Editor’s Note: This post has been translated from its original Kimberlese. It is meant to be read fast.
Russell and I leave for Vegas at 1 in the afternoon. So of course we leave at 2. It’s smooth sailing on the I-15 until we hit Cleghorn. We nickname it Foghorn Cleghorn. Har-dee, I say, har-dee-har-har. We stop for waters at a gas station in Barstow. The women’s bathroom smells like meth. Never smelled meth, but that’s what it is. We pass Zyzzyx Road. Russell tells me there’s a movie named after it with Katherine Heigl. It made $30 at the box office—the lowest grossing movie of all time. Poor Katherine Heigl. We cross the state line. I get a tweet from my cousin, but that’s another post.
My siblings are at the house we’re renting and wonder where I am. I text them we’ll arrive in minutes and demand a cocktail be ready. Minutes later, we arrive. Cocktail is ready. My brother roofied me. A road trip of jerky and nuts is not enough to counterbalance the booze. I’m falling-over drunk 10 minutes after parking. Yay. Vegas. My brother roofied me. The family gussies up and we head out to the strip. My brother Matt sits in the passenger seat and gives Russell, the navigational retard, gentle directions to Mandalay Bay. We have dinner at Ri Ra Irish Pub. The servers have fake accents, but I have an authentic Guinness and share a Reuben with Russell. The bill is divided between the couples. They forget to include my meal on it. Sucks to be them.
We trade this pub for another. Nine Fine Irishmen at New York-New York. They have a 3-piece band. I dance. I fall ass-over-teakettle in front of the entire bar. I dance more. The female singer catches me in the bathroom later and wonders if I was the girl that fell. My brother roofied me. Russell and I call it a night. No Matt to give him gentle directions, so we drive entirely the wrong way home. Many illegal U-turns later, we’re back. Skin of teeth. I pass out.
I’m roused from my coma just before noon. Russell’s been up for hours—can’t roofie a sober guy. We head out for a day with no plan. We saunter into the Pinball Hall of Fame. I find my Addams Family machine I used to play in college. I remember sucking less. Russell tells me he wants to get nerdy (i.e. be himself) at A Gamer’s Paradise. It’s off of Charleston on the wrong end of town. The neighborhoods are cordoned off to discourage drug dealing. Fun. We stop for gas. A hobo (political correctness be damned) offers us “free gas” from an old gas can. Super fun. Russell’s stupid little game store has no windows to the outside world and the clerk smells like nothing that’s ever gone into, or out from, a human orifice. Super duper fun.
We make it back to the strip and find Bonanza, the world’s largest gift shop. Russell gets me the world’s greatest magnet, as well as the world’s greatest band-aids for his family in California. We go to The Mirage and decide on Carnegie Delicatessen. I wanted borscht, but also a non-farting butt, so we opted for their Greek salad. Delicious, but the complementary pickles smelled of fish. In case you aren’t in the business of sensing themes, Vegas has very interesting odors. A few drinks later, Russell and I go back to the house for chitchat and more drinks. I mention the fishy pickles and am one-upped by “yeah, well Whole Foods has vagina-scented fish.” I love my family. The entire crew pretties up and heads back to the strip.
Bouchon Bistro at The Venetian. This is the second “big” dinner for my 4oth birthday. I’m worth it, right Russell? I have the Gigot d’Agneau. Russell has the Boudin Blanc. We split the Moëlle Rôtie and the Salade de Magret de Canard. Fancy. Thomas Keller owns the joint. He was the culinary consultant for Ratatouille. None of his genius was fictionalized for the movie. The wait staff clearly hates working there. Every mistake is corrected by the floor managers in wannabe mafioso suits. The only time our server smiles is when he drops my spoon on the floor.
We go to O’Sheas. Drinks, gambling, drinks.
We go to Wild Bill’s. Drinks, karaoke, drinks.
Russell and I call it a night.
I pass out.
Cock-a-doodle-do. It’s noon, but whatever. Cereal sounds good. My brother-in-law has eaten the marshmallows from the organic Lucky Charms knockoff—which is something we all do, when we’re 12. Everyone that’s not Russell is hungover. We rally at 3 for the Bellagio’s buffet. Our crowd dissents, hemming and hawing about the quality of buffet food until the lunch price becomes the dinner price. China Poblano is decided instead. Interesting fusion food abounds. Duck tongue tacos paired with shrimp/pork belly dumplings? Duh. Grandma calls. The wee ones left behind are worse for wear. Fevers. Barfing. Panic spreads wide between the parents. I remain calm. The greatness of divorce is that one parent is always with the children. Let their dad deal with that shit. Maniacal laugh.
Mass hugging ensues and my extended family goes back to California. Time for more misadventures with my man. We walk just under 3 million miles to my favorite stomping ground, MGM Grand. Inside my favorite stomping ground is my favorite slot machine, Wheel of Fortune. I play $10 and turn it to $40. The proceeds go to that most generous of charities: Drinks and video poker at my favorite bar (Centrifuge) near my favorite slot machine inside my favorite stomping ground. The waitress dances on the bar top. I want her cute outfit but not her sad chest.
3 million miles back to the car. We hit CVS halfway for stuffs. Bags are heavy but look at my gentleman boy doing the grunt work. The valet gets a fin. We go home, convertible style. We have no keys. I pee behind some bushes. Russell breaks inside the house. Jacuzzi. Pool table. Drinks. Rinse. Repeat. I pass out.
Breakfast at noon. House is tidied one last time. Never been to Fremont Street. That changes. We immediately see why it’s not featured in brochures. They didn’t even light it up for yours truly. At least the souvenirs are about $3 cheaper per item. A random man stares hard into my chest as though he’s trying to find my shoulder blades. Feel dirty. We find a jerky store. Venison jerky. Elk jerky. And every other meat of legend. It is the ideal place to loot during the zombie invasion. We’re calling dibs. One last casino—who cares which one in this part of town? Drop $25 in slot machine. Nada tostada. We get the Foosball Underwear Clockmaker Kitchen (if you enjoy making acronyms) out of Vegas. Traffic sucks. Home. Drinks. Drinks. Drinks. I pass out.
There you have it. Remarkably, we did all of the aforementioned for just under a grand and walked away with no less than 500 ReKimmendations—1 for every drink. This has been my longest post ever, and here I wasn’t gonna talk about Vegas at all. I must really love you. Time to pass out.