Vegas

I have been pondering what to write about my trip to vegas. I think that my friend pretty much summed it up in this short easy to read five page story named after the seediest place in Vegas. Now this is not my writing this is all him. I just took the notes. In this story since it is from his perspective I am a supporting character, which is an apt description since I was supporting him the whole trip.


The Double Down.
Every once in awhile you have one of those ideas that just might get you killed… taking me to Vegas was one such idea. Honestly, here is a place where they encourage people to do things that would normally land them in jail. I found out the hard way why they call Las Vegas “Sin City.”
We drove into Vegas from San Diego and arrived in the middle of the day. Having almost died outside of Barstow when a semi truck blew out a tire in front of us, I was ready to shower and hit the strip. The excitement was overwhelming. P-Rex went straight to bed, big surprise. So Hayseed and I cleaned up after checking into the Tropicana and took the walkway across the strip to the Excalibur. There is a restaurant inside that goes by the name of Dick’s Last Resort. The waitresses there throw menus at the customers and belittle them at every turn. On the positive side, they serve forty four ounce hurricanes in to go cups. This drink tasted like rum and slurpee without the benevolence of a Middle Eastern accent serving it. One drink down and I was acting like one of my former middle school special ed students. I suddenly could not stand up straight, was walking in diagonal lines, and wanted to hug every person we passed.
Hayseed began acting as my human crutch as I ordered up a couple of beers to go and carried them out onto the strip. I noticed all of these little migrant workers holding stacks of what looked like baseball cards with nude or scantily clad women on them. They hold out a stack and make this snapping noise like pop it’s to try and make you take them. They were hooker flyers that advertise which girl you may call and for how much you can have her. Knowing my affinity for collectibles I started seeking out every stack that I could get my hands on (not to hire a hooker, this is Vegas, if you have to pay for sex here, you do not deserve a penis). We walked the entire length of the strip (stopping at various casinos so I could refill my drinks) as I stuffed them into my pockets. When we finally reached the end of the strip we crossed over and headed back up the opposite side to our hotel.
On the way back I decided that trading these new items like baseball cards would be a good idea. Every migrant we passed I would walk up to and act like I wanted a new stack of hooker flyers. When they held them out I would examine the top card and then pull a stack from my pocket…
Dave: “no, No, NO! I already have a Tawny, but I will give you two Amber’s for a Diana…”
I thought I was very amusing. One such pimp however, did not. He was yelling at a group of five girls who presumably worked for him. He was lecturing them on the unsafe habit of having sex with homeless people (I am sadly not making this up). When I tried to trade cards with him he pushed me out of his way. Apparently he does not appreciate drunk humor as much as I do… but that’s okay I always have a fall back plan. When humor fails, anger usually works. So as he shoved me away, I threw my stack of hooker flyers in his face. At this point he opened his jacket, revealing a nine millimeter side arm, and began to reach for it. I was ready to pounce when Hayseed grabbed me from behind and ran me down the crowded street away from the pimp (and I use that term in a literal sense, not meaning the guy was in any way cool). Hayseed saved yet another person’s life on this trip. I am just not sure if it was the pimp’s or mine?
After I calmed down about the gun wielding, hooker slinging pimp incident, I noticed the giant Eiffel Tower. With my anger already boiling and my known hatred for all things French, I went sprinting into the Paris, calling everybody inside “cheese eating surrender monkeys.” I took a seat at the quarter slots and started playing Wheel of Fortune. I feel in love with this game in Vegas, really just because Vana White is hot. The first rule of drinking in Vegas is that all drinks are free so long as you are playing a game on the floor. If not, then a bottle of domestic beer costs around seven dollars at the bar. Slots are the cheapest game to play on the floor, so you can sit there, put in a dollar… and only press the button when the waitress comes by; unfortunately I did not have this much self control. So I began drinking Vodka Red Bulls all night. The cocktail waitress couldn’t bring them to me fast enough, as I shot quarter after quarter into the slot machine. Hayseed was next to me trying to keep me from starting a new war with France, as I kept telling him that the Boy Scouts could take France by themselves. The lady on my other side kept acting offended by my presence (or perhaps my inability at this point to control the sound of my voice).
At any rate this just challenges me and I keep screaming “WINNER!!!” into her ear, even when I lost. At least until she finally stood up, told me that I broke her ear drum and began to walk away. I just laughed and screamed “Winner!” again as she walked away. I hope she reads this book, because lady; this is Las Vegas. Do you really think that you were going to come here and get a nice quiet relaxing night in the casino? If so, you’re a fucking moron! They made this place for people like me; they made Miami Dade County for retirees… I mean people like you. Once the ear drum lady left I lost interest in the slot machines and decided that the poker room might be more my speed. At least the waitresses there might bring me drinks faster. For some reason I figured that the speed of my drink arrivals was in direct relation to the amount of money I spent at each casino game. This is untrue. At this point they should have just plugged an I.V. into my arm and let the vodka seep in at a more natural rate.
Let me tell you that Texas Hold ‘Em looks so much easier on television. I was kind of angry that they didn’t show me the percentage odds and my opponents hand while I played. At any rate the drinks weren’t coming any faster than they were at the slots so I decided to just wander around and see how many people I could offend before being asked to leave. I was cussing at dealers, calling waitresses sweet ass and generally acting like the biggest dick I could. Somewhere around four in the morning I finally hit the wall and the next thing I remember is waking up back in my hotel room when P-Rex came crashing in (beer in hand) proclaiming that he had lost two hundred dollars unfairly before passing out on the floor. Hayseed decided that he was going to check out the sexual circus show this night and I declined attending with him. The tickets were a hundred bucks a piece, and I hate crazy French circus freaks, even if there are naked breasts on them. So P-Rex and I decided to see how drunk we could get before Hayseed met up with us later that night.
I was drinking and flirting with two older Scottish women at the Bellagio who seemed to find me fascinating when Hayseed arrived. We said good bye to my new friends, collected P-Rex and decided that the club in the Venetian might be our best bet for women tonight. I was double fisting walking down the strip when I saw it. The neon lights and beach music just called out to me a like a light house to a lost ship. I wandered into Margaritaville in a haze of delight and wonder. We found a table, ordered up two ultimate margaritas and scanned the premises for talent. Talent is code speak for good looking women with negotiable moral standards. I would normally never intake tequila under any circumstances, but you cannot (by man law) order any other drink in Margaritaville without having a margarita first. I actually held down that devil juice, with the aid of lots of water, for the first time in eight years. Normally I will vomit at the slightest smell of tequila, so I was now very proud of myself; as well as wondering how much more I could ingest without vomiting.
I was in the middle of challenging Hayseed to conduct the introductions on a table of three girls we had spotted when I was rudely interrupted. Some homeless man sat down and bluntly asked for five dollars so he could “get his drink on.” I was impressed by his honesty so I bought the man a beer and wished him luck with getting drunk. Hayseed had lost an earlier man bet and was required to be our intro man with the girls. You see, to strike at a group of girls everybody has to play their position. In this case, you send an Introduction Guy to break the ice and get the girls talking. He is to be immediately followed by the Point Man. This is your focus guy; he plays the center of attention and keeps the evening progressing. The Point Man is your best salesman. Then you must have the traditional Wingman; the guy who keeps the mother hen busy during the evening. The wingman plays the worst position during the night, but his drinks are always courtesy of his buddies.
These three girls were of the traditional composition. There was the quiet shy cute friend; the outgoing good looking crazy friend; and the cock blocking mother hen. Why is the mother hen always the fat ugly one? So Hayseed breaks the ice with his usual charm, which is why I immediately step in to help out. By default the intro man gets first crack at the crazy outgoing girl. He is the one taking the largest risk for rejection and leading the way into the situation like a ranger in combat. This was fine with me since I wanted to meet the cute blonde shy girl anyways. Having first shot at the crazy out going girl is priority one because she is usually the most likely to put out. I wish I could phrase it differently but it is just a matter of bar fact. She usually drinks the most, is more willing to try crazy things and will go along with most of your plans during the night. Unfortunately for P-Rex this leaves him in the cold with the mother hen. The bonus to playing low man on the roster is that his drinks are free for the night. On the other side, his friends were paying for the entire trip, so perhaps it was his responsibility as a man to play that role anyways.
I introduced myself, took a chair and was immediately asked what I do for a living. I told them that I was working on this book when the quiet shy girl (we shall call her Bones) blurts out…
Bones: “you’re an asshole!”
I informed them that she was correct and then started to lay on the charm. Remember the adorable asshole routine we discussed earlier? This is where that pays off in dividends. I have already shocked them and now was the time for the turn. I began discussing the difference between emotional love and rational love with them. All the while smiling and flirting with Bones. By the time we hit the dance floor for the first time, they were unaware of what had hit them. We were holding each other like the night would never end, her head laying on my shoulder, and genuinely enjoying each other for the evening. Hayseed was dancing and putting the moves on Reba (the crazy friend), while P-Rex struggled to play his part with the hen pecking cock blocking cluck. We walked the girls back to our hotel, put them in a cab and made plans to meet up the next evening.
We had visited O’Sheas earlier in the day walking down the strip. I was drinking thirty two ounce beer bottles and complaining about the triple digit heat. Hayseed was commenting on how intelligent massive intake of alcohol is in this kind of heat when I heard the Irish tunes. I went flying into the little casino to be greeted by a stripping midget dressed as a leprechaun on the bar. He was free pouring a bottle of tequila into a twenty one year old girl’s mouth with one hand. His other hand was removing his leprechaun outfit as he danced in front of her. Only in Las Vegas. But while we took pictures of this event the loud speaker came from overhead like the voice of God.
Announcer: “the beer pong tournament will begin in five minutes in the beer pong room.”
They now had my complete and undivided attention. A beer pong tournament… here? We decided that we would meet the girls here and play a round or two with them. Beer pong is a college classic that is sure to get any evening kicked off in the right direction. I had only brought one collared shirt on this trip, the same one I had worn the evening before. Lucky for me, I am so amazing that I can impress a girl in the same clothes from the night before. The girls finally arrived, but were invited to play at various tables with other groups of guys. Normally I would never allow this to happen, but I figured we were in Vegas… if these girls didn’t work out, there would surely be more waiting at the next location. Fortunately for us, Reba brought her brother who worked in town. Reba and Koch were playing a group of douche bag frat boy posers when we joined them.
After three rounds of shit talking to these guys the competitive juices started flowing. Reba was so brutal on them that they literally appeared to be on the brink of tears. They started throwing the ping pong balls at her instead of rolling them back. One frat guy was telling her to shut the fuck up or he was going to kick all of our asses. Hayseed and I were getting ready to throw down Chuck Norris style when the other members of our group informed us that they were leaving. Bones had been a little distant with me, and I was assuming that we were not invited to join them. Hayseed went to use the restroom while I walked her out to say good night. Lucky for me, my first impression was incorrect and she invited us to join them. They were heading to an off strip bar that Koch recommended after they made one stop along the way. I got the name of the bar, ordered two beers to go and hailed a cab.
I should warn any of you who are planning on going party in Las Vegas. The strip is great and there is more to do there than you can possibly imagine. But if you are given the opportunity to travel off strip, DON’T DO IT! I was paying for our ride when Hayseed stepped out of the cab. A girl on the crowded side walk raised her shirt over her exposed chest and screamed at him…
Girl at Double Down: “of course they’re real! Fake ones don’t bounce like this!”
He was still in shock when I joined him on the side walk. The girls had not yet arrived, but my beer supply was now running low. We decided to go inside so I could order up a new round. The bouncer checked our IDs and then curiously inquired as to whether or not we really desired entrance into this particular establishment. I informed him that I am David Kalua and continued into the bar. I was immediately stunned. I was drinking the last of my beer and listing the scene inside to myself.
1. Everybody in here except Hayseed and I are wearing black.
2. There are five ghostly figures painted on the red and black walls that appear to be naked female souls.
3. There are no knobs on the bathroom doors, only open holes where they used to be.
4. The pool tables are pushed against the wall in the corner of the room… there are no pool ques.
5. There is a large hand painted sign over the bar reading “Home of the Bacon Martini”
I was only slightly annoyed by the low rent version of a metal band whose music sounded more like a dying cat than anything else. When the girls finally arrived I was on my fourth round in the Double Down alone. They immediately went to the restroom (because they are braver than I am) and Hayseed came up to me asking what we should do when the people around realize we are there. I told him to get his back to a hard surface and just fight dirty. The girls returned telling us of how they were joined in the one toilet restroom by some strange girl who just pushed her way to the seat and started chatting them up while she went. I was very entertained by this place. Sadly, I seemed to be the only one. Koch was standing at the bar telling me how I had better watch myself with these girls every time I ordered a drink. The girls were sitting at the table with Hayseed trying not to touch anything… and Hayseed was waiting for the ass kicking he was positive would soon begin.
The girls soon finished their first and only round, stood up and requested that we escort them to their vehicle. We said good bye to them in the parking lot, without so much as a good bye kiss and decided that this night was not yet over. Hayseed turned to me with a look of great concern on his face and watched as I drank my beer and smiled. As I finished his look turned to fear and then disgust…
Hayseed: “We are going back in there aren’t we?”
I just chuckled to let him know that he was indeed correct in his assumption. As I strutted back into the bar room, he was mumbling something about my lack of fear of humans being troublesome. Hayseed decided that he now was in need of relief. As he headed to the bathroom, I ordered up a bacon martini. I figured that if they took the time to hand paint a sign for this drink, then I should be polite enough to try one. I have always been a huge fan of breakfast beers, but let me just say that breakfast foods and alcohol should never be mixed in the same glass. Upon hearing my order, the bartender asks if I would like to purchase vomit insurance with my drink. He has now piqued my interest so I naturally inquire further about this “Vomit Insurance.” I am told that for only $20 plus my drink that I may hurl all over the bar and destroy property at no further personal expense. Were I to decline this olive branch from him, then three rather large bouncers would hold me physically and financially responsible for my actions.
With the gauntlet thrown down, I decided to purchase said vomit insurance (the reason I keep mentioning it is simply that I am still in shock that such a policy is in existence) and two bacon martinis instead of the one. Never challenge me. It is here that I should clarify of what exactly the bacon martini consists. They take a few strips of cooked bacon and line the bottom of a martini glass with said bacon. They then pour a vodka martini over the contents of the glass and drop in your olives. At this point the fatty grease from the bacon rises to the top of the cup in a form of skin for the drink. As you can imagine… I was very happy that I decided to purchase the insurance. I put my bud lights in my back pockets, picked up the two glasses (the bonus to having a sober friend all of the time is that I can always order drinks for two and never look suspicious) and asked which way to the pool tables.
Determined to get twenty dollars worth from my insurance, I slammed both drinks and power hurled the entire contents (thirteen hours of non-stop drinking) of my stomach. When I stepped back to observe, it was seeping into the felt on the pool tables, dripping into the pockets and spilling over onto the floor. I was still laughing when Hayseed returned from the restroom, but I just wiped my face, pulled my beers from my back pockets and told him that we had better leave. On the way out I tipped the bartender and thanked him for his guidance. When we hit the streets the sad reality of being off strip in a bad neighborhood hit Hayseed… for all of ten seconds. The lights of the Hard Rock Café shown to us like a beacon in the night. He immediately hit the craps table and I asked him to order me drinks. The only thing better than having a sober friend so you can order multiple rounds at once is having a sober friend playing a table game in Vegas. He can order free drinks from the cocktail waitress for you.
I went wandering around the hallways in search of a restroom… I had been too afraid to use the one at the Double Down. After I had finally found one worthy of my evacuation, I washed up and headed back out to the casino floor. Immediately upon stepping back into the hallway I passed a really cute little Polynesian girl. We smiled at each other and she immediately turned around and came back towards me. I was mentally patting myself on the back as she told me that I had gorgeous eyes. I agreed with her we began a conversation as she escorted me back to find Hayseed. I was about to start really hitting on her when I had a realization. Here is a dressed up beautiful woman alone in a casino at four in the morning. Gee, I wonder what she does for a living? When I asked her about her chosen profession she was honest and told me that she was an escort. I apologized and told her that I would be disinclined to buy her a drink for her company… there is no way in hell that I will pay for sex.
When hooker #1 finally left I found Hayseed conversing with a rather large fellow at the bar. He had a small collection of adult beverages waiting for me, so I just chimed right in to their discussion. As it turned out he was a professional rugby player from New Zealand who was buying drinks for the entire floor. Distracted by his drink offers, I didn’t notice the attractive blonde with Rugby right away. She seemed bored so I began making small talk with her. Through leading questions I learned that she had just met Rugby tonight and was hanging around because he was kind of funny and willing to buy her drinks. Again I had that stinging feeling, a spider sense of sorts that detects possible call girls in my immediate vicinity. I inquired as to whether or not she was a prostitute. With a sense of disgust she informed me that she was not a hooker (had my radar failed?). Then with a hint of self pride she told me that she was in fact a stripper (good; radar operative). This leaves only one question left to be answered; was she on duty or off? She was off.
Seeing as they were not together we started flirting a little while Hayseed kept the larger gentleman distracted. Every once in awhile he would come back to us, ask if we wanted drinks and then return to his conversation, too drunk now to remember to bring us said drinks. Normally this would insult me, but his funny accent and cute stripper acquaintance were enough to keep me entertained. During the conversation I asked Stripper where we should go for our last night in Vegas. This evening was supposed to be our final night here, but I was having too much fun to leave. She began telling tales of a fantasy land of ultra exclusive night clubs and immoral women. The catch was that we would have to know people to gain admittance. I informed her that I am indeed David Kalua; however, we have no people in Vegas. This may have been the first realization that I could indeed be much more awesome than I am now.
She offered up her services to us for the next evening (the social kind, not the naked kind). I told her that I would be happy to see her the next evening, but I did not have a phone number to contact her.
Stripper: “That was your queue to ask for it dumbass…”
At this point I just told her that I am sometimes not too bright. When it comes to spitting game I am not accustomed to having women so blatantly throw it back in my face… to say the least I was impressed. We exchanged numbers and said goodnight. The desk clerk was a cute little Asian girl, but she was unwilling to negotiate a free room for us… so we just walked into the desert morning. As I began to look for cabs a black Escalade pulled up with two women in the front seats. My hooker radar was back up and running. Hooker #2 and #3 were more willing to negotiate than the desk clerk so I decided to entertain myself for a little while…
Hooker #2: “where are you guys heading?”
Dave: “The Tropicana.”
Hooker #3: “what are you going to do when you get there?”
Dave: “we haven’t decided yet.”
Hooker #2: “you guys want to party?”
Dave: “We might.”

You see, they are trying to get me to pay for sex. I do not pay for sex and I never will. Good looking people never have to pay for sex, it would be like slapping God in the face. He gave us this gift of attraction. Ugly people get the gift of prostitution. Anyways, all I really wanted was a free ride home so I could pass out. I had drank more than Mel Gibson before his apology to the Jewish faith.
Dave: “I tell you what… why don’t you give us a ride and we will negotiate partying on the way.”
Hooker#2: “why don’t we negotiate partying now? Then we will give you a ride.”
*I think she was onto my “free ride” plan at this point. Anyhow I am too drunk to argue and too bored to care. Take notes gentlemen… a cab ride is always cheaper than a woman.

The cabby dropped us off at the Hooter’s Casino on our way back home. Rather I screamed “STOP” in the middle of the road, jumped out of the cab and sprinted inside. Hayseed paid the man and quickly followed me. I guess the cabby wasn’t too happy with me. Oh well, he drives in Vegas… I am positive he is used to drunk people at 5:30 in the morning. At any rate, Hayseed made an incredible run at the craps table here, while I don’t even remember losing the last $100 in cash that I was carrying. We charged the room for one more night when I returned at 7:30am. I had been politely asked to leave the Hooter’s Casino for screaming out random profanity at the poker table. I had decided that the dealer was in on cheating me when one gal won 24 straight called hands in a row. That is an amazing feat in poker, even for a pro. When she river turned quads for the second time in twenty minutes I just decided to pretend that I had tourettes. They were unamused.
*We had been up and drinking for almost twenty four hours straight. God bless Sin City.





Now mind you that this is not my writing. I am just a player in the game.