Thursday, April 7, 2011

Nipples, IPads, and Foreign Relations (Vegas, Part 2)

When we last saw our intrepid hero, he was being summarily kicked out of a Bass Pro Shop for having friends who are just shy of being legally retarded.  This also meant that I now had to make good on the long-delayed promise to take the womenfolk somewhere for wine and horse dervies (I’m sorry, that’s hors d’oeuvres to you uppity, pinky finger sipping, civilized types).  Still playing the odds, the trick was to find someplace that had good wine, yet still had a decent beer selection and horse dervies that a Man could actually eat in public without the need for gender re-assignment surgery.

A quick search of Yelp and we arrived at Mandalay Bay and the restaurant, Aureole.  Aureole, which is French for “nipple” I believe, has this ginormous wine tower that women on ropes swing through to get the wine you order.  It's a fascinating sight, actually and would be better if the women were naked.  But I digress. There has to be several thousand bottles of fine wine in that damn thing, and rest assured, after the Bass Pro Shop debacle, the ladies tried to drink every damn on of them.  The servers were very nice (at least they kept laughing when we asked them where the box wine tower was), and it was nice without being overly pretentious.  We were dressed in jeans and they didn’t seat us in a closet, so I give them props for that. 

They also had the class not to ask us, “Do you think you can really afford that?” as the bill soared past the national debt of Paraguay, though I could have sworn I saw the wait staff massing at the exit with large, blunt objects towards the end there.  But still, classy…

We had some kind of tasting menu, which was pretty good.  One of the dishes was called “Beef Three Ways” which the males at the table found seriously fucking hilarious.  The jokes from that one lasted the whole trip.  There was also a dessert called “Salted Caramel Nut Tart” which pushed us over the edge again.  Even some of the ladies had to admit that the Three Way of Beef complemented the Salted Caramel Nut Tart.

Still can’t write that with a straight face…

We left after a long while, having spent much more money than we had intended.  So much in fact, that the consensus decision was to grab some dinner at Sonic Drive In and head back to the hotel for gambling and other frivolity.  This was the night that I met the Biggest Dumbass, Taint Licking, Crotch Sniffing, Donkey Humping, Shitbird in the Western United States.  For two hours, this douchenugget proceeded to bet No Pass ($700 bucks a roll), against himself mind you, and just suck the fucking life out of everyone’s night.  If we moved tables, and things got hot; here’s fuckass moping along to the table to spread his bad mojo. 

You may recall that in an earlier post, I had made a promise to punch such an asshat in the ovaries.  However, SOMEONE read that before we left and made me promise not to, at risk of losing something THAT I REALLY LIKE TO DO.  A LOT.  So needless to say I was reluctant to act on my earlier threat.  But after two hours of this dickless superfart following us around, I was ready to buy myself a case of Vaseline and a Hustler subscription and just get this shit over with.  Luckily, God heard my little mental plan, and since he does not condone people jacking their own beanstalks, intervened in the form of a crotchety old fucker with a walker who was just as sick of the No Pass guy as I was.  Captain Depends turned to the guy and basically threatened to insert the business end of his walker into No Pass guy’s anal cavity sans lubrication.  And he said it fucking loudly too.

No Pass guy was stuck between the proverbial rock and a guy who couldn’t get a hard on.  You could see the scenarios playing through his little weasel mind:

Option A – Tell Cocoon to go fuck himself and look like a dick to a table full of people who really want to beat the shit out of you and are just LOOKING FOR A FUCKING REASON;

Option B – Tell the Golden Guy to eat shit, then punch him square in his geriatric face, hoping like hell that your pussy ass can whip a 107 year old man; or

Option C – Get the fuck out of Dodge, realizing that no one, not the Casino workers, not the gamblers, and not even the homeless guy out on the street would lift a finger to help you if Abe Vigoda here made good on his promise to stick the very large foreign object he was carrying up your ass.

Needless to say, he ran like a bitch.  Old Fart 1, Dickhead 0.

We were allowed to get up at a decent hour the next morning because of our wine bar mea culpa the night before.  Good thing too, ‘cause I had the Old Guy’s number from the night before and he wasn’t going to be tolerating any fucking shenanigans from some skirt.  At least that’s what I think he said, we got a little drunk helping him finish all the drinks people bought him after he went Rambo on that weasel at the crap table.  In retrospect, the Old Guy may have been a little senile, because the phone number he gave me was KLONDIKE 3-2478.

I was drinking with goddamn Sam Spade, which explains why he kept asking where he parked his jalopy, the crazy old fart…

Shenanigans carefully avoided, the rest of the day was spent…wait for it…that’s right, shopping.  Knowing I couldn’t pull another Silverton on them, we parked ourselves at a small bar at the Miracle Mile Shopping Mall while money was spent at an obscene pace.  You have not lived until you have caught a buzz in a shopping mall, my friends.  Soon, we were collected by the ladies and hauled off to the Fashion Show Mall, which didn’t have a bar per se, but did have restaurants that made the proper decision to serve alcohol.  Unfortunately for my bank account, said restaurant was right across from the only Apple Store in Las Vegas.  I will spare you the exact details, but I bought an IPad from a nice looking young lady who may or may not have had the actual power of speech.  Hell, she may not have even had a mouth.  Not that she needed it…

I say may not because I believe I never looked her in the eye.  My eyes were caught at a decidedly lower trajectory and BY GOD THEY WERE MAGNIFICENT!!  I felt like such a fucking perv, I was obligated to buy the damn thing.  Of course I was sophisticated and suave fucking perv, so I still had that shit ON LOCK, BABY!!

Until my credit card was declined.

Apparently, my credit card company (who shall remain nameless but starts with a V and ends with an A) chose this particular moment to START GIVING A SHIT.  All of a sudden they were concerned with the charges being made in another state and had frozen my account until their security people could talk to me.  They couldn’t have developed a fucking conscience yesterday when I spent two hundred dollars on shirts that some fat guy sold me?  No embarrass me in front of the hot girl who gets an employee discount at the Apple Store, why don’t you?


After three transferred phone calls and the look of faded, disappointed love in the eyes of my Apple Girl, they confirmed that it was in fact me that was spending my hard earned money.  Because, like everything else, credit card customer service has been outsourced to a certain country that worships cows, I also had to spend an extra half an hour explaining the confusing concepts of vacations AND Las Vegas.  I think she understood what a vacation was (“Oh, you mean a holiday?”), but Las Vegas completely baffled her delicate Hindu sensibilities (“I’m going to eat at Lawry’s tonight where they cook a whole fucking cow and wheel it to your table in a big silver cart of sin!!” – fucking serves her right for embarrassing me). 

So just to recap, I was losing my buzz, owned an IPad I didn’t really need or want, and was antagonizing Hindu women over the phone.  Something had gone very wrong with this day…

Only one thing can make a Man feel better after a day like that.  40 ounces of medium rare cow.  Light a candle, Lawry’s.  Daddy’s coming home…