My non-stop, binge-drinking weekend
For their 10th anniversary, ours friends decided to renew their weddings vows in Las Vegas.
With an Elvis impersonator.
And while I think the only one thing worse than a fat guy dressed in a white-sequined jumpsuit would be getting married by a guy obsessed with looking like a fat guy dressed in a white-sequined jumpsuit, who am I to judge?
Nevertheless, the "wedding" was last weekend. And so, with much anticipation, the four of us gathered to head west.
I anticipated a few days of relaxation, some sun and some gambling.
The one thing I didn't anticipate was the beer. And I don't even drink.
Exactly how much beer, I'm not sure. But if you work for Budweiser, I'd be happy to forward the names of the people you can thank for your overtime pay last week.
My wife and I were picked up four hours before our flight.
We weren't picked up four hours early to beat traffic. Or to ensure we had plenty of time to park, check-in and to get through airport security.
We were picked up four hours early so we'd have enough time to drink before we got on the plane.
We, of course, meaning them. Them of course, meaning them and my wife.
For two and a half hours, I sat at the airport and watched three people drink.
About an hour in, the bride looked at me and said, "Y'know, you really need to drink."
She's right, y'know. Because it wouldn't be very healthy to just jump right into that whole heroin thing.
We landed at 9:30 pm, Las Vegas time, and headed to the hotel.
The Paris Hotel.
If you've never been there, being at the Paris Hotel is just like being in Paris.
Except at the top of the Eiffel Tower, you can buy a corn dog.
Except while you're enjoying a freshly baked croissant, you can drop four quarters in MONEYMANIA! and hope for three rows of double purple bars.
Except "Bonjour, monsieur" is followed by "So do you need some help with your bags there, buddy?"
Other than that, they're virtually identical.
"Omigod, will you look at this room!" said my wife as she walked in our suite. "This is beautiful. And the view is amazing."
"You betcha," I said. "Hey listen, I'm gonna go play some blackjack."
After all, we were leaving in only, like, 80 more hours.
Friends, a sure sign you're in Las Vegas is when you step on the elevator and one button says CHAPEL, and another button says CASINO.
When we got downstairs, we discovered our friends were already sitting at the bar, waiting for their other friends from Boston and New York to arrive.
Amazingly, they were drinking beer. My wife also ordered a beer.
At what point does something officially become a trend?
Half an hour later, I came back from the blackjack tables and met the people from Boston.
The thing is, either the Bostonians took their beers with them off the plane, or they ordered beers at the bar. I also have reason to believe that our friends and my wife were not drinking the same beer they were drinking when I left to play blackjack.
As I sat down with my ice tea, our friend looked at me and said, "You really need to start drinking."
He's right, y'know. It's a terrible habit not to have.
At this point, everyone decided we were hungry and we all needed some breakfast.
Technical question #14:
Is it okay to call it breakfast even though you never actually slept to wake up to it?
We walked over to a restaurant at another casino. On the way, we heard about how the groom and the guy from Boston were thrown out of this casino in a drunken stupor years before.
I've heard a lot of surprising stories in my life. This was not one of them.
We all ordered eggs and toast. The groom and the guy from Boston also ordered beers with their eggs and toast.
Only because it had been at least 17 minutes since their last one.
My plan today: Relax. Spend some time by the pool. Dinner. Gamble.
Everyone else's plans today: Relax. By drinking. Spend time by the pool. Drinking. Go out to dinner. And drink. Gamble. To get free drinks.
After that, go out drinking.
In the morning, we all met out by the pool.
It was 110 degrees. Although with the wind chill it only felt like 109.
It was impossible to sit in the sun without having to jump into the pool every five minutes.
So when I got to my lounge chair, I put my lotion and book down.
Then, I stripped off my shirt.
Then, I jumped in the water.
Then, I stepped out of the pool to head back to my chair.
Then, I slipped and fell on my ass.
"Are you okay?" said the pretty girl in the striped bikini.
Well, there went my chances with her.
As I stumbled back to my chair, the groom was laughing.
"Dude, that was the funniest thing I've ever seen," he said. "The look on your face was classic. The way you started to slip and then…oh hey, waitress, I need a Budweiser."
Vegas Rule #125: No public ridicule is more important than beer.
My wife walked over. She heard the story.
"Are you hurt?" she asked.
"No, I think I'm fine," I said. "I just…."
"Hey, I need to put some lotion on," she said. "Could you hold my beer?"
By mid-morning, everyone had arrived. There was a girl from New York. And a guy from Indianapolis.
"Hi," I said to the girl from New York.
"Hello," said the girl from New York.
"Hi," I said to the guy from Indianapolis.
"How the f*** you doin' buddy?" he said. "Man, are there a ton of f***ing hot chicks around this f***ing place or what? Hey, where can I get me a f***ing beer? You need a beer? What in the f*** do you mean you don't f***ing drink man? You serious, man? Man, you really need to start f***ing drinking, dude!"
Even though I just met him, I really saw us being close. I was hoping by the end of the weekend he'd open up a bit, though.
The rest of the morning was spent with me sitting by the pool reading, and everyone else standing in the pool, drinking beer.
I was getting used to it, though.
Later, in our room, my wife and I found ourselves staring at the bidet in the bathroom.
"How does it work?" my wife asked.
"I'm not sure," I said. "I guess it's some sort of European toilet. I think it works on the same basic principle as sticking a garden hose up your ass."
Apparently, my wife was interested in the principle of having a garden hose stuck up her ass, because she sat down to try it.
I turned the knob. Water started spewing everywhere.
If I had to guess what bad gay sex would be like, I would guess it would be something like this.
The wedding day. Only 108 degrees.
By the pool, I read a little. I swam a little. I saw everybody drinking a lot of Bud.
I asked my wife how many beers she had. "Don't worry," she assured me. "I feel fine."
At 3:00, my wife said, "I don't feel so fine."
"Listen, the wedding starts in three hours," I said. "Maybe you should get some rest."
When we got back to the room, she collapsed on the bed.
"Are you going to be okay?" I asked.
"Gimme a plastic bag, just in case," she said.
I took the plastic laundry bag out of the closet and handed it to her.
I walked into the bathroom.
And then, I heard it.
The unmistakable sound of Budweiser exiting from the same location it entered.
Of course, I played the role of the warm, caring husband like I always do.
"Omigod, that's disgusting," I said.
"That sun made me so sick," she said.
She was right, y'know.
That damn sun. Drinking a half a dozen Budweiser's had nothing to do with it. Nothing.
That damn sun.
Then she threw up again. And a third time.
I felt badly for her.
I wanted to be there to help her in any way I could. To offer her a hand. To lend my support. To do anything in my power to help her feel better.
"Hey, uh, honey," I said, "it sure does look like you're done puking, huh? Listen, why don't you get some sleep for an hour or so, okay? I'm gonna go play some blackjack. Later."
After all, we were leaving in only, like, 35 more hours.
When I came back up to the room, she hadn't moved an inch. "You've really got to get up," I said. "We're leaving in 45 minutes."
If crawling from the bed to the bathtub is getting up, she got up.
"I need you to wash my hair," she said, as she sat motionless in the tub.
"Excuse me?" I said.
"I need you to wash my hair," she said. "I'm sick."
I had no choice.
Well, technically, I had a choice. But if I ever wanted to have sex again, I had no choice.
When I finished, she said. "How are you with shaving women's legs?"
I said, "Have you seen my legs?"
Twenty minutes later, we met everybody at the bar.
"Hey, you sure you don't want a f***ing beer?" asked Mr. Indianapolis. "Jesus Christ, will you look at the f***ing tits on that waitress? Jesus f***ing Christ. Look at them f***ing things!"
I love this guy like you have no idea.
Soon, we left for the Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel for the ceremony.
To me, the biggest disappointments at the Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel were:
a. We didn't have a fat Elvis in a jumpsuit. We had a skinny Elvis in a shiny gold jacket.
b. The Oriental Massage parlor across the street was closed.
c. They didn't have regular M & M's at the candy counter at the Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel. Only peanut M & M's.
Peanut only? What in the hell kind of quality wedding chapel is this?
After the ceremony, we continued to celebrate and take photos inside the chapel for at least two or three minutes until it was time for the Johnson-Romero wedding. Followed by the Henderson-Thompson wedding. Followed by the guy-who-got-stoned-last-night-and-the-barmaid-he-had-sex-with wedding.
Then we headed off to the Hard Rock Hotel. For dinner and a drink.
As we waited at the bar for our table, my wife sat, sipping on a ginger ale. And I stood right by her side consoling her.
Yes I did.
I stood right by her side, exactly 15 feet away, at a blackjack table at the bar.
A little while later, my wife said, "I think I need to go to sleep."
The Man from Indianapolis overheard us and said he wanted to go, too.
"I'm f***ing tired," he said.
We got in the cab, my wife and I in the back, my new bestest friend in the front.
As the cab driver waited for a woman to cross in front of his car, my pal shouted out the window, "Move your ass, you f***in' c**t."
Smart guy, I tell you.
I mean, he could tell she was a f***in' c**t just by looking at her.
You can't teach ability like that.
At the pool in the morning, we heard that everyone had stayed at the Hard Rock until about 2:30 AM, until they were thrown out.
Thrown out the back door, actually. Right next to the dumpster.
The scary thing is, nobody remembers why.
Just a hunch, but I'm guessing beer was involved.
At any rate, this was our last day together, and after dinner, everyone hugged and said goodbye.
"Nice meeting you," said the alcoholics from Boston.
"Stay in touch," said the closet drinker from New York.
"Dude, check out the f***ing rack on that f***ing chick over there. What a f***ing piece of ass," said my buddy.
Later, as we packed up for our early morning flight on Sunday, I took my wife around the waist and said to her, "I just want you to know that I really enjoyed this trip with you. We really need to find more time for each other. And I love you very much."
And she looked in my eyes and said, "Aw, that's so sweet, honey. Hey, do you know what time the bar opens at the airport in the morning?"