Las Vegas? More Like Las Gay...Gas! Get It?

I don't even know what the headline means. Nothing "gay" happened in Vegas. It was just your random, run-of-the-mill, three-day bonanza of salad tossing and tongue kissing with boys, Boys, BOYS!!!

But that's Vegas. You know what they say, "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." I hate when people use that expression about any place. "What happens in Delaware, stays in Delaware! Woooooooo!" I heard that about Vegas, and, on the 15 on the way there, there were signs that said that sort of thing, but, let me tell you, that's complete bullshit.

Five things that most definitely do NOT stay in Vegas.

1. The tattoo on my lower back of a unicorn on a pogo stick in front of a rainbow.
2. Thoughts of pedophilia while walking through the midway at Circus Circus. It's not my fault a thirteen year-old with a teddy bear and a hairlip is fucking hot.
3. My new, half-Ecuadoran son, Pepe "El Accidento."
4. Buffet-induced diarrhea. By the way, as an added bonus to having written this thing for over a year now, I've become very adept at spelling the oft-misspelled word, diarrhea.
5. Genital Warts.

Five things that actually do stay in Vegas.

1. Warrants for attempting to fellate a homeless man with no arms or legs.
2. My money.
3. The body.
4. Legal prostitution. (For all you nitpickers, I know that prostitution isn't technically legal in Vegas, but, instead, in a nearby county. But it may as well be legal, what with the gauntlet of illegal immigrants passing out advertisements on the strip like they're the Hare Krishnas of whores. )
5. My ability to say, "I've never kicked a Cher impersonator in the balls" without lying.

The strange thing about Vegas buffets is that there's such a strange mix of foods that you would normally never find in one place, but these places have them all. For instance, at the Mandalay Bay Buffet (pronounced Buffay, unless you're the weird, foreign lady that works there and, instead, prefers to pronounce it as it's spelled, Buffett), you can get fried chicken, soft-serve ice-cream, crab legs, and some pasta all within a nine-foot diameter. This is often the reason that another thing to stay in Vegas is the lower quarter-mile of my small intestine; orange roughy and chocolate cake aren't meant to be eaten within even a week of one another, let alone mixed together and poured down my gluttonous throat in shake form.

People never understand how I can have fun in Vegas since I don't drink, smoke, or go to strip clubs. To those people I ask you if you've ever been stone-cold sober at 3:30 in the morning and seen a midget scream at the top of his tiny man-lungs to a dealer at Mandalay Bay, "Fuck you guys! I'm going to other casinos where it's funner!" and storm out of the room as fast as a midget can storm out of anywhere. He even said "funner." This is the kind of surreal experience that must be had without the hindrance of any substances to make it even crazier. If I was on something, I'm sure I would have had an aneurysm from sensory overload. Plus, I know for a fact that there's no way that this wasn't real.

Interesting thought of the day:
One book left out of the Bible, Tony, tells the story of a single father who takes his daughter, Samantha, and moves in with a woman, Angela, her son, Jonathan, and mother, Mona, and works as their housekeeper. This was kept out of the original text because there can only be one boss in the Bible, and to question it is blasphemy.

You whores better start your commenting again or I'll start posting pictures of extreme close-ups of my newly-acquired genital warts fresh from a day's worth of picking and scratching.