SUNDAY, 8:30 AM
I wake up, if I ever really fell asleep in the first place. Our morning is spent the same way: Subway and the pool. There is a sense of eagerness in my eyes, borderline desparation. I have disgraced myself yesterday. I wasted an entire night in the greatest place on Earth. This is unforgivable. Between waxing my legs and puking in the Margaritaville bathroom, I am the LVP so far. That performance will not be repeated.
SUNDAY, NOON
We all sit down to a buffet lunch. It totally sucks, but hey, at least it was only $25! After that it's on to the sports book. I have an experiment today. I throw out a few bets at first, betting on over/unders, crap like that. But I have something more in mind. I want to see how many games I get right if I bet on every single MLB game on the board. 15 games, $20 a game. I'm redeeming myself. Also, Noles allegedly runs into Dick Vitale (I'm not calling him a liar, but there were no witnesses, and he may have been jealous of Paul's Roenick story.) In any case, he freezes and says nothing to him, and Bergman suggests we set up chairs by the elevators and wait for him to come back.
SUNDAY, 3 PM
We're all heading downtown to the good ol' Four Queens to play blackjack switch, which is my favorite game of all time. They don't carry it on the strip, I'm not sure why. Maybe since it is way more beneficial to the player, at least in my experience. Noles, Ike, Jake, Bergman and I all land on the same table. Sitting at a blackjack table, talking shit, making jokes, befriending dealers....it's just the best. I get fired up just talking about it. Unfortunately, I am the only one at the table who is even treading water; the troops are going down fast. We have one awesome dealer, a girl from Africa named Zippee, and one shitty dealer, an old grumpy dude named David. I tell Zippee to meet me at the wedding chapel at 9 PM sharp after one hot stretch of cards, and she agrees.
The afternoon goes well for me, as I go on a late run and win somewhere around $150, and Jake hits a $300 jackpot on a dollar slot machine, but most everyone else gets killed. Horp and Ike look like they're ready to commit a double homicide.
SUNDAY, 10 PM
I kinda forgot about my wedding with Zippee. Instead, Bergman, Jen, Dacus, ADawg, Russell and I go to O'Shea's. I win another $100 or so at blackjack, and we play beer pong in this little area they have for, um, beer pong. We meet some random girls from Texas, and they join our crew, as does Buckley later on. The interesting subplot to this night were all the random Bostonians I met.
I find it odd since I ALWAYS wear my Red Sox hat when I'm out, but I've never had so many fellow Boston fans strike up a conversation with me because of it. It started with our blackjack dealer, who had a heavy Boston accent. He asked me if I was from there, and immediately, without even really thinking about it, I flew right into my fake Boston accent and told him I was born and raised in Brookline. So we're bullshitting about the Sox and the Celtics, and I'm dropping R's left and right, and talking about how the best canolis are only found in North Boston (thank you French) and how I can't stand gambling at Foxwoods anymore (thank you Bill Simmons articles.) Anyway this dude bought the whole thing, and I was entertained as shit, as I had played around with a fake Boston accent before, but I'd never pulled it off on real Bostonians.
And this happened three other times in like 2 hours! Some dude would approach me, strike up a conversation about the Sox, and I'd end up talking with him for like 15 minutes in a fake accent. More fun than I can put into words. Buckley told me later I sounded like Ben Affleck in Good Will Hunting, which I guess I'll take as a compliment.
After beer pong we went to a club, met some 19-year-olds from Fargo (they looked like they were 12, right in your wheelhouse Dunph) and got stupid on the dance floor. I let someone tie my shirt up like the Chiquita Banana girl and did the Rasheed Wallace pregame dance, the Youkilis/Papelbon dance, and the dance from Hot Rod where the guy is handing out fliers. We were about the only white kids in there....let's just say we weren't a big hit at this place.
MONDAY, 5 AM
After some end of night shenanigans (throwing sandals into the middle of the Strip and having to play Frogger with traffic to get them back; getting my hat thrown into a fountain in front of Caesar's, and then baptizing people in that same fountain) it was time for Paul and I to head to the airport, where I sobered up enough to get through security, boarded my plane with (no exaggeration) 30 seconds to spare, then passed out before the plane took off.
All told, I ended up winning around $350-400. I went 9-6 against the run lines in my MLB betting extravaganza. I fooled 4 separate Boston natives into believing that I grew up there. I won almost 50 bucks on the Spelling Bee challenge. I didn't get beaten up, arrested, or hospitalized. I finished on a high note. These are the positives.
I waxed my legs for no good reason. I puked in a urinal at 5 in the afternoon. I bet actual money on the WNBA. I got punked by some girl who knows who Tom Chambers is. I didn't get to talk shit to Jeremy Roenick. These are the negatives.
Post script, which happened after I left for the airport: I won't name any names, but one of my friends, who very closely resembles the best golfer of our generation, humped one of the randos from Texas allllll over the Caesar's Palace grounds. Kudos to him.
Vegas, baby. Vegas. I miss you already.
