Vegas Timelion v. 2

Timelion is a timeline. See volume 1 below for an explanation. Feel free to drag a pot and say "Pay THE LION, Pay him handsomely" and I will think you are cool, it's the new "Ship it to the Colonel."


Thursday 1 am. I dream the fanciful dreams of anyone going to Vegas, winning cars Nick Papageorgio style, going heads up and dragging huge pots from an deep pocketed-Cowboy fish who bathes in his crude oil, channel TJ Cloutier's wet-dream and getting a 20 consective hour craps roll and needing an IV to stay on my feet and a cart for all my chips, and getting the high-rollas suite. At the end of my dream a drunken Wayne Newton gets eaten by Siegfield and his lion (PAY HIM WAYNE!). I awake to see one of my dogs licking her crotch feverishly. Ewww, does she do that every time she thinks I'm sleeping? I'm kind of grossed out.

Thursday 7:30 am. I get a text message from the Brothers Johnson saying they arrived at 4 am in Vegas. A mere six hours after their second flight out of NYC was canceled. I lied in the previous timelion. They were the first to arrive and hadn't yet lost at craps. That actually happened on thursday not wednesday. Fill that in later in this post if your are a completionist. They say a lot of sleep is good for your memory. Remember the over/under for hours I'd sleep on this weekend was 12 out of 84. Details may be fuzzy and inaccurate.

Thursday 8am. I fire off an email to Gary Parrish the CBS Sportsline college basketball writer who was in Vegas covering the top recruits in the country in a series of basketball tournaments. Guy once wrote that he plays online poker, I've been a fan of him since. I ask if any UNC or Richmond recruits will be playing while I'm out there. He responds and says he'll get back to me. Very cool. He also has a blog post about getting killed in BlackJack shortly after mentioning me in a round about way. He actually made no mention of me whatsoever, but I can infer I was one of the many he mentioned because my ego demands it. Scroll down to the rundown on Vegas.

Thursday 10am. My lady, and when I say "my lady" I use the same inflection as used in the Pina Colada song, please have that running in your head anytime you read it, packs me up for Vegas. My lady is too sweet and I'm lucky to have her though I get the feeling she's being extra sweet to reinforce how good I got it. After loading up my suitcase she reminds me about her skills with a vise and mentions to me she's also quite handy with a mallet. Did I say I was lucky to have her? But, I'm a good boy... so my gonads will be safe. I think somewhere inside even SuperBill was even shaking.

Thursday 10:01 am. A friend of mine on West Coast time wakes up and farts into the open mouth of the girl snoring next to him. He didn't know her until late last night. Unfortunately, said friend pulls out of joining me on the bachelor party. He's good for about three or four ridiculous stories a weekend, this weekend will be a blast but this news means my recap is infinitely less potent without his exploits.

Thursday 10:02 am. Random girl wakes up from her dream of chugging cow turds and has a terrible taste in her mouth. Thankfully she's in Seattle so she can quickly replace the taste with coffee breath.

Thursday 10:30 am. Learn more of the trouble makers are en route to Vegas. Get a text from Pay the Lion--phrase coiner, but not coin-dropper, Bake is on his way. What's a coin dropper? It's a person that drops coins. Another friend one night years ago was on a beach bus ripped after a charming game of pussy put the cap on (You take a bottle of hard alcohol and swig it and pass it to the next person in the circle and the game goes until... Pussy Puts the Cap on) and he pulls something out of his pockets which starts an avalanche of silver dropping all over the floor. I say, "Yo, you are dropping coins, You're dropping coins," He looks stupefied. I say, "You are dropping coins!" as his life savings in nickels continues to fall to the floor.

He's clueless, and asks, "What does that mean? What does that mean? I'm dropping coins? What does that mean?" Obviously we didn't tell him the literal interpretation was the correct one and of course, any time he f'd up or said the wrong thing, or said the right thing and we still wanted to f with him we informed him, "You are dropping coins." I once took a video camera out on the town in Atlanta during a Superbowl weekend (Rams-Titans) and enticed any and every girl, after telling her the camera loved her, to tell my friend on camera that he was a "One-trick pony who was always dropping coins." Unfortunately, the one trick pony and coin-dropper dropped coins and couldn't make the trip, but Pay the Lion could and was ready to for the lion to get paid.

Thursday 11 am My palm literally starts itching. I receive an email from my investment banker friend in NYC, who also couldn't make the trip, it simply asks me whose name my room is under. I don't know whether to be scared or excited. I reply my brother's. I'm hoping he's going to pull a surprise show-up in Vegas like I did eight years ago. I simply knocked on the door after telling everybody I was a late scratch, and I like to think enhanced the experience for everybody. Could my boy bring some surprise spur of the moment joy to my life now? I mull it over.

Thursday 3 pm sit in the New Orleans airport. My boy Silky Joe who is the husband of one of my wives bridesmaids and an all around fun guy is riding shot-gun on the trip. At one point there was some momentum to have all the bachelor party fools show up to Vegas with a mustache. It got steam after one of our friends lost a bet and had to wear a mustache for one night. I was enthralled by the idea of traveling around town with a 15 guys with Jeromy Giambi staches at once. People would wonder if it was a Pittsburgh Police Force convention. Or did mustaches suddenly come into fashion overnight and they missed the memo?

Such latent comedy in any and every interaction. Two of the chief pushers of this idea backed out of the trip--yeah, I'm talking about you Austin Martin, I think you backed out around the time of your last blog post. A couple of us, grew thick goat-tees so we could shave and leave that forrested thatch on our upper lips if the rest of the group complied. Silky Joe, needed no short-term vanity, he grew a thick, resplendent full mustache, which was every bit Tom Selleck or a midwestern high school football coach. So as we waited for the flight, I admired his facial foliage. Even the guy who lost the bet didn't have the courage to go strictly stache until the one night payout. Silky Joe has balls.

Thursday 7pm. We land in Dallas and try unsuccessfully to get onto three earlier flights to Vegas via standby. No dice. In one we were next up when suddenly they called the people 15, 16, and 17 on the standby list. I'm inform them they are out of order. They tell me I'm out of order. I'm out of order? You're out of order.

People in uniforms win arguments, even SuperBill knows that.

Thursday 715 pm. I have my first beer. Mmmmm. Beer.

Thursday 11pm. Silky Joe starts his running joke for the travel weekend by loudly telling me and everybody in earshot he had spoken to the pilot and the pilot said "He was going to hotdog the landing." This induces nervous conversation. A lady next to me discovers I'm headed to Vegas for my bachelor weekend. She works for Macys online registry... you don't say. Like Manna from the heavens, God puts the lady who has singlehandedly caused more internet strife in me and Jessica's life right next to me. We tried to register for two weeks and couldn't speak to a human ever and got one error message after another. It's like Macy's didn't want to make money. This lady quickly felt the wrath of a future groom when the future bride ain't happy.

Thursday 11:51... VEGAS TIME... We land. Pilot does not Hot Dog the landing.


Goondingy said…


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