The Vegas!

I finally got that cable for my phone so I could transfer pictures to my computer and, it turns out, I don't really have that many pictures that apply to anything that happened.

On the airplane, a theme popped up that would pop up again later on: pictures that kind of look like somebody's getting a Bo Jackson.Sure, this one is forcible sodomy with a child, but who here hasn't drawn pictures of this at some point in their life? Oh. You all have your hands raised. Me neither. Gross.

We got to Vegas early Friday morning and after finally getting settled into our room at Bally's, the elevator ride back down to the casino was kind of eventful. A Korean Elvis impersonator got on. One of the guys I was with (Jimbo the Angry Clown to those of you that read the comments) simply said, "Uhh, no." To which the rest of the elevator silently agreed. But, talk commenced and somebody asked whether or not a Michael Jackson impersonator was getting on and I, continuing my awesome streak of elevator hijinx started in my jury duty post, said, "No. They're staying at Treasure Island." Everybody in the elevator reveled in my razor-sharp wit and lightning-fast comedic reflexes and one man even started giving me a Howard Johnson to show his appreciation. I don't know how I do it, people. I just do.

We spent the majority of that night at Imperial Palace where a few interesting things happened. First, there was this dealer, Ashton--I'm such a homo for remembering his name--who kept telling the girls at the table to show their boobs when they got a blackjack because, at IP, when somebody gets a blackjack, they get Mardi Gras beads (except these are above water--too soon?). Anyway, this fresh-faced girl who just turned 21 sits down at the table with absolutely no idea what Las Vegas is all about. She got a blackjack about one hand into it and he was goading her to show her boobs and she looked uncomfortable. Awesome. Then, within the next few minutes, other women got blackjacks with the same teasing and the 21-year-old was, apparently, bubbling over with internal fury. She got another blackjack and the dealer asked for her baby-feeders to be shown and she spewed forth, "You need to be more respectful to women," grabbed her chips and left the table. It's Vegas. Nobody has or gets any sort of respect. I let a Cher impersonator take a dump on me so I could get my photo in the Vegas magazine that they put in every hotel room.

No pictures of that one. Sorry.

On the way walking back to Bally's that night, I was behind a couple that was holding hands. It was just a chubby guy with longish hair and his chubby girlfriend. Well, at least for five minutes it was, until the chubby guy turned his head and I saw his face. He was a chick. Lesbians! Awesome. No. Wait. These aren't the good kind. Oh well. That didn't stop me from doing my patented move that has gotten me into hundreds of threesomes. I tapped them on the shoulder and, when they turned around, I pointed at my crotch, lifted my eyebrows and said, "Ladies?" Lesbians punch harder than regular women.I just kind of liked that picture of the Mirage; it has no significance to anything that happened. Well, except for the exciting story about how I walked by the Mirage.Here I was trying to see if the 1/4 scale Statue of Liberty in front of New York New York had "everything" at 1/4 scale. In an odd design choice, the Vagina of Liberty is 1/2 scale; it goes all the way up to her throat.

The aforementioned theme of pictures that should make a 13-year-old laugh and not a 27-year-old came up again and, unfortunately, I don't remember where exactly this was.I kind of lost the narrative as to what happened over the weekend so, instead, I'll just get rid of the rest of the pictures and talk quickly about them. They almost all have to do with cab rides.

Well, not this one. This picture is just me in the safety of my favorite Vegas environment: the big-ass handicapped stalls. If any of you have been reading this for a long time, you'll know that I can't use urinals, so I'm always seeking the sanctuary that is provided by stalls, especially handicapped stalls.The toilet in the background is six miles away. It's fucking huge. I actually had to climb inside and swim in it in order to pee. By the way, my shirt says "Dodgeball Champion" and it's better than you.This cab driver was weird. He was this Asian guy who said absolutely nothing, but the best part is, if you can see it, he's wearing gloves. They aren't even old school driving gloves or anything. That would be kind of cool. But these are just like wool gloves that you'd wear so you wouldn't have to touch grandma's lesion-y back when you hug her in her too-revealing nightgown.I had to take this picture as he was driving away, but this guy was amazing. I have no doubt in my mind that he was a registered sex offender in at least three states, but not Nevada. The first half of the ride was normal, quiet. But something happened that sent this guy off on the weirdest tyrade. He told us a story about how, earlier that night, he got two young girls in his cab and they started talking about sex. I'm sure that it was this perverted driver that brought it up. But then it got even weirder. He started to talk about, in graphic detail, how he liked to go down on women. Yet he had the gayest voice. Now, I realize that not all gay men have the "gay voice," but all gay voices do belong to gay men. The dichotomy presented to my cerebral cortex was too great and I blacked out.The only thing that was able to bring me to was how loud the goddamn floor was at The Orleans. Or, as I like to call it, the floorleans.

There are tons of things I'm forgetting to write about, but I've been working on this too long and I'm done. I'll leave you with another picture from my phone that has nothing to do with Vegas because it was taken in January, but it's of my younger brother and it's one of my favorite pictures I've taken.Interesting thought of the day:
Tassles are like fireworks for nipples.