It’s 8:30 at night, and I’m in Las Vegas.
Right now, I’m just getting ready for a booze-filled romp around town. I’ve got a huge wad of cash burning a hole in my pocket, a shiny purple shirt, snakeskin cowboy boots and zero inhibitions. They’re going to be able to make a movie out of this night.
Just kidding. I’m actually in my hotel room in Las Vegas while my wife sits next to me and watches The Bachelor. Yes, that’s right. We came in from our vacation just so I could write this dang column.
OK, that’s also a lie. We would have come in to watch The Bachelor anyway because my wife and I are Vegas-by-day people, if you know what I mean. It’s a unique place to be when you’re as, eh, diurnal as we are. It would be like the Osbourne family visiting Disneyland.
In fact, if you haven’t been to Las Vegas, probably the best way to describe it would be to call it Evil Disneyland (although some readers might say that Disneyland is like Evil Disneyland. But then some other readers would say those readers are just being overly cynical and that they need a little bit of childlike joy in their lives. And then those readers would say, “Open your eyes, man!” And then the other readers would get all indignant, and then I’d just have a reader battle on my hands, and who wants that? Not me. Can you tell I’m writing this while on vacation?).
Anyway, Las Vegas is great, even for people like us who used our free drink vouchers to get Diet Cokes. The food is amazing, the weather is great in the winter, and sometimes the people say sorry after accidentally spilling booze on you.
The quantity of alcohol in this city is staggering. I mean, I know there are lots of regular, honest people who get home from work and like to relax with a beer or a glass of wine. But I don’t know a lot of people who like to relax with a 100-ounce, 3-foot-tall neon-green plastic bottle of vodka Slurpee.
We noticed one group of youths carrying these horns-of-more-than-plenty, complaining about the brain-freeze they were receiving. Yes, brain-freeze is what you should be worried about and not liver corrosion.
Casinos are also something worth seeing. They’re like Greek labyrinths in their construction, except that instead of centaurs and satyrs frolicking around fountains, there are just 70-year-old women wearing leopard-print miniskirts and chain smoking.
Also, just like in ancient Greece, nudity is generally encouraged. Everywhere you look, there are pictures of young women who look like supermodels, and who are also, apparently, allergic to most textile fabrics. They are just pictures, though. The women in these photos are conspicuously absent from the public.
I haven’t seen either of The Hangover movies, but from just seeing the previews, I know they got one thing right: Las Vegas is basically just a giant pack of 30-year-old men reeling around the streets, looking for all those invisible naked supermodels, hooting and calling each other “dude,” or “bro,” or, just for a change, “#$@%, bro,” all while wearing V-neck T-shirts that are a little too tight. Also, they wear sunglasses indoors, which, when combined with dim lighting and high alcohol consumption, allows for some pretty easy punchlines.