May 31st 2013

What happens in Vegas…doesn’t always stay in Vegas.

That line pertaining to the following 3 things:

1. STDS

2. Marriage

Tequila was a bad choice…

3. This blog post:

Rewind.

A few short months ago I received a well-crafted, personalized text from my cousin Elisa inviting me to her Bachelorette rage fest located in Las Vegas, Nevada. She was adamant on pre-gaming her official marital status, requesting a boatload of Kamikaze shots and questionable life choices…and seeing as this was a current description of my life  anyway…

Always keepin in classy.

I simply could not say no.

What’s that? You’re getting married? SHOTS.

Before I knew it, I was blacked out with absurd excitement on Hotwire.com, ready to sell my soul to sin city and send Elisa off into the land of endless double dates, chuckling in each others faces at rom coms every goddamn night, and most importantly, exchanging turns on who Dranos the shit out of the shower drain every month.

Ah..I suppose it is my turn…

So there I was.

On a plane. Captain had signaled the fasten seat belt sign. Flight attendants were preparing for landing. And I had so many goddamn ants in my pants I was reading the inflight safety information packet cover to FUCKING cover, so often I started to become delusioned by the ambiguous diagrams:

Now…is this telling me how to save my baby? Or how to get rid of it…?

18 minutes later

We hit the ground and I instantaneously found myself pummeling through fellow passengers on the air craft,  simply because I was ready to FUCKING roll.

LET’S DO THIS SHIT.

I sprinted off >>> the plane and to the nearest shuttle that was on standby to drop me off at my designated hotel. There I sat, elated with excitement, phoning my cousins to tell them I was on my way. EAGER to prepare for an evening chock full of classless decisions, overpriced booze and

Wait wait

…what the fuck …WHAT is that…smell…

Suddenly an overpowering stench    w a f t e d    throughout the shuttle pressing itself against each of the closed windows, doors and walls of the vehicle. In approximately 3 seconds I found myself suffering from mild suffocation and ridiculously uncertain as to where this unexpected relative of mustard gas derived from.

This feels kind of fatal.

Suddenly.

A large woman from the back. Stood uP.  Ran her hands through her greasy hair. And said.

“LISTEN TO ME. I’ve had A LOT of tequila. And A LOT of pinto beans today. AND I’M  NOT SORRY PEOPLE.”

Hello, Vegas.

Upon arrival to the hotel, I was freshly pre gamed with a scent that can only be described as potent yogurt and vintage wasabi, ready to brave the other smells of the grand city of sin. We were bunking at the Mandarin Oriental. Which, in case you were wondering, I made a pit stop at the comment box later that weekend and slipped in a note that said:

I mean like:

What.

WHAT.

FUCKING IMPERIAL.

 I’m over it.

ONWARDS.

Upon our reunion. The clan of us ripped some appropriate shots of patron.

When in Rome.

Took a selfie with the bride to be

Lol jk I had someone else take it.

Peaced the fuck out in a lingering escalade

“What’s that? You’ve been sitting out here for 30 minutes looking for someone to hitch a ride from you illegally because you’re technically not a registered vehicle and don’t have a meter? ROLL OUT”

And stumbled into a night that started out so so good and ended so…so wrong.

But not for me.

Here’s what happened.

Rumors had it the HOTTEST AND HIPPEST club in this 10 foot town was “Hakkasan”

Just a mild rumor, I’m sure.

A world-class nightclub at the MGM grand housing household DJs like

Tiesto

Legit.

Deadmau 5

Legit.

Olive the people

Legit.

And more.

So we did that.

But not before we ran into this chick:

If you’re asking if this is a women with an 8 foot wide “Edward Scissor Hands” Tattoo. The answer is yes…yes it is.

Or this bitch:

This makes absolutely zero sense.

And soon after rolled 13 deep into the grandest nightclub in all the land.

Thanks for coming to my party.

Drinks were

p

o

u

r

e

d

I______________I

:

:

:

________

Selfies were taken

Mostly just enjoying the scandal captured in the background #selfiegoneright

Guy told me to take a picture with him because he was sober and hott. K.

Not a singular clue as to who this is. Never saw him before or after this photo was taken. Fuckin phantom.

Dragons were grinded with

LOVE AN ETHNIC MAN.

Drinks were had:

Cheers, Vegas.

…Then vision was lost:

WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR HAND.

I see hair. That must be my friend.

Okay SOMEBODY here has 6 legs and I can’t tell if I’m alarmed or jealous.

But although my vision and coherence were but a fleeting pastime, I do remember a phone call. A phone call…with my cousin…that went like this:

(Disclaimer, in preparation for identification jealousy, I have renamed the following 2 girls with aliases chosen off of www.rulingcatsanddogs.com. Read on.)

“Hey it’s Olive! WHERE ARE YOU I CAN’T FIND YOU ANYWHERE.”

“Dude. I left the club. I’m with Ninja and Nugget and they’re…they’re not doing so hott…”

“What do you mean?”

“Well…after we walked into the club. They got obliterated. Which was all awesome and shit until, Nugget got so messed up she had to be escorted out…

Adios, Nugget.

In a wheelchair…”

Champ.

“I’m sorry…what?”

“Yeah dude. And she’s having a fucking blast.”

Not mad.

Sheer joy.

“Well wtf! What happened to Ninja?”

“Uh Ninja is face planted on the floor. I’m…currently changing her shoes. Hold on.”

New shoes for you, Ninja.

And in this intermittent II pause II, I looked over to the bride to be for assistance, perhaps even advice. Only to inform her that one member of her party was being wheeled out in a wheel chair whilst the other was knocked out on the pavement…changing her shoes.

No cigar.

Trick was occupied.

CAN’T TALK. Doing important SHIT.

And after a few more rounds of off-beat dancing

Absolutely a candid dancing shot.

We ventured back to the majestic hotel. Hit the button to floor 23. And watched the

The elevator                                  doors open

Only to reveal Ninja & Nugget…like this:

Ladddiiiiesssssssss

After a multitude of attempts to get this duo to bed.

“Get in the bed.” NO.

We alas bid them adieu on the booze stained floor and proceeded to eat so much chicken from the local Sandwich Joint…

I’m sure this was delicious.

…And in such an aggressive fashion.

That the next morning.

We found the chicken…

In our shoes.

Remember that time this wasn’t a lie?

The next evening, the lot of us reminisced at the dinner table

Look at us. Reminiscing and shit.

About the time we grinded on dragons, rolled out of the hottest clubs…in wheelchairs…and filled our shoes with a copious amounts of cajun chicken…and realizing what a bizarre…bizarre…finale to Elisa’s single life…this really was.

…So that happened.

But in case you were wondering.

This wasn’t all that happened in sin city that weekend.

You see.

Not everything that happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

But most of it does.

Shout out to these batshit ladies who made this weekend unreal.