Thursday, March 31, 2011

Fear and Loathing at Bass Pro Shop

So, Vegas turned out to be…a mixed bag of sorts.  For the most part, things went well and as planned.  But there was just enough bizarre shit going on to leave the experience with the taint of crappiness and awesomeness not experienced.  That’s needlessly confusing, so it’s better if I explain…

I flew on one of those new Airbus 330’s.  There was noticeably more legroom, which of course translates to more room between rows.  Not having to smell the shampoo (or lack thereof) of the mouth breather in front of me was a refreshing change, as was the absence of the requisite seat back jamming in to my knees as they reclined to a full 180 degrees.  They also have individual monitors in the seats for everyone, which at first blush seemed really cool.  It seemed less so when it became readily apparent that this had become an excuse for NOT SHOWING A FUCKING MOVIE on the flight.  I was really pissed at that because the airline magazine said they were showing the latest Harry Potter flick that I hadn’t seen.   They didn’t even have the balls to announce it; we had to ask.  Apparently, the Airbus 330 equals no free movie for Big Daddy, but I was free to use my credit card to PAY to watch the movies on that little fucking monitor that I was now growing to despise.

Guess the 25 dollars they charged me for the privilege of bringing luggage wasn’t enough. 


Arrival in Las Vegas was uneventful.  The cold was welcome and luggage/shuttle/rent a car all went very smoothly.  We tried a new hotel this time around because they offered to comp the rooms for our party.  While I would love to say that they did so for the pleasure of our warm company, they really wanted a crack at the obscene amount of gambling we do.  It seems they did the math, and free rooms, food, and booze for us is worth the money they win from us.  If you ask me, someone forgot to carry a three or something, because in my opinion, it wasn’t even close.  Don’t get me wrong, we are not high rollers by any stretch of the imagination; and this wasn’t the Bellagio we’re talking about here.  But it was a nice property, and it seemed to me that they came out on the losing end of the deal.  At least I did my best to make sure they came out on the minus side of the ledger.  But I’m just a guy who drinks too much, not an accountant…

On a side note, by this time I was fucking OBSESSED with seeing that damn Harry Potter movie, something I hadn’t given three seconds thought to, prior to getting on the damn plane.  Don’t want to show me the movie, FUCK YOU!  I’ll watch the damn thing on my own.  That’ll show you that I am not a man to be trifled with!

It sucked by the way.  And the hotel charged me $12.99.  Apparently the only thing that wasn’t free were the movies.  Now I don’t feel bad about those six bottles of shampoo…

After checking in, we decided to grab a bite to eat before heading to the table for the Inaugural Rolling of the Dice.  Not feeling the least bit guilty about ordering a Mushroom Swiss Burger at 1:00am, we tucked in to our food like super models after a colon cleanse.  The female contingent of our party was actually embarrassed at our gastronomic display, and elected to change tables, hectored by a chorus of male voices (ours) yelling, “Good, beat it!!  Your loss, honeycakes!!  Don’t come around later begging for shopping money, toots!!”

An hour in Nevada and we had already managed to get ourselves in trouble with the lady folk.   And we weren’t even drunk yet. We would come to regret those words over the next few days.  There’s something about a group of men bonding over charred flesh and alcohol that ends to bring out such bravado.   It also apparently brings out the 1920’s gangster in us, because somebody actually used the term, “toots”.  The fact that we didn’t sleep alone over the next four days was is a testament to the charity of the women in our lives.  We are very lucky.

But I’ll fucking deny it if you tell anyone I said that…

After going to bed at 4am, the first taste of sweet female revenge arrived when we were roused at the ungodly hour of 7am.  Being a man awakened by a beautiful woman, I awoke sporting an impressive…hangover.  Protests ignored, we were hustled off to breakfast and the start of the LONGEST SHOPPING TRIP EVER.  I do not think I am exaggerating when I say there may have been a Western States Shopping Record set.  I fully expect to receive a letter of commendation from the Governor of Nevada for our group’s contribution to the coffers of the state.  The ladies were actually being high-fived by grateful store clerks as we exited shopping malls, and at the Outlets in Primm, they were actually carried through the food court by ten large, swarthy men wearing loincloths.  I think I actually gained ten pounds of muscle just carrying Ann Taylor shopping bags.  How many silk tops does a person need?

Payback is indeed a bitch.

But as dinner approached, shopping fatigue caused the Retail Brigade to commit their first tactical error.  I suggested we stop at nearby Silverton Casino for “some wine and appetizers before dinner”.  The ladies, apparently full of excise tax induced hubris, readily agreed, even congratulating me for the “wonderful suggestion” I had proposed.  If you have never been to the Silverton Casino, there is nothing in the last few sentences to cause any suspicion or raise any red flags, right?  If you HAVE been to the Silverton Casino, you will know that it is also home to this:

Redneck Disneyland.  For the next several hours, fuming women plotted our slow and painful deaths as grown ass men cavorted in a two story, 165,000 sq. foot Man Cave, replete with speedboats, grills, fishing gear, dried animals of every sort, crossbows, knives, ammunition, guns, and other implements of destruction.  I bought a squirrel hat.  Why?  BECAUSE THEY FUCKING HAD ONE MY SIZE.  This place had everything.  Fishing rod? Yes.  Bowie Knife? You betcha. Toilet seat shaped like a bass’s mouth? 10 of ‘em. Tactical Stealth Night Vision Capable 20 Shot Capacity Stapler? ON SALE. More tools of death than a Postal Worker’s Convention? Maybe not.  BUT IT WAS DAMN CLOSE.  We shot crossbows, compound bows, and long bows.  They kind of looked at me funny when I asked if they had any sticks of dynamite so I could tie it to the arrow shaft, like they used to do in the “Dukes of Hazzard”.  There being no explosives, we just contented ourselves calling the range masters Uncle Jesse and Cooter, and yelling “Yeeeeehawww” at the top of our lungs every time we let an arrow loose.

Next we went over to the gun range to shoot shit for a while.  In retrospect, this was an exceedingly bad idea.  Almost immediately one of us was kicked off the range for waving his gun around and doing his best Wyatt Earp impression from “Tombstone”.   It was pretty good, but I’ve always been a Doc Holliday-I’m-your-huckleberry-kind-of-guy myself.  So we started capping off rounds wildly, aiming in the general direction of some paper silhouette targets that had been set up for us.  As I was yelling, “Johnny Ringo, You’re no daisy!!!” I heard a loud shout to my right.  I looked in that direction in time to see one of us falling to the ground, flailing wildly as he fell. 

Putting the Smith and Wesson 4506 on safe and laying it on the bench, I dashed over to Rick who was still flailing on the ground, his face contorted as if in pain.  I reached his side just as the range master did, pointing and yelling at our other friend to call 911.  As we began to assess Rick for injuries, I looked at his face and saw him smiling.  I suddenly recognized that he was laughing hysterically as he pulled his right hand from behind his back to show me a 9mm brass shell casing that he had fished out from down his shirt.  John, who had been sent to call 911, looked at the 9mm Glock 17 still in his hand and back at the shell casing Rick was holding.  We all realized what had happened – the white hot shell casing from John’s Glock had been ejected and flown four feet to land down the back of Rick’s shirt, causing him to scream in pain while flailing to fish the damn thing out.  He lost balance like the uncoordinated spaz that he is, and fell ass over teakettle to the range floor, dropping the Smith and Wesson 686 revolver he had been shooting in the process.

More than somewhat relieved that everyone was safe, we all began to laugh uncontrollably at the absurdity of the incident.  Everyone except the range master, who didn’t quite share the same sense of humor we all did.  He got REALLY pissy, and began to shout as if someone had violated his prized Belgian Malinois on the kitchen table during Christmas dinner.  As his beet red face sputtered on and on about how we had scared the life out of him and should never be allowed to handle firearms ever again, I began to realize that he was in full panic mode and was becoming irrational.  Ushering my laughing friends out seemed to be the most rational course of action, and I did so, while inquiring about a refund for the unused time we still had left. 

That didn’t go over very well.

But to be fair, we had really scared him.  Plus, I think a little poo came out of him, because he was walking funny as he chased us out. 

By the way, I also bought a HUGE infrared grill that was on sale at a pretty deep discount.  It was such a good deal in fact, that it cost me more to ship the son of a bitch home, than it did to buy it.  But the new technology allows the grill to reach a million degrees and cooks a steak in 4 seconds or something like that, so I had to have it for the Cave.  The sales guy played up the fact that the grill “burns cleaner” and that the meat tastes better because of “the sear achieved by the high heat.”  Fuck all that noise, because the selling point for me was that you could cook almost immediately upon turning it on; eliminating wait time.  I’m going to call the company up and propose a new slogan:

Infrared Grills – When you want a fucking steak RIGHT NOW!!

Catchy, right?  I should go in to advertising…

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

What Happens in Vegas, May Result in Massive Bleeding

I'm heading to Vegas in two days.  I've spent the last two days trolling the internet for escort services meticulously researching churches and homeless shelters where I can volunteer my services, in between degenerate gambling and shamelessly gorging myself on crab legs and prime rib.  But before I get there, I have to make sure all of my work is done ahead of time so I am not constantly bothered by people who can't think for themselves can rest assured that I have done the best job possible before going on vacation.

My desire to avoid contact with the working world means that I have literally spent the last week anticipating EVERY possible problem or issue we may come across in the next six days, and devised INGENIOUS contingency plans to handle them.  Run out of paper? Covered. Building burns down? Handled. Flood?  Hurricane?  Check and fucking mate.  Return of the Messiah?  Give him the corner office and a parking pass.  Godzilla and Mothra banging in the courtyard? See page 546, Section C, Sub Paragraph 7.  I have planned for every possible issue and there should be no reason AT ALL for me to receive a phone call from them for the next 6 days.


I give them an hour before someone calls me looking for a paper clip.  Book it.

Common sense is becoming a rare commodity these days.  You can't drive two blocks without running in to some douchebag talking on a cell phone while eating a sandwich while shaving while BLOCKING THE FUCKING ROAD trying to make an illegal left turn in to a 7-11.  When they finally do get an opening, they stall out in oncoming traffic because no one ever taught the brain damaged twat how to drive a stick shift.  NEXT TIME STEAL AN AUTOMATIC, you toothless waste of space...

And it really shouldn't take us 10 minutes to order a sandwich from goddamn Subway.  Or to explain to the kid at Burger King that I do not, in fact, require pickles on my hamburger, and that I was under the impression that I could have it MY OWN FUCKING WAY, and not have to explain my dietary preferences to a pre-pubescent, acne covered, basement dweller working to earn video game money thank you very fucking much.

Like I said, no common sense.

Which is why I am looking forward to Vegas, the only city in the world where you are legally PROHIBITED from exercising any common sense.  Oh, except Washington D.C., you can't have any common sense there either.  By the time I make my trek to Sin City, I am so worn out from having to deal with the mental pygmies of the world, that it is truly gratifying to give in and become one for a week.  So with that, I composed a letter to Las Vegas in anticipation of my arrival:

Dear Las Vegas,

By now you know that I will be arriving in a few days, so I just wanted to clear a few things up before we got down to business.  First, please lay in a proper stock of Fat Tire Amber Ale, Jack Daniels, and King Crab Legs.  A good guide as to what a "proper stock" is, would be order what you would normally order for a week, then double it, while tacking on 10% for pilferage.  Better safe than sorry, I always say...

Second, please notify Lawry's The Prime Rib, that I will be dining there on Sunday evening.  I would like to be served by Mrs. Otis (The servers are all called Mrs., like pilgrims, I guess) who is the best damn server they have .  I will be ordering the Diamond Jim Brady Cut, so please make sure we are seated next to the big silver serving cart, so Mrs. Otis doesn't injure her back carrying that freaking huge slab of meat to the table.  Yes, I am aware of the innuendo involved in that last sentence, but I am really concentrating on the Prime rib, right now...

Oh, all right.  That's what she said...

Third, please advise all who will be playing on the same Craps table as me that betting No Pass while I am shooting will most definitely earn you a punch in the ovaries.  There will be no exceptions.

Fourth, if you could arrange a nice Police involved shooting while I am there like you did a few years ago, that would be cool.  Last time, your fabulous Las Vegas Metro cops chased some evil-doing shit hook down the Strip until he ran in to a pole twenty feet away from me and tried to escape on foot.  The Metro cops were kind enough to shoot his ass six times for his trouble.  The whole time, I kept hearing the COPS theme song...

Bad Boys, Bad Boys
What you gonna do?
What you gonna do when they come for you?

Bleed out in the fucking street, apparently.  Nice work, officers.

Lastly, I apologize in advance for any violations of law or social propriety that may or may not occur during my stay in your lovely city.  While I normally pride myself on my decorum and self control, I am also cognizant of your rather catchy slogan, "What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas".  I agree wholeheartedly. 



Now that's out of the way.

Ladies and Gentlemen, We have a new shooter coming out...

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Go Forth and Sin No More...

I’m giving stupid people up for Lent.

My life for the past few weeks has been a constant parade of inbred, knuckle dragging, cousin marrying, mouth breathers.  And those were the women.  I know that I consistently vent about people who have no sense of personal responsibility which can be the only reason that the Cosmos has chosen to grace me with the presence of every freaking idiot and moron in the Western hemisphere lately.  Thus, I have been forced to spend my time at work lately actually…working.  This cannot be allowed to continue.  Stupid people must go…

Stupidity comes in many shapes and forms.  I am sensitive to the fact that people are different, and that some people are more “special” than others.  Fine.  But can they at least TRY not to demonstrate their special brand of cognitive diarrhea while talking to me?  I swear I have lost at least ten IQ points since Valentine’s Day talking to these jackasses.  If I hear another excuse from someone with the mental acuity of a retarded hamster, I will burn down an orphanage.  Just saying…

A friend of mine is giving up Facebook for Lent.  While I am boggled by the fact that Facebook has become such an addiction for her that she feels the need to give it up in order to demonstrate her love for God, I am moved by her sincerity.  So, I decided that I would give up porn for Lent.  It’s fitting that I make this sacrifice to demonstrate my dedication to our Lord.  Now if He would only come through on that Mega Bucks thing we discussed when I’m in Vegas next week.  Counting on you, Big Guy!!!

So it’s settled.  I’m giving up Gay porn for Lent.  The fact that I have never actually watched Gay porn should in no way be interpreted as a lack of dedication to the principles of Lent.  In case you don’t believe me, I will give up Gay porn and those pornos with really old, wrinkled people in them.  And clowns.  Clown porn is out too.  That’s right.  I am MUCH holier than you. Blow me.

I think I’ll also give up vegetables, soy milk, tofutti, that nasty bean curd stuff they put in Indian food, The Oprah Network, Lady Gaga, reruns of The Golden Girls, and those fermented soy beans they put on sushi.

Not necessarily in that order.

On the plus side, during Lent you can get a Filet o Fish sandwich at McDonalds for breakfast, Steak houses are noticeably emptier, and those women who have given up smoking need something to put in their mouths.  It’s not for me, you understand.  It’s for Jesus…