- Marquees Don’t Lie
It’s hard to consider yourself a gambler when a bad Vegas trip is losing $1,000. This is especially true when you drove there with someone who lost $50k+. $50k is a lot of money, but the guy that lost all that money rolls with guys who routinely lose/win well into six and seven figures. So I bet it’s hard for him to consider himself a gambler too.
I’ve been to Vegas well over a hundred times in my career of degeneracy, and I still don’t consider myself an expert. Just kidding; I do.
One of the guys at work was going to Vegas with some friends. He was staying at the Imperial Palace–two rooms, two days, $300.
One time, the same guy who lost $50k booked a bunch of rooms at IP for all our friends and we painted the town. The IP is cheap, so you can do that. But regardless of how many rooms you get, the Imperial Palace is still a dump. Three hundred bucks is too much. I wish I could show my coworker how to do Vegas, but I can’t. But I can offer
DAVE’S VEGAS GUIDE: Vegas And Gambling Is Now Awesomer!
People of all sorts go to Vegas. Most of these folks, however, fall into one of a few categories. Vegas And Gambling Is Now Awesomer! is all-encompassing–so just find your category and dive right in!
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The Redneck Vegas Trip:
Accommodation: Stay either on Fremont Street or at the NASCAR Cafe. Both are so close to the Harley Davidson shop that you can smell the chewing tobacco. Since you will be spending a lot of time in the room watching sports, you want to make sure that they have every ESPN channel. You probably want to stay off the strip, like the Orleans, or Boulder Station. Or go fancy and stay at Stratosphere. Circus Circus is nice too. One time we got a room in the bungalows there. It reminded me of the projects, with smoke, crying babies, and kids running the halls. There was also blood on one of the pillows.
Attire: The more denim the better. If you left your acidwashed black jeans at home, just wear your jean shorts; but be sure to tuck your NASCAR t-shirt in, hiding the grease stain. Gradually let it become more and more untucked as your blood alcohol content increases. Your cellphone is too large for those Levi’s pockets–wear it on your belt, or carry it in a fanny pack (available at the world’s largest souvenir shop, which is next to your hotel).
During the day: After taking a peek at the Ferrari shop (Venetian), parlay your trip to the Harley Davidson shop into a trip to the world famous pinball and Liberace museums. And if Liberace doesn’t get your blood flowing, stop by the gun store and fire some automatic rifles.
Then get lei’d at Mermaid’s on Fremont Street and buy a $20 “yard” drink. If you splurge for a huge one, it comes with a lanyard, so you’re never more than six inches away from gluttonous bliss.
Despite being in the seediest part of Vegas, consistently brag that you are “on vacation,” and that “money is no object.” Keep sippin’ that blue drink.
Nightlife: Make your way to Margaritaville, or anywhere else with ample Harley Davidson regalia. Keep sippin’ that blue drink. Get rip-roaring drunk and dance sweatily until your wife’s perm gets Buckwheat. Put Barb to bed and waste your remaining $120 at Bill’s casino splitting sevens. Be sure to make demeaning comments to the Mexicans handing out escort flyers. Don’t worry, they are foreigners in your country. They don’t speak English.
Try to stay away from Casino Royale. While they have cheep beer and tables, they also have assholes who will write offensive expository guides about you.
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The Douchebag Vegas Trip:
Accommodation: Stay at the most expensive place possible. Since you will be bringing duck face club chicks back to your place to toot blow, be sure to have Ketel One and RedBull. Lots of RedBull. Don’t be a cheapass and buy that Rockstar or Monster shit. Leave an empty Magnum condom box in the bathroom trashcan. She’ll see it.
Attire: Since you just threw away all your Affliction gear, that is no longer an option. Boardshorts and/or MMA fight shorts are good for the pool. Anything with skulls or barbed-wire will work, as long as it complements your tattoos, since that will be the obvious topic of conversation with the strippers. If it gets hot, hop in the pool, but don’t get the fauxhawk wet, ‘cuz that means a trip to the room.
Brand names are a must. Size everyone up. If they have spent less time in the gym, they are inferior to you. Do not let them talk to your chicks. Remember: this is yourtime with your boys–don’t spend your hard-earned cash on other dudes.
Sunglasses are of grave importance, as you will wear them everywhere–the pool, the casino, the club, and hopefully to bed, while you’re thumpin’ some drunk skank up in your room. Fuckin’ skanks.
During the day: You must be visible. You didn’t spend thousands on your dietary supplements, gym membership, tattoos, and tan for nothing. Start the day off with a workout at the hotel gym. The only ones worthwhile are the expensive ones. With fitness, you get what you pay for.
Take your time getting ready. Imagine how embarrassed you’d be if you showed up to Wet Republic (or any other pool with loud, loud music and topless strippers) with a crooked ‘hawk or wrinkled boardshorts. Buy drinks for everyone, especially the strippers! FaceBook the picture of the tab (gratuity included) or at least the bottles you’ve been popping so even the people back home know you’re the Fuckin’ Man. Consistently brag that you “do this all the time,” that “money is no object,” and that you’re “gonna run this town tonight.” Find a bathroom with a good shit stall to do pushups, and check the mirror every time on the way out. Keep those tattoos well-lubed.
Nightlife: After achieving jacked-up status on energy drinks in the room, order more at the nearest bar. You’ll already be on the strip, but splurge anyway and get the most obnoxious limo-bus possible. I recommend a Hummer. Put the trendiest club song on repeat and crank that fucker. That sunroof is there for a reason, and that reason is for you to yell at traffic. If your clever shouting fails to lure floozies into the limo, fuck them. You’re better than them, and you can prove it. Go to Pure at Caesar’s or JET at the Mirage. Mad bitches. Either slide in the door with some skanks or, after outlining that you are going to do so, slip the door guy a hundo. Refer to him as “your boy.” Pure is similar to the pool, and you should treat it the same. Two words: RedBull vodka.
In the unlikely event that you don’t buy your way into a night with a lady, gather your similarly distraught homies and hit the casino. Don’t worry if you lose all your money–casinos have tight security, which makes them a great place to fight. You will get that attention you deserve and have adequate time to flex with the comfort of knowing that security will break up the fight before it even gets to shove phase.
If you black out, go to a strip club and find a hot chick that is really, really into you. Be patient and persistent. It usually takes several lap dances for a dancer to feel comfortable with you.
Make comments to every pair of tits you see along the way back to your ritzy hotel. You have nothing to lose. If there are chicks around, be nice to the Mexican escort flyer guys. If not, let ’em have it. Their plight is not your fault, and if they weren’t so fuckin’ lazy they wouldn’t have such a shitty job. Note: every black guy you see has coke; you just gotta hit ’em up for it.
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Vegas with the Girlfriend:
Accommodation: Stay somewhere that has a mall. Caesar’s is expensive, but so is she. She’ll keep her mouth shut as long as you’re spending. Get a two-bed room. They are the same price. Screw in one, sleep in the other. You want her to be comfortable, so she’ll sleep while you drunkenly squander your earnings at the poker table. Be sure that the room and bathroom has sufficient surface area onto which she can explode her luggage. HBO is a must for passing time while she dicks around in the bathroom for hours.
In a best-case scenario, you will be double-dating. If possible, create the impression that you are spending more money on your girl than he is on his. Vegas with the girlfriend is all about showing her what she is worth. In dollars.
Attire: Wear something that doesn’t stain easily. You will be spending most of your time eating or going somewhere to eat. Risotto is delicious, but if that sauce gets on the shirt she got you, you’ll never hear the end of it.
During the day: Find a pool where the drinks are reasonably priced. MGM is decent, but a beer will run you seven bucks. Her fruity drink will cost you a handful, but it’s money well spent so long as it keeps her hole pacified. Feel free to stare at chicks, but if she notices, be sure to let out a subtly degrading comment about whomever has your attention. Don’t worry if she stares at all the beefcakes–she’s only thinking about getting plowed by the stud.
Nightlife: Cirque du Soleil is Dutch for “Show for Couples.” You already know everything about this woman, and all the boring conversation and uncomfortable silences through dinner are gonna make you want to sit and stare at people jumping around. I’ve never been to a Cirque show, but all my friends with girlfriends have, and they all rant about them. Criss Angel is a tumbling dickweed, but I’ve heard his show, while pathetic, is good for a laugh and some Magic 101 how-to.
Comedy shows in Vegas, I have discovered, can vary greatly in quality. I would steer clear of the Riviera, where they hire geriatric comedians to tell knock-knock jokes.
Mix at Mandalay Bay is home to the greatest toilet on Earth. If you don’t believe me, just look at the picture.
Mix has free entry before 10, and beers are six bucks. Aside from the incredible view, it takes a half-hour to walk to the place from anywhere, so you kill plenty of time “getting there.” Also at Mandalay is one of those frozen vodka bars, where you put on some lousy fur coat and revel at how you are not only drinking a cold drink, but you are in the refrigerator. Fascinating.
After the vodka, ponder the circumstances under which you were conned into all this at any “oxygen bar,” where you pay for air. Fuckin’ dummy.
If she’s bloody, buddy up with one of the Mexican escort flyer guys and collect your favorite four or five nudie flyers. Spank your little pimp while she primps in the bathroom.
If all else fails, get into a fight with her. There’s something she does that pisses you off, and there is no better way to kill time than fighting, followed by make-up sex.
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Vegas DAVE’S WAY:
Once you’ve been to Vegas a couple hundred times, nothing phases you. You realize the costs behind everything, and notice that everyone around you is pissing their money away. A weekend in Vegas should cost about $170, plus gambling money. This includes gas, food, and booze.
Accommodation: I used to stay at the Tropicana all the time. Now I stay either there or at the Flamingo. Both are always among the three cheapest hotels on the strip. Some of the rooms at the Trop have mirrors on the ceiling above the bed, which is great until there’s an earthquake. Buy beer and Sparks’s at the AM/PM next door. Be sure to get bottles of Bud Light, so it looks like you bought it at the casino. Or throw caution to the wind and tote around double-stacked cans of PBR.
One edge that Trop has over Flamingo is their 24-hour hot tubs. Just remember: while chlorine might kill it, it’s still floating around in there.
Attire: Daytime: boardshorts, t-shirt, flip-flops. Nighttime: jeans, t-shirt, flip-flops. Or if you plan on being extra-sleazy, go button-down with shoes. And remember: pockets are for booze. More pockets, more booze.
During the day: At the Trop pool, you can get big ol’ plastic footballs full of liquor for twenty bucks ($12 refills). After one football, you will be entertaining. Two footballs in, you will be drunk enough to think that the second one didn’t have any alcohol in it, even though you watched the guy pour it the same as the first one. Nobody on Earth remembers finishing their fourth football. If you do, then you probably just counted wrong. One time I drank four footballs, and, after flopping into a large “misting” contraption (which rolled into some chicks) Trop security walked me and my buddies to the car and suggested that we “leave Vegas.”
If you are truly a cheap bastard (like myself), you can bring booze and whatnot in a backpack and keep refilling the football at the pool. Somehow the ones the bartenders make always taste better though, and I have had a hard time replicating the “roofie” effect using store-bought bottles.
If you stay at the Flamingo, fill a backpack with alcohol and head over to Caesar’s Palace across the street. Stop at Chipotle on the way (next door) and get a big-ass burrito for six bucks.
Caesar’s pool is more anomalous than the Bermuda Triangle. Nobody can explain its excellence and mystique. There are tons of people. You don’t need a room key to get in. You can bring your own booze. And it’s all free.
Caesar’s pool is so awesome that they have a designated section for juicer dickheads called the “Venus Pool Club.” It is as irresistible to meatheads as a mirror at the gym. You and your buddies can wing a football around, play grabass and get blasted on your own grog at the big pool while Spencer Pratt et al. strike poses and pour their cash down strippers’ throats in Venus.
The pool is for one thing: drinkin’. You will know you have consumed enough alcohol when you have lost your sunglasses, flip-flops, or cell phone, or you wake up face down in the arcade.
Once you are satisfied with your sunburn, stumble your dehydrated, shirtless self back to the hotel room. If you lost your flip-flops, just walk barefoot on the sizzling asphalt all the way back to your room. That’ll teach you. At this point, any sissies with whom you are sharing your room should be wrapping up their naps. Barge in, drunk and loud. It’s not your fault that your loofah-using pals need their beauty rest.
Now it is time to re-ice the beers. Only one out of every three ice machines works properly, so you might have to search a little. Most hotel rooms come with an ice bucket, most of which have sanitary bags. Open the ice bucket, line it with the bag, and fire it at anyone who is still asleep. When everyone is awake, throw it out the window–that thing is useless.
The little trashcan next to the desk is ten times larger than any ice bucket. Empty your buddies’ load rags from it and run to the ice machine. Fill that fucker up. If it won’t fit under the spigot, just guide the ice in with your hand. Laugh at any cubes that slide across the floor and get back to the room.
DO NOT, under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, LET YOUR BUZZ FADE. You are in Las Vegas. You did not come here to sleep. You did not come here to shower. You did not come here to watch basketball highlights in a hotel room. Do not let these or any other activities take priority over your sole ambition: getting royally shitfaced and causing a scene. If any of your buddies have grown vaginas, levy serious insults and make comments about their owwies. If you have it in you, rub one out. It’s time to hit the town.
Nightlife: Drink booze in the room ’til you’re filled to the brim. Then drink five more sips. This is the only way to progress as an alcoholic. Fill every available pocket with beers and/or flasks. Start at Casino Royale. If you’re at the Flamingo, it’s a seven-minute walk. If anyone needs to eat, there’s a Chipotle, Panda Express, gross pizza place, and an overcharging Subway along the way. If your pals can’t handle those options, you are rollin’ with homos.
Though recently remodeled, Casino Royale is still a dump. But it’s a dump with one-dollar Michelobs, buck-fifty Bud Lights, three-dollar craps, five-dollar blackjack, and buck-fifty ATM fee. As long as you tip anything, your cocktail chick will bring you and all your buddies two drinks each, every five minutes.
It’s almost impossible to get kicked out of Casino Royale, but you will know it’s time to leave when you are hitting the ATM a second time. Hit it and quit it. Before you leave, order as many beers as you can hold. You’re gonna need ’em.
O’Sheas is nearby, and they have beer pong. The place is chock-full of morons and Tucker Max worshippers in Polo shirts. If you and your buddies can’t get drunk at O’Sheas, there is no hope for you. Pack your bags and head back to Oklahoma.
Once your crew is sufficiently smashed, quell any ideas about strip clubs and head to the Mirage. By this time there should be a slew of slobbering drunk club hags bouncing around the casino whining about their feet hurting. I don’t recommend it, but if they invite you, you can go party in their room. Nobody is going to hook up and you will basically just sit around and watch drunk bimbos try to relocate their voluntarily lost friend, who is probably blowing some dork.
The poker room at the Mirage is great like Eli Porter’s lyrics. Don, the guy in charge there, won’t kick you out so long as you use letters instead of cuss words (e.g. “S my C you F’ing Dhead”).
Your last stop of the night, especially if you’re staying at the Tropicana, should be Hooters casino. I almost always show up too late for it, since I always stop to high-five the escort flyer Mexicans. But between midnight and 6 A.M., Hooters has 25-cent wings. I don’t recommend gambling there. Not only will you lose, but the craps table has a black rubber pad around it, and if you lean on it (you will) your arms turn black like you spongebathed yourself with newspaper.
So there you have it. It’s obviously a guide for guys, but if you’re a lady reading this, please spread Vegas And Gambling Is Now Awesomer! among your guy friends.