What Happens in Vegas is…None of Your Damn Business, MOM!
I bid everyone adieu for the weekend. (If you speak French, chicks think you’re cool and worldly) I am off to Las Vegas to catch a show and maybe play some penny slots. I look forward to spending the weekend in a town that has ruined more lives than methamphetamine. It’s going to take weeks to get the stink of stripper sweat and Kettle One off my clothes. Furthermore, I can’t wait to be crammed in the MGM elevator with fat, Texan tourists. The 105 degree heat and fried chicken buffets should give them a nice, shimmery glisten and the aroma of a dying herd of wildebeast.
If I come back without a kidney, finger, money, clean STD screening, etc., please pray for me. I fear the worst at this point. Like I’m about to walk into a Frank Zappa record. Sticking me in Vegas is like putting a quadriplegic on a water slide: It may be fun for a while, but at some point during the ride, you’re going to lose control of yourself and get totally fucked.
Mom, set aside the bail money now and buy some hydrogen peroxide.
See ya next week. Viva la America!
