Vegas: Reloaded

Since I have been extremely neglectful of the Cave as of late, I completely forgot to finish the Vegas vacation series.  Two posts in two days.  Shit...this may become a habit.  But probably not.

There is something magical about a restaurant where they wheel a slab of beef right to the table.  It sends a message that says, “A Big Slab of Beef is one of the Best Things in Life” which, coincidentally, is also what Clay Aiken will have carved on his tombstone.  But anyhow, for those of you who have never been to Lawry’s The Prime Rib, allow me to set the scene.

You enter through one of those rotating glass doors, which I love, because someone is always stupid enough to fall for the, “You first” routine and I can trap them in the doors.  That NEVER gets old.

Yes, I am a child.

During the always brief wait for a table, I like to head to the bar for the first of many Fat Tire Amber Ales, but that’s just how I roll.  When consuming more protein than a human being should, it is important to lubricate the throat properly with a few drinks.  Just ask Snooki, from the Jersey Shore. 

Once seated, your server will be called Mrs. Whatever-the-hell-her-name-is because they feel this makes the experience more quaint and rustic.  Well fuck quaint in the ear and rustic can kiss my ass; just get to the part where I get to eat.  But because I am fucking civilized and classy and shit, I wait patiently through the explanations (for the newbies) and cute little pilgrim jokes until the menus are distributed.  This, my gentle reader, is where friendships are made and destroyed in my book.  We are at a restaurant with the words PRIME RIB in the fucking name.  Why, then, does some insufferable little shit ALWAYS ask what the specials are?  And more irritating still, why does a restaurant, with the words PRIME RIB in the fucking name, always have a goddamn fish special?

“Our special today is Chilean Sea Bass lightly braised in a lime aioli soy sauce with a mango and castor oil drizzle, served with a reduction of Tibetan snow peas and aborted baby intestines.  The chef highly recommends it.”

Pretentious assholes.

We are in an establishment that flushes it’s toilets with rendered animal fat.  You can HEAR the blood straining to push it’s way through the almost fully blocked arteries of the regular patrons. Order some fucking beef and have the paramedics standing by, Chief.  Daddy’s gotta get his grub on…

FINALLY, the big silver cart rolls over to our table, where some highly-skilled, illegal alien wetback named Paco proceeds to carve the tender slabs of USDA Prime grade extra fucking A on to your waiting plate.  It’s actually pretty emotional, even as I sit here writing this.  The meat is so soft you can cut it with….well a knife actually.  But it’s still the greatest prime rib I’ve ever had, and the fact that it’s actually carved right there at the table, appeals to my latent Neanderthal eat-what-you-kill ancestral memories.  No me molesta, Paco.  Animal fat is the NECTAR OF THE GODS.  By the way por favor, Donde esta el bano?

Meat es muy magnifico, people. Muy f’ing magnifico…

After such a fine meal, there is only one thing to do in Vegas to cap off the evening.  Ok, well there are several things you can that would really be pretty awesome, but the one I am referring to doesn’t require a drive to a Pahrump whorehouse and a cursory medical examination by a girl named Justice (Call me!).  The ladies wanted to see Barry Manilow, but there was no fucking way any male in this party was going to let that happen.  We settled on going to that Elvis Cirque du Soleil show.  Because I am a great fan of the King, and the show was created with the expressed written consent of the National Football League  Estate of the Late Elvis Aaron Presley, I even agreed to pay for the tickets.  I am so fucking awesome, right?

Until I found out that admission for our party would total just a tad above the cost of an Aston Martin DB9, and that the ridiculously exorbitant amount did not, in fact, include a trip to the aforementioned Pahrump whorehouse.  Everybody was back to being responsible for their own damn admission, thank you very much.  Enthusiasm dampened by the fact that they had to spend their own money to watch clowns push balls across the stage to the strains of “Hound Dog”(I’m assuming), we instead chose to spend our final night in Sin City getting as drunk as humanly possible while still retaining bladder control.  A fine line, as one member of the group, who shall remain nameless, discovered outside of a Sonic Drive In at 4 am.  That was some tRICK.  Yes, it really was a fRICKen shame.  The staff must have had a hell of a time cleaning up the bRICKs outside the restaurant after we left.  Yessiree…

Like I said, nameless…

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.

Right?

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. 

Sincerely,

BDC

Now that's out of the way.

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