Okay, I can’t stand it any longer.
Yeah, yeah — I know you don’t care. Hell, most of you just breezed past that ‘cliffhanger’ I set up yesterday. Fine.
(Actually, if I’m being really honest with myself, I’ll have to admit that the vast majority of you didn’t read the last post at all, so there’s no way you could know what I’m talking about. Most of you are here looking for bare-assed pictures of some cartoon bimbo, or piccys of our favorite ‘naughty cookie’. Neither of which I actually have, mind you — but still the pervs keep coming. No pun intended, naturally.)
But enough of this blather! Whether you know — or care — or not, I’m itching to let you in on my little secret, so I will. And I don’t want to make you jealous, or anything, but… aw, hell, who am I kidding? Of course I want to make you jealous! That’s what I’m fricking here for. And so:
(Yeah, baby. That’ll make your weekend look like a sack of soiled gorilla diapers, won’t it? That’s what I’m talkin’ about, Willis.)
Now, I’ve never been to Vegas, so I’m not quite sure what to expect. I mean, I know what I am expecting, of course, but it’s probably not entirely realistic.
(And really, could in-casino blowjobs be that cheap? It’s hard to imagine, frankly.)
But it should be a good time. You may never get to read about it, of course — we all know the ‘what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas’ rule — but hopefully, I’ll return with some sort of story or other that won’t get any of us divorced, arrested, or drafted into the circus. So stay tuned for that, probably sometime on Monday.
Meanwhile, I’ll leave you with this quick tale of asshattedness from my office, regarding my upcoming odyssey. I was in our lunch room at work the other day, talking to a couple of folks, and I mentioned the trip. It went something like this:
Guy #1: Hey, what are you guys doing this weekend? Anything fun?
Me: Well, I’m going to Vegas.
Guy #1: Really? Sweet, dude!
Guy #2: Is that Las Vegas?
Now… what sort of titbrain asks whether it’s Las Vegas? How many other frigging ‘Vegases’ — I’d call them ‘Vegii’, but that just looks so wrong — are there? I almost forgot where I was, and said:
‘No, genius, I’m going to ‘San Vegas’. It’s in Montana. Yay, fucking me. Assbag.‘
(But that’s probably not the sort of venom you want to be spewing in the office, even if it’s tongue-in-cheek. The guy might take it okay, but the boss is unlikely to know a ‘gentle ribbing assbag’ from an ‘about to go postal on the cube farm assbag’. Sadly, most creative profane subtlety is lost on those not accustomed to hearing it. It’s a shame, really.)
And anyway, even if there were — or are — other ‘Vegii’ (yeah, I got over it) out there somewhere, those obviously aren’t the ‘Vegas’. At no time in history, since the founding of the Vegas with boobies and gambling and all-night booze, has any other Vegas been the Vegas. ‘San Vegas’, ‘Puerto Vegas’, ‘Our Holy Uptight Lady of Vegas on the Mount’ — nobody gives a damn about these. Why? Because those places don’t have slot machines at their airports and hookers on every corner, that’s why.
But Las Vegas does, and that’s where I’m spending the next forty-eight hours of my life. So, sorry in advance for missing a post or two, but I’ll be thinking of you while I’m gone.
(Bwah hah ha! Hoo — man, I almost typed that with a straight face. Yow! That was a doozy. I mean, I love you folks, seriously. But this is Vegas we’re talking about. In twelve hours or so, I’ll be lucky to remember my fricking name. Homina!)Permalink | 5 Comments