Didn't this thread also have the "Ask her if she wants to play a game of BBQ" line?Ah yes, found it.Evilgrin 72 said:
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Story Time with EG - ***OFFICIAL THREAD*** (The "Magnum Opus" is complete 5/17/18) (2 Viewers)
- Thread starter Evilgrin 72
- Start date
Evilgrin 72
Distributor of Pain
I think I may have copy/pasted everything I can think of off the top of my head. I'll try to find time to post some new tales here and there. They're not all gold, but should at least provide mild entertainment/amusement.
DA RAIDERS
Footballguy
.
bryhamm
Footballguy
sports_fan
Footballguy
Gianni Verscotchie
Footballguy
.
Evilgrin 72
Distributor of Pain
A super-quickie two-fer Friday about the same friend of mine, we'll call Chris.
Chris is about 5' 4", bald, stocky. Picture a shorter George Costanza but without the glasses, head completely shaved (now) and a goatee. Actually, if you're a die-hard Seinfeld fan, he looks kind of like the guy Mike that George beefed with over the parking space in front of Jerry's building, only without glasses. Not the best looking guy. One time, he was pretty hard up, as usual, and a girl I worked with, who was fat and unattractive, was moaning one day about not having had a date in a long time. I decided to set her up with Chris as a sort of practical joke on him, thinking that there was probably a 20% chance he was hard up enough to actually bang this chick. However it worked out was fine by me. I really glazed over just how fat and ugly she was when pitching this to Chris and with my extremely charitable description, he signed on.
Fast forward to the date night. Rest of my friends and I are at our local bar when Chris comes rolling in, looking annoyed.
"Dude, that chick was f**king gross !" he yells at me. "Your description was total bull s**t - you said she was 'mediocre'"
Without missing a beat, I said : "No, no.. I said she was a meaty ogre."
Chris continued to stare at me, stone faced, while the rest of my group completely broke up laughing for about the next 3 minutes straight. It still comes up now and again. An aside : this guy married a girl who was almost as fat and ugly as the one I fixed him up with, cheated on her with yet ANOTHER fat and ugly woman, with whom he's now shacked up after his fat wife found out and divorced him.
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Same dude, a couple of years before this, brought out a girl he worked with one night to hang with our usual group of degenerates. This girl was about 3" taller than him and had an OUTRAGEOUS body. Her only problem was she had a fairly distinct horse-face. Body was a 9.5, face was a 4.5. She was still way out of his league, and I was actually pretty proud that he'd gotten her out and was hoping to grease the skids for him as he hadn't been laid in months. Well, my group of friends has to be one of the biggest groups of ball-busters this side of Kiev. They let NO opportunity to relentlessly make fun of someone pass them by and it will go on for hours. So, as soon as Chris and this girl "Joy" were out of ear-shot, the horse face jokes started. She must like him because she mistook him for a jockey... I wonder if he's going to ride her later... all the obvious zingers. After about 15-20 minutes of this, Chris and Joy re-appear and rejoin the group, putting a temporary halt to the onslaught of horse jokes. Somehow, the conversation turns to sleeping habits and when people go to sleep and get up. Everyone is still abuzz waiting for them to walk off so we can get back to the abuse, when i think of it. It's too perfect, I can't pass it up. Joy is talking about when she sets her alarm so she can get up to run before work and I slide in :
"What time do you usually hit the hay?"
There's a 1 second pause as she inhales and prepares to answer me and then the entire group just explodes with laughter. My friend Daryl started choking and actually fell back against the bar and hit the floor. Everyone is dying. I'm standing there stone-faced, trying to pretend that the question was innocuous, where it's bracingly apparent that something is hilarious to everyone else and that I'm disingenuously pretending not to know why. As there are only 8 words in the sentence, there's not much for her to sort through. I can only pray that she doesn't know she has a horse face and put 2 and 2 together.
Evidently, she didn't, because 2 hours and about 6 drinks later, she grabbed my package when Chris wasn't looking. I turned her away that night, but she "broke up" with him a few days later and kept showing up at my house 2-3 nights a week ringing the bell until she caught me on a night when I was drunk and horny and I plowed the snot out of her for about 2 hours.
-Fin-
Chris is about 5' 4", bald, stocky. Picture a shorter George Costanza but without the glasses, head completely shaved (now) and a goatee. Actually, if you're a die-hard Seinfeld fan, he looks kind of like the guy Mike that George beefed with over the parking space in front of Jerry's building, only without glasses. Not the best looking guy. One time, he was pretty hard up, as usual, and a girl I worked with, who was fat and unattractive, was moaning one day about not having had a date in a long time. I decided to set her up with Chris as a sort of practical joke on him, thinking that there was probably a 20% chance he was hard up enough to actually bang this chick. However it worked out was fine by me. I really glazed over just how fat and ugly she was when pitching this to Chris and with my extremely charitable description, he signed on.
Fast forward to the date night. Rest of my friends and I are at our local bar when Chris comes rolling in, looking annoyed.
"Dude, that chick was f**king gross !" he yells at me. "Your description was total bull s**t - you said she was 'mediocre'"
Without missing a beat, I said : "No, no.. I said she was a meaty ogre."
Chris continued to stare at me, stone faced, while the rest of my group completely broke up laughing for about the next 3 minutes straight. It still comes up now and again. An aside : this guy married a girl who was almost as fat and ugly as the one I fixed him up with, cheated on her with yet ANOTHER fat and ugly woman, with whom he's now shacked up after his fat wife found out and divorced him.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Same dude, a couple of years before this, brought out a girl he worked with one night to hang with our usual group of degenerates. This girl was about 3" taller than him and had an OUTRAGEOUS body. Her only problem was she had a fairly distinct horse-face. Body was a 9.5, face was a 4.5. She was still way out of his league, and I was actually pretty proud that he'd gotten her out and was hoping to grease the skids for him as he hadn't been laid in months. Well, my group of friends has to be one of the biggest groups of ball-busters this side of Kiev. They let NO opportunity to relentlessly make fun of someone pass them by and it will go on for hours. So, as soon as Chris and this girl "Joy" were out of ear-shot, the horse face jokes started. She must like him because she mistook him for a jockey... I wonder if he's going to ride her later... all the obvious zingers. After about 15-20 minutes of this, Chris and Joy re-appear and rejoin the group, putting a temporary halt to the onslaught of horse jokes. Somehow, the conversation turns to sleeping habits and when people go to sleep and get up. Everyone is still abuzz waiting for them to walk off so we can get back to the abuse, when i think of it. It's too perfect, I can't pass it up. Joy is talking about when she sets her alarm so she can get up to run before work and I slide in :
"What time do you usually hit the hay?"
There's a 1 second pause as she inhales and prepares to answer me and then the entire group just explodes with laughter. My friend Daryl started choking and actually fell back against the bar and hit the floor. Everyone is dying. I'm standing there stone-faced, trying to pretend that the question was innocuous, where it's bracingly apparent that something is hilarious to everyone else and that I'm disingenuously pretending not to know why. As there are only 8 words in the sentence, there's not much for her to sort through. I can only pray that she doesn't know she has a horse face and put 2 and 2 together.
Evidently, she didn't, because 2 hours and about 6 drinks later, she grabbed my package when Chris wasn't looking. I turned her away that night, but she "broke up" with him a few days later and kept showing up at my house 2-3 nights a week ringing the bell until she caught me on a night when I was drunk and horny and I plowed the snot out of her for about 2 hours.
-Fin-
Bob Sacamano
Footballguy
I can't believe she hoofed it to your place 3 nights a week.
Evilgrin 72
Distributor of Pain
Evilgrin 72
Distributor of Pain
Evilgrin 72
Distributor of Pain
ClownCausedChaos2
Footballguy
Did she like to be talked derby to?
ClownCausedChaos2
Footballguy
Evilgrin 72
Distributor of Pain
You. You're good, you.
Baloney Sandwich
Footballguy
Good stuff
DA RAIDERS
Footballguy
i guess ridden and put away wet would apply here?
Officer Pete Malloy
Footballguy
I WOULD SAY SOMETHING BUT I'M A LITTLE HORSE. GET IT? HORSE? I'M A LITTLE HORSE!
Bob Sacamano
Footballguy
Zow
Footballguy
hey, quit being such an ###
eta: it'd be funnier if it weren't for the language filter
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gianmarco
Footballguy
Angry Beavers
Footballguy
black dot
Baloney Sandwich
Footballguy
That's it?
Evilgrin 72
Distributor of Pain
No, there will be more, it's a time issue. I have a couple of long, involved weekend tales to tell sometime.
The point of this thread wasn't really to be a blog or anything, a handful of people had asked me to consolidate some tales that were spread across several threads. There are a lot more in the hopper though, just need to find time to write them all out.
The point of this thread wasn't really to be a blog or anything, a handful of people had asked me to consolidate some tales that were spread across several threads. There are a lot more in the hopper though, just need to find time to write them all out.
IvanKaramazov
Footballguy
Some of us would chip in to buy you some time off work so you could devote more time to this enterprise.
shadyridr
Footballguy
not me. Thats where he gets half his material.
Evilgrin 72
Distributor of Pain
New Year's Eve 2000-2001, Las Vegas.
Drove down on the morning of the 31st with my roommate Dan, the girl I was holding upright at the bar in the "crapped my pants and had a threesome" story, Brandy (same story), and this dude Ryan. Ryan was meeting 7-8 of his friends down there (none of whom I had ever met) and one of his friends had a brother that lived in Suburban Vegas so we had a free place to crash for the night. That's about all the backstory you need.
Chapter 1 - The afternoon session.
Arrived in Vegas early afternoon local time and met all the folks I'd be hanging with for the next 24 hours or so. After 3-4 warm up beers, some of the folks decided to go to a local driving range/chip and putt course to hit golf balls for a while, including all the females. I opted to hang back and drink beer instead. Not 5 minutes after they left, the 5-6 remaining dudes all decide to go to Olympic Gardens. We're starting things off with a bang. We get in this guy Rick's Durango and as soon as he turns they ket, the deftones "Adrenaline" starts blaring from the speakers. There's a reason we're still friends today.
Fast forward an hour or so and I'm sitting at the bar at the OG. The bartender hands me a 16 ounce rum and coke and there's a fine looking dancer gyrating on the bar about 5 feet to my right. I pay for the drink and about 8 seconds later, the dancer accidentally hits a preposterously large stack of plastic cups the bartender has inexplicably constructed between myself and the dancer. Naturally, they tip my way, hit my rum & coke, and dump the ENTIRE thing right into my lap. I'm wearing lighter colored khakis and a light blue button down shirt and both are completely covered with dark, syrupy cola. Fantastic. The bartender, apologetic, pours me a replacement drink : a 16 ounce glass filled with Bacardi and ice, with a splash of Coke and a lime wedge. We're talking 8-10 ounces of rum, minimum. It's roughly 2:45 PM.
4:00 - I think I'm in a liquor store, but I'm not sure. It's daylight out, but things are extraordinarily blurry and I'm not 100% sure where I am.
4:15 - I'm in a public bathroom somewhere and I know I just performed some alchemy, but I don't remember doing it all that well. What I do know is that there is a liter of what tastes like cream soda in each of my front overcoat pockets and a 16 oz Coke bottle filled with Jagermeister in the breast pocket. Now I remember, the front pockets are Captain Morgan and Sprite. Why have I done all of this? I walk outside and a dude I barely know from our party holds out a bag of mushrooms and asks if I want a couple of caps. Sure, what could it possibly hurt? I gobble them down and wash it down with a long pull of Jagermeister. (This combo will rear it's head again in "The Porta-John camping trip story.")
Chapter 2 - The Evening Session
7:00 - I'm in the casino at Mandalay Bay. I don't remember how I got here. The mushrooms are now raging, however, and my obscene drunkenness has morphed into some hybrid state of inebriation I can't quite put my finger on. The alcohol, the 'shrooms, and the enormous joint I just smoked are having a mixer in my brain and the effects are unlike anything I have experienced prior. I desperately want to play blackjack at the lone remaining $10 table that's been grandfathered in at this point, but a seat is being taken up by Jazz forward Donyell Marshall, who drove in separately from me. This displeases me, and with disturbingly increased frequency, I begin to launch barbs in his direction. "Six million dollars a year? Hey, I know, let's play $10 a hand !!" "UCONN represent !!!" "Cheap motherf#$ker !!"
That last one made him turn around with a scowl. That was when I remembered he wasn't on TV, but was a 6' 9" professional athlete standing 10 feet away with not much between us. I abandoned my dream of playing $10 blackjack and got the hell out of there. One of the other guys we're hanging out with follows me out and gestures toward the bathroom. Going in there, he guides me into a stall and cuts out two long lines of what I thought was cocaine, but was actually crystal meth. **SNIFFFFFFFF**
7:30 - My brain is scrambled. The alcohol, weed, 'shrooms, and meth have joined forces like the Death Star's firing mechanism and fired upon the Alderaan that is my head. I'm alternately manic, chill, giggling, staring into space. I don't know what the hell is going on. I pull heartily from the Captain and Sprite. The first liter is gone already.
8:00 - The second liter is gone and I'm into the Jagermeister, standing in front of one of the major casinos, I'm not sure which. There are literally hundreds of thousands of people all over The Strip partying and waiting for the midnight fireworks show that's going to start at Mandalay and go from rooftop to rooftop of every major casino all the way down the strip. Some schvantz bumps into me, hard. I look at him and see he has the Graffix logo (clown) tattooed on his neck. Now, I grew up in and around New York City and have seen and experienced pickpocketing before. As he melts into the crowd, I begin checking my pockets. Sure enough, my GD wallet is missing. I grab the arm of the guy nearest me, a dude named Chris I'd only met a few hours prior and tell him to follow me as I begin to push through the dense crowd, looking for him. He was moving in the direction of the casino, so I assume he's headed indoors. We push through the crowd and inside the casino. I'm frantically looking around and sure that I've lost him when I spot his ### getting on a long escalator - the tattoo has given him away. I grab Chris and we bolt towards the escalator. He's about half way down when I get on, but he doesn't see me. I'm pushing my way through disgruntled casino patrons trying to get closer without letting him know I'm on to him, but it's slow going. As he gets close to the bottom of the escalator, I'm maybe 4-5 steps above him, but the crowd is looser and I have a clear look at him. Just as he's about to reach the bottom, I dive with all of my might and hit him right in the back of the neck just as he steps off. He's not a big guy and my weight and momentum take him to the floor hard as people gasp and start to gather around us. I yell to Chris to come down and search him for my wallet as I pin his face to the floor with my knee. He's yelling all sorts of epithets at me, but it's hard to hear him with a face full of knee and I have his arms pinned behind him. Chris runs down and in about 8 seconds, finds my wallet in his pocket. He gives it to me as I begin pummeling the guy, not caring at this point whether or not he has a weapon, if security is coming, etc. I'm fighting back for each and every person who's ever been robbed in a crowd and the crystal meth is fueling the rage. I'm like Ralphie in a Christmas Story whaling on Scut Farkas, oblivious to consequences.
A few seconds later, a bystander who has figured out what is going on and that I'm the good guy tells me that security is en route in a hurry and that I'd better get the hell out of there. Reality sets in and I get off the guy and Chris and I sprint for the doors to freedom, which (thank God) are only a few feet away. We get out onto the Strip and disappear into the crowd....
Chapter 3 - The Night Session.
8:30 - We've now moved through the crowd and crossed Las Vegas Blvd. I think we're in front of the MGM Grand now. We move inside to get off the street. My adrenaline is still going a million miles an hour between the myriad drugs coursing through my system and the fear that at any second, I'm going to be grabbed and booked for assault and battery. I tell Chris I want to run through MGM Grand and go out the back and make our way off the Strip. He has no interest and is trying to reassure me that I'm safe at this point, but I am not having it. Eyes like saucers, I start power walking through the MGM but my progress is being impeded by a black gentleman and his date, who are meandering in front of me. As I curse his unhurried pace, I begin to notice that people walking in the other direction are frequently pointing and gawking at him. I move from directly behind him to about a 45 degree angle view and I see it's Arsenio Hall. A number of thoughts are running through my head, but chief among them is how to get around him. I wait until there's a break in the traffic coming the other way and then I launch into a dead sprint to get by him.
Now this is the part I simply cannot explain. Rare are the occasions in my life, as absurd as much of it has been, where I simply cannot tell you what I was thinking, or what the motivation behind my actions was. However, this is one of those times. As I ran by him at top speed, for some unknown reason, I decided to smack his ###. Now, when I say smack, I'm not talking about a swat like he's just hit a 2-run homer to tie the game at 3 in the bottom of the seventh. I mean, I hauled off and smacked his left buttcheek as HARD as I possibly could. It made an audible **crack** sound that brought me as close to white guilt as I'd ever been before or since. I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd yelled out that his name was Toby. I heard a couple people yell out stuff like "DAAAMN !!" but I never even slowed to see his reaction. He likely had 3-4 red fingerprints on his left cheek underneath that silk suit, but I didn't break stride. I kept right on sprinting into the crowd and never looked back.
12:15 - The fireworks are over and I'm standing in, of all places, the San Remo casino. This place doesn't even exist anymore, last I'd heard, it had been re-branded as the Hooters casino/hotel. I haven't seen anyone I came with in hours and I have absolutely no idea how to get back to the house I'm supposed to be staying at, or even what the guy's name is who lives there. Of course, this is pre-cell phone era, so there's no way to get in touch with anyone, and it's New Year's Eve, so the possibility of a vacant room ANYWHERE is, shall we say, remote. This is all beginning to register as the meth and the mushrooms are wearing off, leaving me with a strong alcohol buzz and a major case of come-down bummers. Just then, I hear a familiar voice.
"Ooooooh, my p***y hurts !! My p***y hurts !! F**k the San Remo and f**k you !!!"
That's my roommate !! I'd know that voice anywhere ! Unfortunately, he's reacting poorly to being flagged while standing at a craps table and is taking it out on the dealers, the cocktail waitress, anyone wearing a uniform. The croupier says : "OK, that's it, you're out of here" as he signals for the pit boss/security.
I hear Dan : "I'm out of here? I'm out of here? F**k you, YOU'RE out of here !!!!"
By the time I make my way over there, I'm doubled over laughing at the thought of my buddy (who's a large dude and a dead ringer for Stone Cold Steve Austin) trying to throw the croupier out of the casino he works at. I see him being escorted out, closely followed by the girl I was trying to hold upright in the pants-s**tting story I posted earlier. I follow them out the front door and am about to ask them where everyone else is, when Dan starts running down the street. I consider giving chase and then realize I'm just way too tired. He runs off and I turn to this girl and see she's holding my Jager soda bottle. She explains that I dropped it when I went after the bandito and she's been carrying it around in her purse all night. There's maybe 10-12 ounces of Jager in there yet. I grab it and chug it in one smooth motion.
Chapter 4 - the Morning Session
I snap awake in a panic at about 8:30 AM. My head is pulsing in agony, my leg is absolutely killing me, my shoulder and arm are sore. I have absolutely no clue where I am. I sit up and force my crusted-shut eyes to open and I'm in the nicest suite I have ever seen in my life. Think "Hangover." There's no one else in sight. I'm pressing buttons and televisions are rising out of marble tables, drapes are opening, etc. I get out of bed in severe pain and wonder and look out the window. I figure out that I'm at Bellagio. I look down and one of my pants legs is torn 3/4 of the way off around the knee. I have a deep 3" long gash on my leg and there's dried blood all the hell all over me. I start limping around the suite and as I go into the 2nd bathroom, I find threesome babe in the hot tub. She greets me with a smile and ushers me in.
Between a hummer and a reverse cowgirl session in an ornate chair in the main room (seriously,) she tells me that I went ape after chugging the Jagermeister. She'd shepherded me to Bellagio to meet up with Brandy and Ryan at their designated rendez-vous point (thank God someone had some sense) and I essentially fell apart once inside. She was walking me around the botanical gardens, feeding me water in a hopeless attempt to sober me up when I fell 3 feet into the gardens themselves, ripping my pants and knee open on the points of a cast-iron fence. Security descended upon us and the only way to avoid my being thrown out was for her to get a room there and get me out of Dodge. Naturally, it being NYE, there were no rooms, but to my unending luck, there was one villa available. Not realizing I'd gotten my wallet back, she plunked down $2,000 to rent the villa for the night. I tore the rest of my dangling pants leg off and looked at myself in the mirror. It was if someone had merged me with Sid Vicious. My hair was sticking up in every which direction, My pants were covered in blood and rum&coke, my shirt was torn. The only thing in good shape was the overcoat, but a long black overcoat on a businessman looks stately. A long black overcoat on a guy in the condition I'm in looks like I'm on my way to commit mopery.("Nerds" definition.) There's no way on Earth I can go out in public like this, but she assures me that Ryan and Brandy are going to pull up to the front entrance at noon sharp, we're going to hop in the car, and drive straight back to SLC. Hallelujah.
Chapter 5 - Aftermath
I'm still friends with every one of the guys I met that weekend. They all called me "Batman" for several months due to my flying leap off the escalator to recover my wallet and pound a pickpocket into submission. That would last a few more months until I earned a new nickname, but that's another story. I never paid that girl back dime 1 for the $2,000 room, and still feel a little bad about that. I still talk to her on social media and it comes up every now and again. Whatever, statute of limitations is up by now.
Dan apparently ran from the San Remo STRAIGHT TO MCCARRAN AIRPORT. Got on a red-eye flight back to SLC and beat us all home by many hours. He was quite a character and there will be more tales involving this nut in the future.
As for me, well - Brandy and Ryan showed up right on time. We hopped in the car and drive for a few hours when suddenly, they start getting off I-15. I sit up in the back and kindly ask what the f**k they think they're doing.
"Oh, I just promised my nana and pop-pop I'd stop in on the way home."
I almost died. I begged them to just drive back, but she HAAAD to visit. I get out of the car and walk in with a shiner on my face, ripped and stained pants, smelling like death, blood all over me. "Hi Grandma !!! I'm your sweet little grand-daughter's friend ! Look at meeee !" The look on her grandparents' faces when they caught a look at me was priceless. It looked like they'd seen a ghost at the precise moment that someone held a soup ladle full of leopard s**t directly under their noses. I'd have laughed if I wasn't so mortified. After some pleasantries, they stuck my on the sofa in the TV room as her grandfather was watching a syndicated Jeopardy re-run. With nothing left to lose, I started blurting out answers. As luck would have it, there were a couple of categories in a row that were firmly in my wheelhouse and I think I rattled off 8-9 straight correct answers. Her grandfather was mystified by this... how could someone who looks like THIS possibly have any intelligence whatsoever? After about my 14th correct answer in 15 or 16 questions, Gramps turned to me in disbelief and said :
"Hot damn, son ! You want a beer?"
------------------------------------ THE END ------------------------------------
Drove down on the morning of the 31st with my roommate Dan, the girl I was holding upright at the bar in the "crapped my pants and had a threesome" story, Brandy (same story), and this dude Ryan. Ryan was meeting 7-8 of his friends down there (none of whom I had ever met) and one of his friends had a brother that lived in Suburban Vegas so we had a free place to crash for the night. That's about all the backstory you need.
Chapter 1 - The afternoon session.
Arrived in Vegas early afternoon local time and met all the folks I'd be hanging with for the next 24 hours or so. After 3-4 warm up beers, some of the folks decided to go to a local driving range/chip and putt course to hit golf balls for a while, including all the females. I opted to hang back and drink beer instead. Not 5 minutes after they left, the 5-6 remaining dudes all decide to go to Olympic Gardens. We're starting things off with a bang. We get in this guy Rick's Durango and as soon as he turns they ket, the deftones "Adrenaline" starts blaring from the speakers. There's a reason we're still friends today.
Fast forward an hour or so and I'm sitting at the bar at the OG. The bartender hands me a 16 ounce rum and coke and there's a fine looking dancer gyrating on the bar about 5 feet to my right. I pay for the drink and about 8 seconds later, the dancer accidentally hits a preposterously large stack of plastic cups the bartender has inexplicably constructed between myself and the dancer. Naturally, they tip my way, hit my rum & coke, and dump the ENTIRE thing right into my lap. I'm wearing lighter colored khakis and a light blue button down shirt and both are completely covered with dark, syrupy cola. Fantastic. The bartender, apologetic, pours me a replacement drink : a 16 ounce glass filled with Bacardi and ice, with a splash of Coke and a lime wedge. We're talking 8-10 ounces of rum, minimum. It's roughly 2:45 PM.
4:00 - I think I'm in a liquor store, but I'm not sure. It's daylight out, but things are extraordinarily blurry and I'm not 100% sure where I am.
4:15 - I'm in a public bathroom somewhere and I know I just performed some alchemy, but I don't remember doing it all that well. What I do know is that there is a liter of what tastes like cream soda in each of my front overcoat pockets and a 16 oz Coke bottle filled with Jagermeister in the breast pocket. Now I remember, the front pockets are Captain Morgan and Sprite. Why have I done all of this? I walk outside and a dude I barely know from our party holds out a bag of mushrooms and asks if I want a couple of caps. Sure, what could it possibly hurt? I gobble them down and wash it down with a long pull of Jagermeister. (This combo will rear it's head again in "The Porta-John camping trip story.")
Chapter 2 - The Evening Session
7:00 - I'm in the casino at Mandalay Bay. I don't remember how I got here. The mushrooms are now raging, however, and my obscene drunkenness has morphed into some hybrid state of inebriation I can't quite put my finger on. The alcohol, the 'shrooms, and the enormous joint I just smoked are having a mixer in my brain and the effects are unlike anything I have experienced prior. I desperately want to play blackjack at the lone remaining $10 table that's been grandfathered in at this point, but a seat is being taken up by Jazz forward Donyell Marshall, who drove in separately from me. This displeases me, and with disturbingly increased frequency, I begin to launch barbs in his direction. "Six million dollars a year? Hey, I know, let's play $10 a hand !!" "UCONN represent !!!" "Cheap motherf#$ker !!"
That last one made him turn around with a scowl. That was when I remembered he wasn't on TV, but was a 6' 9" professional athlete standing 10 feet away with not much between us. I abandoned my dream of playing $10 blackjack and got the hell out of there. One of the other guys we're hanging out with follows me out and gestures toward the bathroom. Going in there, he guides me into a stall and cuts out two long lines of what I thought was cocaine, but was actually crystal meth. **SNIFFFFFFFF**
7:30 - My brain is scrambled. The alcohol, weed, 'shrooms, and meth have joined forces like the Death Star's firing mechanism and fired upon the Alderaan that is my head. I'm alternately manic, chill, giggling, staring into space. I don't know what the hell is going on. I pull heartily from the Captain and Sprite. The first liter is gone already.
8:00 - The second liter is gone and I'm into the Jagermeister, standing in front of one of the major casinos, I'm not sure which. There are literally hundreds of thousands of people all over The Strip partying and waiting for the midnight fireworks show that's going to start at Mandalay and go from rooftop to rooftop of every major casino all the way down the strip. Some schvantz bumps into me, hard. I look at him and see he has the Graffix logo (clown) tattooed on his neck. Now, I grew up in and around New York City and have seen and experienced pickpocketing before. As he melts into the crowd, I begin checking my pockets. Sure enough, my GD wallet is missing. I grab the arm of the guy nearest me, a dude named Chris I'd only met a few hours prior and tell him to follow me as I begin to push through the dense crowd, looking for him. He was moving in the direction of the casino, so I assume he's headed indoors. We push through the crowd and inside the casino. I'm frantically looking around and sure that I've lost him when I spot his ### getting on a long escalator - the tattoo has given him away. I grab Chris and we bolt towards the escalator. He's about half way down when I get on, but he doesn't see me. I'm pushing my way through disgruntled casino patrons trying to get closer without letting him know I'm on to him, but it's slow going. As he gets close to the bottom of the escalator, I'm maybe 4-5 steps above him, but the crowd is looser and I have a clear look at him. Just as he's about to reach the bottom, I dive with all of my might and hit him right in the back of the neck just as he steps off. He's not a big guy and my weight and momentum take him to the floor hard as people gasp and start to gather around us. I yell to Chris to come down and search him for my wallet as I pin his face to the floor with my knee. He's yelling all sorts of epithets at me, but it's hard to hear him with a face full of knee and I have his arms pinned behind him. Chris runs down and in about 8 seconds, finds my wallet in his pocket. He gives it to me as I begin pummeling the guy, not caring at this point whether or not he has a weapon, if security is coming, etc. I'm fighting back for each and every person who's ever been robbed in a crowd and the crystal meth is fueling the rage. I'm like Ralphie in a Christmas Story whaling on Scut Farkas, oblivious to consequences.
A few seconds later, a bystander who has figured out what is going on and that I'm the good guy tells me that security is en route in a hurry and that I'd better get the hell out of there. Reality sets in and I get off the guy and Chris and I sprint for the doors to freedom, which (thank God) are only a few feet away. We get out onto the Strip and disappear into the crowd....
Chapter 3 - The Night Session.
8:30 - We've now moved through the crowd and crossed Las Vegas Blvd. I think we're in front of the MGM Grand now. We move inside to get off the street. My adrenaline is still going a million miles an hour between the myriad drugs coursing through my system and the fear that at any second, I'm going to be grabbed and booked for assault and battery. I tell Chris I want to run through MGM Grand and go out the back and make our way off the Strip. He has no interest and is trying to reassure me that I'm safe at this point, but I am not having it. Eyes like saucers, I start power walking through the MGM but my progress is being impeded by a black gentleman and his date, who are meandering in front of me. As I curse his unhurried pace, I begin to notice that people walking in the other direction are frequently pointing and gawking at him. I move from directly behind him to about a 45 degree angle view and I see it's Arsenio Hall. A number of thoughts are running through my head, but chief among them is how to get around him. I wait until there's a break in the traffic coming the other way and then I launch into a dead sprint to get by him.
Now this is the part I simply cannot explain. Rare are the occasions in my life, as absurd as much of it has been, where I simply cannot tell you what I was thinking, or what the motivation behind my actions was. However, this is one of those times. As I ran by him at top speed, for some unknown reason, I decided to smack his ###. Now, when I say smack, I'm not talking about a swat like he's just hit a 2-run homer to tie the game at 3 in the bottom of the seventh. I mean, I hauled off and smacked his left buttcheek as HARD as I possibly could. It made an audible **crack** sound that brought me as close to white guilt as I'd ever been before or since. I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd yelled out that his name was Toby. I heard a couple people yell out stuff like "DAAAMN !!" but I never even slowed to see his reaction. He likely had 3-4 red fingerprints on his left cheek underneath that silk suit, but I didn't break stride. I kept right on sprinting into the crowd and never looked back.
12:15 - The fireworks are over and I'm standing in, of all places, the San Remo casino. This place doesn't even exist anymore, last I'd heard, it had been re-branded as the Hooters casino/hotel. I haven't seen anyone I came with in hours and I have absolutely no idea how to get back to the house I'm supposed to be staying at, or even what the guy's name is who lives there. Of course, this is pre-cell phone era, so there's no way to get in touch with anyone, and it's New Year's Eve, so the possibility of a vacant room ANYWHERE is, shall we say, remote. This is all beginning to register as the meth and the mushrooms are wearing off, leaving me with a strong alcohol buzz and a major case of come-down bummers. Just then, I hear a familiar voice.
"Ooooooh, my p***y hurts !! My p***y hurts !! F**k the San Remo and f**k you !!!"
That's my roommate !! I'd know that voice anywhere ! Unfortunately, he's reacting poorly to being flagged while standing at a craps table and is taking it out on the dealers, the cocktail waitress, anyone wearing a uniform. The croupier says : "OK, that's it, you're out of here" as he signals for the pit boss/security.
I hear Dan : "I'm out of here? I'm out of here? F**k you, YOU'RE out of here !!!!"
By the time I make my way over there, I'm doubled over laughing at the thought of my buddy (who's a large dude and a dead ringer for Stone Cold Steve Austin) trying to throw the croupier out of the casino he works at. I see him being escorted out, closely followed by the girl I was trying to hold upright in the pants-s**tting story I posted earlier. I follow them out the front door and am about to ask them where everyone else is, when Dan starts running down the street. I consider giving chase and then realize I'm just way too tired. He runs off and I turn to this girl and see she's holding my Jager soda bottle. She explains that I dropped it when I went after the bandito and she's been carrying it around in her purse all night. There's maybe 10-12 ounces of Jager in there yet. I grab it and chug it in one smooth motion.
Chapter 4 - the Morning Session
I snap awake in a panic at about 8:30 AM. My head is pulsing in agony, my leg is absolutely killing me, my shoulder and arm are sore. I have absolutely no clue where I am. I sit up and force my crusted-shut eyes to open and I'm in the nicest suite I have ever seen in my life. Think "Hangover." There's no one else in sight. I'm pressing buttons and televisions are rising out of marble tables, drapes are opening, etc. I get out of bed in severe pain and wonder and look out the window. I figure out that I'm at Bellagio. I look down and one of my pants legs is torn 3/4 of the way off around the knee. I have a deep 3" long gash on my leg and there's dried blood all the hell all over me. I start limping around the suite and as I go into the 2nd bathroom, I find threesome babe in the hot tub. She greets me with a smile and ushers me in.
Between a hummer and a reverse cowgirl session in an ornate chair in the main room (seriously,) she tells me that I went ape after chugging the Jagermeister. She'd shepherded me to Bellagio to meet up with Brandy and Ryan at their designated rendez-vous point (thank God someone had some sense) and I essentially fell apart once inside. She was walking me around the botanical gardens, feeding me water in a hopeless attempt to sober me up when I fell 3 feet into the gardens themselves, ripping my pants and knee open on the points of a cast-iron fence. Security descended upon us and the only way to avoid my being thrown out was for her to get a room there and get me out of Dodge. Naturally, it being NYE, there were no rooms, but to my unending luck, there was one villa available. Not realizing I'd gotten my wallet back, she plunked down $2,000 to rent the villa for the night. I tore the rest of my dangling pants leg off and looked at myself in the mirror. It was if someone had merged me with Sid Vicious. My hair was sticking up in every which direction, My pants were covered in blood and rum&coke, my shirt was torn. The only thing in good shape was the overcoat, but a long black overcoat on a businessman looks stately. A long black overcoat on a guy in the condition I'm in looks like I'm on my way to commit mopery.("Nerds" definition.) There's no way on Earth I can go out in public like this, but she assures me that Ryan and Brandy are going to pull up to the front entrance at noon sharp, we're going to hop in the car, and drive straight back to SLC. Hallelujah.
Chapter 5 - Aftermath
I'm still friends with every one of the guys I met that weekend. They all called me "Batman" for several months due to my flying leap off the escalator to recover my wallet and pound a pickpocket into submission. That would last a few more months until I earned a new nickname, but that's another story. I never paid that girl back dime 1 for the $2,000 room, and still feel a little bad about that. I still talk to her on social media and it comes up every now and again. Whatever, statute of limitations is up by now.
Dan apparently ran from the San Remo STRAIGHT TO MCCARRAN AIRPORT. Got on a red-eye flight back to SLC and beat us all home by many hours. He was quite a character and there will be more tales involving this nut in the future.
As for me, well - Brandy and Ryan showed up right on time. We hopped in the car and drive for a few hours when suddenly, they start getting off I-15. I sit up in the back and kindly ask what the f**k they think they're doing.
"Oh, I just promised my nana and pop-pop I'd stop in on the way home."
I almost died. I begged them to just drive back, but she HAAAD to visit. I get out of the car and walk in with a shiner on my face, ripped and stained pants, smelling like death, blood all over me. "Hi Grandma !!! I'm your sweet little grand-daughter's friend ! Look at meeee !" The look on her grandparents' faces when they caught a look at me was priceless. It looked like they'd seen a ghost at the precise moment that someone held a soup ladle full of leopard s**t directly under their noses. I'd have laughed if I wasn't so mortified. After some pleasantries, they stuck my on the sofa in the TV room as her grandfather was watching a syndicated Jeopardy re-run. With nothing left to lose, I started blurting out answers. As luck would have it, there were a couple of categories in a row that were firmly in my wheelhouse and I think I rattled off 8-9 straight correct answers. Her grandfather was mystified by this... how could someone who looks like THIS possibly have any intelligence whatsoever? After about my 14th correct answer in 15 or 16 questions, Gramps turned to me in disbelief and said :
"Hot damn, son ! You want a beer?"
------------------------------------ THE END ------------------------------------
fantasycurse42
Footballguy Jr.
I'm just going to insert a superduper here so I can find this thread easier.
TheAristocrat
Footballguy
Outstanding!
Evilgrin 72
Distributor of Pain
You would be amazed at how quickly and powerfully it counters the effects of alcohol. To reference "Revenge of the Nerds" again, I felt like Wormser gave me the pill he fed Takashi before the tricycle chug race. I suddenly wasn't drunk anymore. I can't explain what I did feel like, however.
Worm
slimy ninja
5-ish Finkle
Footballguy
$3.99 Steak and Eggs!
The San Remo was one of the first places I ever hit my first trip to Vegas. Met some friends there about half an hour after our flight landed. Recall getting loaded as hell the next night with one of my friends, going back to the SR and at every table we saw anyone hitting up the $3.99 special (so, pretty much every table) we would point and scream "STEAK AND EEEEGGGGSSSSSS!!!" at about 150,000 decibels, then attempt to get the people to high five/bro hug/whatever.
Keep in mind, at the time I probably looked like some kind of rejected Final Fantasy video game character(*waxes up hair, walks away from an explosion slowly without looking back*) and my best bud was about 6'5" 260+ and looked like the world's grumpiest serial killer. Staff asked us to leave before we even sat down.
I love Vegas.
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TheAristocrat
Footballguy
I raise. I'm in for an eight ball to meet EG.
Officer Pete Malloy
Footballguy
Evilgrin 72
Distributor of Pain
I felt like such complete dog s### at that moment too, I was seriously worried I would throw up on their family room floor. All I wanted to do was take a shower, clean up my knee, throw my clothes away and sleep for about 18 hours. Still had roughly 4 hours in the car in front of us too. At that point, I wished I'd run to the airport and bought a $99 Southwest flight home.
Evilgrin 72
Distributor of Pain
This post sums up Vegas for me. [icon] is the pimp daddy and tells Vegas tales in that thread about high-end clubs, bottle service, and VIP rooms and it rings hollow for me. Not because it isn't awesome, but because I never even considered doing any of that stuff. For me, Vegas was more often sitting at a $10 blackjack table, nursing my 26th gin & tonic of the night and battling to stay awake until 6 AM because a new Krispy Kreme was opening in the food court at Excalibur and we wanted to be the first people to ever buy a donut from it. Yes, this actually happened. When one of our friends Rob bailed out, we called him "Krispy Kreme F-ggot" and "Donut H0m0" for the next 6 months every time we saw him*. He was amazed at how long it went on when all he did was go to bed at 5:30 AM because he didn't particularly care about being the first one to buy a donut from the Exaclibur Krispy Kreme.
However, I believe that Krispy Kreme is still there. If so, and should any of you ever happen to walk by it, you can know that your old pal EG was the first person to ever purchase a donut there. And Rob wasn't.
*I hate to use terms like that now because I try to be more sensitive to the fact that homosexuals find them horribly offensive, and for good reason, but you have to realize that growing up in Jersey in the 80s, these words were thrown around like "and" or "if." Also had absolutely nothing to do with your sexual proclivity, simply meant you were lame or had wussed out on something. I still catch myself doing it every now and again, it's so ingrained in my vernacular. I did it during the commentary for the McMuffin challenge and was castigated by a few here for it, especially considering there were young kids around. It's a hard habit to break.
Evilgrin 72
Distributor of Pain
We used "fag" as a verb so frequently (i.e. "Don't fag out, dude") that I shudder to think how many homosexuals I offended. I have friends that I hung out with then that later came out as gay, I can only hope it wasn't like a shiv in their back every time one of us said it. I like to think they understood the spirit in which it was intended.
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Baloney Sandwich
Footballguy
Loved the Vegas story although I must say I find it in poor form for your friend to lay out bumps and not at least mention it was meth instead of blow.
Evilgrin 72
Distributor of Pain
I had just met the guy 5 hours ago. He's actually one of the few among them that I don't keep in touch with. He was kind of a weird dude. It was definitely poor form, but frankly, I didn't care all that much. Especially not at the time.
