One-Armed Bandits, Shady Dealers, and Die Oh My!

Last weekend I made a jaunt to the town well-beloved by Nevada's public utilities. The town of excesses, of loose morals, and looser women. The town where alcohol flows like water and where the odds are stacked against you, at least in terms of gambling, but are stacked in your favor when it comes to having a good time. Of course I'm referring to the other "City That Never Sleeps": Las Vegas.

Me and two other buddies (Jimmy and Matt) decided to take this ultimate road trip as a celebration of Jimmy's 30th year on this planet. What better way to piss away your 20's than in the Den of Decadence that is Vegas?

Jimbo and I ensured that the tunes had been steadily streaming through the cd player of Matt's CR-V during our 6 hour journey, but it was Jimmy who particularly fancied himself as a musical maestro. He popped in an eclectic mix covering everything from Vegas staples like Sinatra and Elvis, to the cheesy British tarts the Spice Girls and the laughable jock jams staples the C&C Music Factory, to the pure rockin-out fun of 80's hair bands Poison and Motley Crue.

After what seemed like an interminable ride, due to the stop-and-start traffic and the sweat-inducing greenhouse effect that I endured while sitting in the back seat, we eventually came across the Promised Land, or Land of Broken Promises, to be more precise. Well this was after we hit the mirage that is Las Fake-Ass, the collection of small-time casinos that seeks to entice weary travelers into its mediocre environs with the likes of Hootie and the Blowfish. Well if you ask me, they certainly do put the "blow" in blowfish. Viva Las Fake-Ass!

Coming up on the REAL strip at night really is a beautiful sight. My companions and I turned down the radio and gasped in awe at the electrical audacity that unfolded before our star-struck eyes. Little did we know of the pain, torture, and unyielding horror that was to come. I kid...I'm just trying to build some tension here. Well, it is kinda true..sorta.

So anyway we checked in and got straight to business--washing our stink-infused bodies of course (separately I might add, you sickos). After the much-needed clean-up, coupled with a quick brush-up of gaming rules, we made it down to the casino of the illustrious Tropicana resort in which we were staying. Indeed, we spared no expense. Only the finest for these Three Amigos.

Well it didn't take Jimmy much time to lose like $80. I feel for the guy, I really do, but it's like he's allergic to money or something. Like he's the positive end of some sort of magnet and money is the positive end of another magnet. Like money is the square peg to his round hole. The oil to his water...I think you get what I mean. I would call it poor luck, but I know it's a bad sign when you're doubling, trippling, or even quadruppling your bet after a loss so you can make it back. This is the guy who goes All-In with a pair of deuces during a grueling Texas Hold 'Em showdown. You just can't do stuff like that! But I'm definitely one to talk--I know I laid it down thick quite a few times when I thought Lady Luck was betrothing herself to me. I later discovered she was banging Matt on the side, the SLUT!

Matt's luck certainly prevailed for the duration of our journey. He definitely wasn't a "crappy" Craps player, that's for sure! [Folks, that's just a sample of the kind of humor that was continuously heard throughout our trip--you don't even want to hear the various offshoots of the word "crap" that were uttered throughout the trip]. Anyway, I was pleased to find that Matt was a gracious winner as he covered cab fare on numerous occasions when Jimmy and I would've walked miles to save money. Matt even bought Jimmy and I a delicious gourmet lunch buffet. That day I kissed my Atkins diet goodbye. Ah, there's nothing quite like self-indulgence!

The second night of our two-night trip we found ourselves at the infamous Scores Gentleman's Club. By "found" I don't mean to imply that we innocently ended up there, as if by accident:

Jimmy: Oh look guys--there's Scores!
Matt: How did we end up here?
Jon: I don't know, but let's check it out!
Jimmy: Radical!

Actually, we carefully planned our nipple-gazing night out, aided by the sage advice of a local salty cab driver. Cab drivers seem to know about every titty bar--it's just what they do.

Consider what's in a name--"Gentleman's Club". Who are they kidding? When you see "Gentleman's Club" outside of some establishment, you know there be some straight up naked-ass biotches up in there and certainly no "gentlemen" to be found! And when drunk men are mixed with naked women we turn into ADD retards--it's a scientific fact. Believe it or not, but we spent 1/4 of a day at the club (that's 6 hours to the mathmatically-impaired). This was in no small part due to J-bone's infatuation with the boobs of the moment.

There was one pair of the evening that REALLY intrigued him--the twins. These carbon-copy chicas made Jimmy a sandwich, and I aint talkin about food here folks. It was like living a Wrigley's Spearmint Gum commercial: "Double the pleasure, double the fun, two pieces of A$$ are better than one". Isn't that how the jingle went?

Through the course of the evening one lucky lady found her way into Jimmy's heart...as well as his wallet. No, it wasn't Lady Luck (although she had dipped into his pockets earlier)--no, we left that 'ho bound and gagged at the casino. So this girl took Jimbo to the V.I.P. (or "Very Inflated Prices") lounge in the hopes of inflating his ego (amongst other things) while simultaneously deflating his bank account. This vixen's name was Montana (yup, like the state). Personally I think her name should've been "IdaHO", but that's just me.

Surely this was an unlikely duo: Jimmy, the mellowed out surfer-punk-stoner; Montana, the top-heavy harlot with substantial assets, a nice rack, and did I mention her ta-tas? I can't really comment on her personality, but nothing about her seemed real. Is it possible to be 40% silicone and still live? She was like some kind of fleshy cyborg--the Boobinator, if you will. Wouldn't it be cool if she could hide guns or drugs or something in her fun bags? You could detach them and write a song about them: "Detachable Titties" by Queen Missile. But I digress...

Although I hated to see Jimmy spending his money like a High-Roller when he, along with Matt and I, belongs somewhere in the Micro-Roller range, I was glad to see him happy. I couldn't argue with his reasoning when he said that spending money on boobies was ten times better than losing it to some crappy casino . You know, there's just no inherent flaws in that logic! Just try to find any!!!

Throughout the course of our cross-state expedition and our subsequent schenanigans, our interchanges were peppered with humor. One of my own quotes from the strip club stands out: "If you mess with [the strippers] you'll find yourself on the business end of a bunch of bananas". This of course was in reference to Gargantua the Bouncer and his Death-Grip Banana-Hands. And you couldn't help but bust a gut to Matt's wry rendering of good 'ol Mr. James Coburn and that time back in a 1950's barnhouse when he contracted syphillis (from that dirty whore Lady Luck, no less). Of course Jimmy's constant references to his awesomeness and pleas for some birthday love (in the form of monetary compensation) were always welcome (and laughable).

Our trip was also filled with brotherly love. Despite our collective financial losses (excluding Luckyass Matt of course), we were able to come together and reminisce about the "good 'ol days" on the trip home. Ah, it was a fine trip indeed, one that I'll remember for quite some time--like that time in a 1950's barnhouse...

Just remember kids--what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.