent yet, how can I rationalize giving a stranger who I THOUGHT LOVED ME, $30 for rubbing glitter all over my clothes? But I’ve been known to make shitty decisions before (See: my entire life), so this incident is par for the course for me.
Me and my new bros pulled up front row to a table to watch the performances and chain smoke Marboro Reds. A very sexy Asian girl with tits that she may or may not have purchased shaped like the fat part of a bong and an ass like you read about (or watch on Brazzers), approached me and began asking me questions about myself. How’s that for role reversal, bros? She started asking questions she didn’t care to learn the answers to: “Where are you from?” “Do you have a girlfriend?” “What do you do?” (to which I answered ‘I’d do you if it were up to me,’ then took a cool drag of my eighth cigarette of the night. She laughed and I was so proud of myself.)
She began casually rubbing herself on me because my joke was so sexy and hilarious, and OH YA, she was trying to siphon every penny I own out of me. We continued our flirty rapport and right in the middle of me telling her about my plans for Mother’s Day, the song ended on the speaker system. She immediately got up, held out her hand, and said in an aggressive tone “Pay me.” Completely caught off guard, I LOL’ed in her face and said “For that?” She raised her voice, “PAY ME!” and surrounding tables started tuning into the spectacle. I was hammered and adamant on not paying her like the cheap fuck I am. Also, I left my debit card at the last bar we were at so I literally had no way of paying her. Going to a strip club with no means of taking out cash should give you an indicator of how utterly fucked up I was. “I’d rather pay for stocks in Blockbuster Video” I shot back. This comment confused the both of us. She then aggressively stepped closer to me, and I saw a hand enter the picture from behind me, motioning for her to step back. I then felt the gust of warm whiskey breath unnecessarily close to my ear lobe and a man whisper softly, “You don’t know how to strip club, do you?” I turn around to see Liquid Todd with two of Spearmint Rhino’s top-dollar broads standing on either side of him. I’d compare the feeling that rushed through my body to that of finding your dad after being lost for hours at Six Flags. The women stood proudly next to him, and if I had to guess, I’d say that they were paying him for his company.
Liquid Todd then reached into his pocket, grabbed a thick wad of cash, and threw it down on the table. He looked at the flustered Asian with the bong titties square in the eye and says “Take this and fuck off.” He winked at me, retreated to the back room, and I didn’t see him for the rest of the night.
But if you’re going to take away one thing from this post: never, under any circumstance, look yourself in the eye when you’re stroking your kielbasa.