The Obligatory Phoenix ---> Vegas Trip

The phrase is, "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." If that's the case, then fifteen hundred of my dollars happened in Vegas, because they sure as hell stayed there.

Contrary to that, I knew we had accomplished our mission when after leaving Vegas the expression was not, "Man, that was a lot of fun" but instead, ".....That was fucking ridiculous." One of our good friends from back East flew into town this weekend, so we figured it was a good time to make every Phoenician's obligatory weekend road trip to Las Vegas. Indulging in idiocy, we decided to cut the weekend to about 18 intense hours of embracing our vices, and driving 11 hours to do so. Sure, sounds reasonable. I've heard from several people that the drive from Phoenix to Las Vegas is really dangerous, and many have gotten killed along the way. They were probably all motorcyclists, because motorcyclists are idiots.

Look Harley Davidson biker gang, I know you're badasses. I know you think it's cool to drive the speed limit in a formation that makes you absolutely impossible to pass, especially when my bladder is about to explode and the nearest town is 23 miles away. But right now I'm low on sleep, high on energy drink, and in no mood to not go 95 miles an hour. I'm not impressed by your nonchalant pointing instead of turn signals. That tattooed leather handbag riding behind you? Yeah, the one whose eyes look like wrinkly ballsacks from pumping quarters into a slot machine for the last 20 hours? God she's hot. The only reason I'm looking over at her is because my eyes need a break from your buddy's girl, who should be let back out to pasture and needs to quit showing her ass crack. I see the tough looks you're shooting me as I pass you. I'm shooting them back. You know why? Because I know that your cheap chrome roadhog is no match for my ton of cold hard japanese steel and plastic. Look at all the dents; my car looks like a golf ball. Those indicate that I do not care about it, and will not hesitate to sacrifice it to teach you a lesson. *Breathe, Perry, Breathe*

Anyhow, there we were rocketing towards Vegas. I knocked an hour off our drive by driving between 90 and 100 the whole way. My car was not bound by the laws of the land, but instead by the laws of Thermodynamics. I would drive as fast as I could until my engine started to overheat, at which point I would turn off the air conditioning. When that didn't work, I would be forced to slow down to an actually reasonable speed. 4.5 hours after leaving Phoenix and crossing the Hoover Dam (yawn), we pulled into the Valley of Sin. My wallet seriously couldn't bend over and spread its legs fast enough. My dad loves loves to tell me this joke:

Q: "How do you make a small fortune?"

A: "You take a large one to Las Vegas."

I absolutely love roulette. There is nothing that makes me feel more alive than putting down huge stacks of chips and listening to the ball spin and bounce around until it falls into a slot. I can't even watch, the excitement is too much. I have to watch the dealer's face, or those I'm gambling with. I like to refer to the moment the ball bounces around as the shot of heroin, because it's right before the huge rush of winning, or losing. This trip was definitely the bad shot of heroin. Like, antifreeze instead of heroin. I know the odds are horrible, and I didn't care, because I had a special betting strategy this trip. It involved me drinking, going to the ATM, getting out money, making absurd bets, cursing, drinking, going back to the ATM, going back to the table, making even more absurd bets, cursing, going back to the ATM, cursing at them for cutting me off, using my credit card, going back to the table, "going slow", talking shit, betting the rest of my money, cursing, going back to the ATM with my credit card, cursing for them cutting me off too, and going upstairs and passing out.

Besides the Roulette Slaying of '06, as it will forever be known, was the "Huge Vegas Poker Fiasco of '06." That's right, I suck at poker too. I was hemorrhaging chips across the table in all directions, in between shots of straight Soco with Schaeffer. I handed them out to old asians, middle aged bald men who looked like a Cliff or Larry, a black guy wearing a WSOP jacket (what a fag) and this irritating Russian who had a diamond studded necklace, watch, and bracelet, but no front teeth. I caught no cards, and didn't have enough money to bluff. So the gambling didn't go so well. And, besides a brief trip to the bar "Margaritaville," all we really did was gamble.

Still, driving home I realized some important things. It was a great trip. I lost fifteen hundred smackeroonies in all, but that's ok, because I had it to lose. More importantly the bad shot of heroin took gambling out of my system for a long time. Our guest won $600, which is great. And I had a fucking blast, tearing up Vegas with three really good friends.

Viva, Las Vegas.