Beer and Bloating in Las Vegas

           I went to Las Vegas this weekend.  My Dad lives there, and every year all my uncles and aunt head down there for a weekend of depravity.  Due to my employ in a high workload, low compensation, & soul sucking industry I never had the opportunity to go.  Since I am not working in the same capacity anymore, I took the opportunity to make the trip this year.  I don’t really gamble a lot – I made one bet at the sports book, (a 3-team parlay that was going to take all day to play out that fucking lost in the first game.  Thanks a lot Virginia Tech you slack-jawed hog-fuckers) – I go to Vegas to cram unholy amounts of various fares into my pie hole.  I don’t stop eating. Ever.  Why would you?  At every turn, there is something awesome to put in your face.  The fact you can carry a beer anywhere you want can cloud your judgment.  However, if what you pick isn’t awesome…THERE’S SOMETHING ELSE 6 FEET AWAY!!!

“Ooh look!  There’s a FatBurger!  Lemme finish this Chimichanga and we’ll go in.  I want to get a bite before we head into the Brazilian Steakhouse.”

I try and stay away from the siren song of the endless buffets.  It’s difficult because $4.99 per person is an absolute steal.  However, like I said I go to Vegas to eat, and a buffet is just a black hole of overeating that keeps you from the variety of Vegas food. 

We actually went to a buffet at the Red Rock Casino and Resort (which is like 12 miles off the strip and awesome – I will never stay on the strip again – seriously).  This buffet turned my theory on its ear.  Literally – everywhere you looked at this place; there was a different type of cuisine.  Asian, sushi, American, BBQ, Mexican, Bakery, “Health Bar.”  It was glorious.  One of my uncles came back with a plate of scrambled eggs, prime rib, green beans, and hollandaise sauce.  Another one came back with scrambled eggs, bacon, potatoes, and some egg rolls.  We were in fat boy heaven. At one point, I contemplated getting a double scoop ice cream cone wrapped in prime rib topped with bleu cheese and some onion rings.  The line was too long at the prime rib station though….

I was actually good at the buffet.  I had scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, fruit, and a whole wheat everything bagel.  This was only because of the high-octane shit I was gorging on the previous day, and in anticipation for the continued overindulgence that was surely to follow. 

By the time I got back I was ready for anything green.  My body was done with animal fat.

My plan of restaurant guerilla warfare was put in jeopardy the night I got there.  I came down with the stomach flu that plagued my poor wife and son earlier in the week.  It lasted less than 24 hours, but it made me spew forth refuse from both ends.  Nothing like trying to keep from diarrheaing all over the hand towels while you violently barf things you ate back in high school.  It set in on Thursday evening, but by Friday morning, I was back at full strength. 

CRISIS AVERTED.

There is nothing like Las Vegas, Nevada to re-motivate you to keep working out.  It is a confluence of joggling jows, F.U.P.A’s, cankles, and pasty white thigh fat.  So splendid in all its grandeur was it that I could nary pull me eyes from it.  I barely remembered to play my favorite game.  It’s called “What-The-Fuck-Couples.”  It’s a game played by two or more people where you search for the most mismatched couples possible.  For example: you might see a smoking hot female with a mouth-breathing blob in a t-shirt that says “I Fuck On the First Date,” basketball shorts, a fanny pack, and some sandals with socks (actual sighting from the weekend).  If you were to stumble across such an enchanting couple, you would say

“What the fuck is she doing with that guy?”

Everyone then looks perplexed at the Dr. Moreau experiment and laughs, then makes the assumption that he must have paid.  It’s not limited to attractive womenfolk though.  It can play the other way.  There might be a well put together gentleman, trim, man-scaped and well dressed with a girl in a spaghetti strap top where the straps cut into the skin like butchers twine on a pork loin, there is an atomic camel toe (where the bottoms of the legs of the shorts also appear to have been swallowed by her vajayjay) and thigh-high zip-up boots where the zipper is stretched so tightly the teeth of it look like The Joker’s diabolical grin (another actual sighting from the weekend).  You would say

“What the fuck is he doing with that girl?”

Again, everyone gawks at the couple, laughs, and agrees that he must be the gay friend.  Yes, it’s awful, shallow, and mean spirited.  Really though, it’s about a hopeful recognition that true love does exist and connection is made beyond what is apparent to the eye. 

*Vurp*

My favorite thing about the weekend had to occur on the first day of the trip before I even left the Bay Area.  I was sitting in the airport at the gate listening to the iPod, doing mini, ninja head bangs, and air guitar, and trying to figure out whom I did not want to sit next to on the plane, when I noticed another man of similar stature to my own.  He also had his iPod on, similarly playing out his rock-god fantasy.  For a split second, we made eye contact, and from that moment, it most certainly…WAS ON!

For the next 5 minutes before boarding was announce ensued a mini air guitar and drum battle the likes of which have never been seen!  Neither one of us wanted the other to rock harder.  I would play a little guitar solo with a foot tap, then he would play a little air drums, and a couple of small head bangs.  I would drum on my kneecaps, and then he would do an air bass guitar.  It was intense.  At one point, he began mouthing the words to his music, but I thought that was gay so I put a little something extra into my next air-guitar solo. 

The hilarious thing about this is that we are both air-rocking on a small scale while trying to stay simultaneously extreme and subdued so as not to catch anyone’s eye.  It was like a ninja battle of the bands.  When I finally boarded the plane (don’t get me started on the Southwest Airlines free-for-all) he was already sitting.  There was a tiny nod of feigned mutual respect between us.  I knew; however, he was thinking the same thing I was.

“I out rocked you, and you know it.  Stick to the Beiber tunes, pal.”

Screen Grab of the Week!

"I'm doing curls with my shlong"

Cinco Thingo’s!!

1)      Fuck Girl Scouts.  Not literally.  If you thought that, turn yourself in right now.  Figuratively, fuck Girl Scouts.  I figured out why people give up on their New Year’s resolution to lose weight by the end of March.  It’s because of Girl Scout cookies.  They’re delicious (Samoas, Tagalongs, Thin Mints – if you say there is any other kind…kindly stop reading), but they are evil.  The boxes are small, but misleading.  They appear to be big.  You eat 3 cookies, then 3 more cookies, and then the box is half-gone, so you figure you better just finish it off and then have a chaser of 8 Thin Mints.  You know, to cleanse the palate.  I returned from my Vegas nom fest planning to return to my regularly scheduled diet.  Lo and behold, boxes of Girl Scout cookies sitting on the kitchen counter.  We know of my propensity to treat cookies like meth after a 4-day attempt at staying clean.  This was not a good development.  My wife even put a box of Thin Mints in the freezer (the only way to eat Thin Mints…how do you eat them?  Room temp?  That’s for chumps.)  I am powerless to resist them.  Fuck You Girl, Scouts.  Fuck.You.

2)      Vegas fucks with you.  We went and saw BeatleShow at Planet Hollywood (which was awesome, I swear I was watching the actual Beatles.  Great stuff).  The cocktail waitress comes to our seats and offers drinks.  My Dad and I order a cocktail, and she asks us if we want smalls or larges.  She makes a distinction with her thumb and forefinger.  It gave us the impression that the smalls were Lillipution and the large was normal sized.  We glanced around the theatre and didn’t see any of the yard long cocktails, so we felt our thoughts confirmed.  We ordered larges.  The curtain goes up, the theatre gets dark, and the show begins.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the cocktail waitress emerge from the side door holding a try loaded with drinks.  Amidst the adult beverages were two 20 oz mugs with little flashing LED lights in the base.  I prayed to anyone who would listen they were not for us.  They were for us.  Now, we look like the two conductors of the Parade of Lights at Disney Land.  NO ONE else in the theatre had these.  I frantically searched for the button that turned off the lights.  I couldn’t find it.  We were stuck through a 2-hour show with flashing cocktails.  Awesome.  I held mine between my legs to try and stifle the light.  I bent over to take sips so as not to attract attention.  Reflection after the show suggested that bending over every so often probably made me look like I was blowing myself.  Very indiscrete.  We emerge from the show, and my Uncle who was sitting RIGHT NEXT TO ME says “They button is right in the base, I turned mine off right when I got it.”  Good timely information, thanks.  Las fuckin’ Vegas…

3)       Airport poops are exhilarating.  I spent a great deal of my childhood traveling on planes for various reasons.  I cannot recall a single airport dump amongst any of my travels.  In any case, if you have the opportunity to dook up an airport bathroom I suggest you take it.  Lock the door, sit down, and let the symphony begin!  See, people are traveling from all over.  Some on long flights, some on short flights (you’re welcome for the lesson in what airport is).  Often times, people have to hold a serious shit in for the final 30 minutes of a flight during the final descent.  This is a harrowing experience.  When you finally emerge from the plane, you make a rapid beeline for the john.  You are so relieved the wait is over, you throw discretion to the wind and let fly with all sorts of sounds.  It sounds like nature sounds from a jungle full of rectums.  It is glorious.  As a result, you too can throw prudence to the wind and have a go.  Being in a public place but shitting like you are at home is a great thrill.  I was so pleased with the experience I texted my buddy.  “I hope TSA isn’t around, ‘cause I’m bombing the bathroom.”  Then I got scared that somehow, that text would be intercepted by TSA and they would storm in the bathroom and forcibly remove me from the toilet with my pants down and take me in for questioning and a cavity search.  My imagination is active…

4)      The flight to Vegas is far more boisterous than the return flight.  Especially if you fly back at 9am on Sunday morning.  The Thursday flight is a raucous group of pre-gaming revelers hooting and hollering about how Vegas isn’t ready for them, and wondering where they will buy some drugs, etc.  On my flight in there was a 21^st b-day party heading down to defile themselves and make bad decisions.  I first ran into them at an airport bar, where I was having breakfast, and watching the news.  They were ordering shots of Jameson, vodka Red Bulls, and kamikazes.  It was 8:30 am.  I bought the b-day boy a shot of whiskey, which he downed immediately after his first shot of tequila.  I high fived him, and went on my merry way.  The shot was an investment for my own entertainment.  As I anticipated, by the time the flight was boarding, B-Day boy was a wreck.  Glassy-eyed and friendly to a fault, he was talking to anybody who would listen about how it was his birthday.  He had a hat on that said Happy Birthday.  When we got on the plane, he cajoled the flight attendant into letting him deliver the peanuts which was a circus of dropped bags of nuts stumbling, and awkward stares if you declined.  If you accepted the bags, he gave you a handful of like 5 bags.  He was awesome.  By the time the flight landed, he was passed out.  The return flight was packed to the gills and full of sweatpants, sunglasses, messy hair, and smeared makeup.  Incidentally, I had to release the hounds before that flight, too (2 airport poops in 1 weekend!  What a treat!)  This one was less enjoyable because mixed in with the toilet bowl symphony were the sounds of wretching and coughing, and that is not pleasant.  The flight looked like it was full of extras from Dawn of the Dead, and everyone ordered water.  Lots of water.  I could hear a few people in the back actually using the barf bags (I would too, I would be afraid of hitting the flush button in the crapper and getting sucked head first into the blue water abyss) and there were murmurs of “I’m never drinking again.”  Alcohol is the one place I showed restraint – I wanted my calories through ungodly amounts of food, remember?  Therefore, I was good.

5)      Working out on vacation is impossible.  I packed some workout clothes and figured I would at least get a run or two in.  Whom the fuck was I kidding?  I had a limited time in that town, and running was going to cut into my eating time, goddammit.  I woke up with the intention of running on Saturday.  I even got my workout clothes on.  I ate an apple crumb muffin instead.  If you plan to do it and then don’t, you feel like a dickbag because you lied to yourself.  To quote Vince Vaughn in Dodgeball: “I found that if you have a goal, that you might not reach it.  But, if you don’t have one, then you are never disappointed.  And I gotta tell ya’…it feels phenomenal.”

Phase 3 begins this week.  The end is near.  Word to the mother.