…so there I was traipsing through the wall of people in between me and the heaven that was going to be the deliciousness of Panda Express. When we got back to the Planet Hollywood, we were unable to find it. We looked at the mall style directory and found it, but it was closed. How in all that is holy was there a CLOSED Panda Express in the city with no clocks where time doesn’t matter. I was not deterred. I broke open my cell phone, popped up the google maps, typed in Panda Express and hoped that there would be one within walking or cabbing distance.
But of course there wasn’t one.
Karen and I could not be deterred, so we wandered over to the concierge desk to strongly suggest a shitty mall Chinese feed place where we could get some drunk food. Of course they were helpful and let us know that, no, nothing was open except for the casino restaurant. At this point we had lost the rest of the group but we were on a mission. So we wandered over, sent a group text letting everyone know where we were headed, and sat down to a weirdly expensive menu of food.
We ate, we chatted, we ate some more. We drank. We went back to our room where we found McNugget already asleep. Naturally we weren’t about to let that happen, so we jumped in bed with him and shouted at him to wake up, drank another beer each and then passed out.
For about 4 hours.
We woke up, got ready pretty quickly, and packed all our shit to check out since we were staying at another hotel on Saturday night. We decided to head over to Hard Rock to do a little “it’s not even noon yet” drinking. After I surveyed all the of unfuckingbelievably cool instruments and clothing of rock greats, I placed some sports bets (my first real sports best ever) and sat down in front of an electronic poker machine at the bar.
While we patiently waited for McNugget’s friends, we drank our way through a couple of rounds and watched soccer and golf on TV. We shared stories and slowly came out of our hangovers with the help of the hair of the dog. When Middle Shirt and Beefcake finally arrived, it. was. on.
Middle Shirt (aptly wearing at least 3 shirts and 4 pairs of sunglasses) was playing the part of Las Vegas alcoholic grandmother tourist. Beefcake lived up to his nickname by sporting a shmedium shirt and some “really cool” tribal tats. We knocked back a few shots (honestly, I think we each had 3 or 4…I had McNugget’s because he was our driver) and expressed intention to head over to KISS mini golf where we could drink out of brown bags, play mini golf drunk, and, most importantly, GET MARRIED!
No, you fucking didn’t… did you?
I made a deal with a certain boy that I would not marry any other boy in Vegas. But that deal did not apply to marrying Karen. So with visions of pre-nups in my eyes we high fived, shouted a too-loud version of “Suck My Bush” inside of the bar and got up to leave.
Which is when we realized how late it had gotten already. So instead we made our way over to Fremont to our Saturday night hotel. We checked in, dropped off our stuff, and headed downstairs to where there was a… wait for it… shitty mall Chinese food restaurant!!!!
We all got our rice and maybe-chicken and sat down at a table near a Dunkin Donuts. We introduced Middle Shirt and Beefcake to Scott and Jack, and quickly became the loudest group in the general vicinity. Naturally, with the incredulously high level of inappropriate things we were discussing loudly, we were asked to keep it the fuck down by the Dunkin Donuts proprietor. I mean, she didn’t say “fuck” but she may as well have. Right as we were leaving, I was getting ready to give her my biggest, meanest, c-word style rant (in which I was going to call her the c-word) when she offered me a doughnut because it was my birthday weekend. I didn’t end up ranting at her, but later, a #SuckMyBush sticker was put on the front of her little counter. Revenge!
At this point, Middle Shirt was jonesing for some Craps. I had no idea how to play this game, but this table was PACKED with people and I loved the excitement, so I was on board immediately. Middle Shirt tried to teach me what some of the bets meant, what the words on the table meant and what each roll meant as far as people’s bets were concerned. I nodded along at the right times enough to pretend I knew what he was saying, and he let me place some of his bets for him.
Somehow he had come out quite higher in the money than he had started. I think? Or maybe he was losing horribly and didn’t care… either way, he decided that I helped us make the money, so I got to keep some of it. I asked for the $50 I had lost playing War the night before, which he handed over happily, and we decided to call it quits on the gambling for a bit to venture outside.
Fremont during the day is mildly packed with people going from casino to casino and drinking their way up the road. All of this was par for the course, but above my head, something got my attention. There was a zip line. Down the entirety of Fremont. And the people on it looked like they were flying through the air like Superman. I wanted to be superman! I had enough alcohol in my body to think it was a good enough idea to suggest to our little group. Middle Shirt grabbed my arm and we basically ran to go pay for our spots on the line. Karen, Middle Shirt, Beefcake and I got our wristbands, headed up to the platform and got situated in our harnesses when I started to hyperventilate.
I seem to recall Beefcake being just as nervous as I was, but he was trying so hard to maintain his image and not look like a huge loser. I, however, had no such image to maintain and began repeating over and over “Why am I doing this? This is a bad idea! I’m going to die. I just turned 30, I came to Vegas and THIS is how I die?! NO! I’m not doing this.”
…so did I do it? Did I fly through the air like Superman or did I wait on the ground for the rest of them like Lois Lane?