June 16th, 2004



Stripper poles aren’t the most comfortable things to lean your back against, but I didn’t care. My ass was tired. I couldn’t find a place to sit in the strip joint, so there I was, sitting on one of the side stages. Suddenly the door opened and a bright light eagerly attempted to enter the dark room before being quickly kicked out by the blackness. I recognized that light. It was morning in Vegas.


I actually had no plans to go to Las Vegas this past weekend – the reason being I had no desire to go. This is despite the fact that ten of my friends were going, as well as a bachelor party for Doc’s brother, L’il Doc. About two years ago, I’d grown tired of Vegas bachelor parties, which, the more I think of it, sounds fucking crazy. But there's only so much blackjack, cigars, steak dinners, Patron shots, and fake tittery a man can absorb before it no longer has the desired effect.

Not too long after that, I got sick of Vegas - probably because my four-year winning streak, which had begun on the night Tupac got shot, had finally ended. On the weekend the streak ended, I felt like Biggie. Granted, I still managed to win a couple of times since then, but that was greatly outweighed by my losses, which is evidenced by the fact that there's a wing in Mandalay Bay named after me.


Nevertheless, after some major prodding, I finally bought a plane ticket early Friday morning.

Flying out Friday night, I started to think there was something major going on in Vegas after I spotted A, B and C-List people: That Dicaprio guy, Seth Green and Lorenzo Lamas. But with June being a huge wedding month, the only things going on in Vegas this past weekend were bachelor and bachelorette parties. Maybe Lamas was jumping out of somebody’s cake. Lord knows he needs the work after "Are You Hot?"


The thing about bachelorette parties is the girls often try to make the bride-to-be as slutty as possible. You'll often see them wearing a t-shirt that says something witty like, "I love to suck cock." Then of course, there are the activities. While I was waiting in line to urinate at the Ghostbar, two girls walked up to me dragging along an ass with legs. The ass was a bent-over bachelorette.

"Spank her!" the girls screamed.

I ended up having to spank her twice. The girls, and the guys in line with me, complained that the first one was weak. Problem was I was too busy suppressing the urge to vomit. Not because of the ass, which was a decent pair of cheeks, but because of the Goldshlager shots. L’il Doc finally got his revenge on his bachelor's party.


The Goldshlager Story
Here's the thing about Goldshlager. Back in the days when I used to drink a lot (No, seriously.), that flaky gold poison was my drink of choice. 'Shlager was 120-proof, which was a happy, cinnamony middle ground between vodka/rum/scotch, which were 90-proof, and lighter fluid.

At the 1997 New Year's pre-party, I'd made L’il Doc do a massive shot with me. And by massive, I mean roughly half of a juice cup. About five minutes later I heard a loud bang followed by some screaming. Running into the other room, I saw Doc's brother facedown on the floor. Vera, his cousin, ever the calm and rational one, exclaimed, "I think he's dead!"

Apparently he was posing for a group picture. When the flash went off, he suddenly blacked out and fell face-first to ground like a Saddam statue. While I knew the guy wasn't dead, I thought the fall might've caused brain damage and I felt really guilty, with images of him being spoon-fed creamed corn floating through my conscience.

Luckily he only suffered a nosebleed. But, years later at his bachelor party, I was still introduced as the guy who almost killed him with a Goldshlager shot.

"You're him???" His buddies said while pointing at me as if I were some dumb urban myth come to life.

L’il Doc has been trying to return the favor ever since. And he'd been unsuccessful, ‘til Vegas.


One of the things I did differently for this Vegas trip was to keep the gambling to a minimum. So for the first time I played Paigow Poker, a game I used to sneer at, because it takes so damn long for you to lose all your money. But, hey, it’s a cost-efficient way of getting plodgered. You can sit at the table for a very long time while the cocktail waitresses repeatedly feed you free Grey Goose on the rocks. In a two-hour period I won and lost a combined total of five games.

Problem was, our waitress at the Palms Casino was just as slow as Paigow Poker; so as soon as she brought my drink I was already ordering my next. What I failed to notice was eventually she stopped being slow, so I was ordering and drinking at a faster pace. By the time we met up with everybody at Ghostbar, I'd drunk all of Russia. It was only 10pm.

Historically speaking, cigars and alcohol are very bad news for me. Once they enter my system, they put aside their differences, like Shaq and Kobe on a good day, and work together as a team to bring about my downfall. In this photo it looks I’m about to erupt.

Collapse )

Strangely, right after I booted, it was as if I’d traveled back in time, before I soiled my innards with liquor and smoke. Besides not feeling nauseous, I was instantly wide-awake and chipper like a forest ranger. When my friends saw me bouncing out of the restroom with gusto, they were shocked and awed. And they were disappointed they couldn’t take any more drunk pics of me. Then we hopped into a limo and headed off to O.G., where this entry began.


In the end, I rediscovered the joys of Vegas bachelor parties. I also learned that vomiting is not all that bad. And I even won some money, which ended up going to a much better place anyway.

And that's one to grow on.

Site Meter