Is It Always So Sweet The Third Time Around?

I feel after a couple days being home I am sufficiently recovered and in a mental state to discuss the Vegas trip. Cast of characters, from left: Aaron (Brittany's BF from St. Cloud who we just met), Brittany, myself, Jen, Lindsey, Shawn, and Bergman.

Friday, 2 am: After a nightmarish six hour wait in Fargo, we finally get off our plane. Bergman, who was on a separate flight, arrived an hour ago, and we quickly put the over/under for "airport beers consumed" at 5. Only Shawn takes the under, while Aaron, Lindsey, Brittany and I take the over. Shawn wins as Bergman was only on 4 1/2. Brittany wins "Baggage Claim Challenge" while I take a disappointing last place.

Friday, 3 am: Check into our hotel (Fitzgerald's downtown), and the couples go to sleep. Bergman and I go downstairs to "check to see if the tables are hot."

Friday, 7 am (9 am Grand Forks time): We're both up over a hundred playing blackjack switch, and with a 9:52 tee time rapidly approaching, we make the executive decision that there will be no sleep for these two guys.

Friday, 3 pm: No sleep + being drunk + first round of golf in three months + unfamiliar course= shitty scores. Oh well, we each snuck in a couple of birdies, and the course was beautiful.

Friday, 7 pm: After a fab-o-lous dinner at my aunt and uncles' house, we hope to grab a quick nap, but the rest of the crew, which now includes the people we're visiting, Jen and Amber, decide to play "call Jim repeatedly from different phones until he says he on his way." Fine, we're fuckin' coming.

Saturday, 3 am: Win more money, drink around 20 white russians, propose to Helen our blackjack dealer, hop in and out of the strip casinos winning more money, take worst-tasting jello shots in the world, bump into a guy at New York, New York and think it's Doug Flutie (it wasn't even close, I've been told.)

Saturday, 9:30 am: After a couple hour nap, I jump out of bed (by bed I mean hotel room floor) and realize I haven't bet on any football games yet.

Saturday, noon: After finding that brack-a-jack still bean berrrrry berry good to me, sweet-talking my way into a egg mcmuffin even though it was 11:45, and hanging in the sports book with the other junkies, I return to the room and wake everyone up.

Saturday, 12:30 pm: Puke up my egg mcmuffin.

Saturday, 5 pm: While the girls, Bergman, and Aaron go shopping (shopping?!) Shawn and I have spent the afternoon destroying the Four Queens. Good times.

Saturday, 8 pm: Our meal at Margaritaville is highlighted by the girl who slides down the volcano into the measuring cup coming up to me afterwards and telling me she loves my "I heart hot moms" shirt. To which I wink and stammer out something untelligible. Sounded good in my head though.

Saturday, 11 pm: Wayyyyy too much to drink tonight, and after cashing in my winnings from the Giants covering against the Skins, I begin a stretch where I will drop over 300 scrills in the next 4 hours.

Sunday, 5 am: After me getting my ass kicked all over the casino, Bergman and Shawn enduring one of the worst blackjack dealers of all time, and everyone else going to bed, the three of us decide the only thing that can pull us out of this slump are the fine looking ladies of Olympic Gardens. Also decide to send a drunk textie to The Woman back home to let her know our plan. Whoops. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

Sunday, 6 am: Hey!! It's Happy Hour at the O.G., Shawn has had his lap dance cherry popped, and we have ridiculed a stripper who has A) growled and swiped a paw at us like a cougar while crawling across stage like we are a gazelle who is laying helpless on the ground, b) told us she "vonts to suck our blooood!!" in a vampire voice, C) seeing my shirt, told me that my mom never taught me about girls like her, and D) almost single-handedly ruined the high regard that I currently hold strippers in. Yikes. However, Sniffer's Row was a success overall. Shawn wins best line of the night when he tells a stripper that her tits are like a venus fly trap when she snatches a dollar from his hand with them.

Sunday, 9 am: We stumble back to the room. Lindsey and Brittany=not impressed.

Sunday, 2 pm: Lunch at the Stratosphere. I have a glass of champagne and I'm drunk again.

Sunday, 4:30 pm: I cash in my ticket for the Cowboys and Lions covering the over. This will be the last time I come remotely close to anything resembling winning. We also start drinking.

Sunday, 8 pm: Hit the Fremont Street party, where Smashmouth, Chicago, and the All-American Rejects, among others, will be playing. Interesting combination of bands for me to black out, er, listen to.

Midnight: Happy New Year!!!! Unfortunately, the six hour time frame around the ball dropping is an indescribable blur. I do know that the dancing shoes were dusted off, and my wallet was much lighter afterwards.

Monday: 3 am: The girls, still a little bitter about the strip club excursion last night, demand we go back, with them this time. In a related story, apparently Aaron has cabbed it to the airport after fighting with Brittany. I guess he was mad that she had the nerve to be upset at him for leaving her by herself while she was puking by the slot machines, because he was missing the bands. Coming out of the gates for Biggest Douchebag of 2007, it's Aaron in the lead!!!!

Monday: 4 am: Finally Jen and I re-arrive at the club. Why re-arrive, you ask? Because Jen forgot her i.d., and when her brilliant idea of using MY i.d. didn't work, we had to go back to the hotel and get hers. Stunning that idea didn't work out.

Monday, 5 am: The O.G. has the D Squad out tonight, and it is a pretty uneventful end to the night. Things allllmost get interesting when we almost convince Jen to climb on stage and dance, after telling her to prove it when she claims she could do better.

Monday, 2 pm: Seems there is more room on the plane with Aaron's attitude not on it.

Ended up losing about 100 bucks in gambling total. This is entirely due to the Saturday Night Massacre. Had innumerable white russians. But what I'll mainly remember is the laughter. Since my favorite thing about Vegas is talking shit with the dealers, I feel I should share my final rankings of all the dealers we had:

1. Hyo: Pronounced Ho, but she always laughed when we yelled out "Hyyyyooooo!!!!! It's me, Papa Burgundy!!!!" after blackjacks. She also comped me at the buffet, only to "shut you the hell up. How long has it been since you've eaten, anyways? Days?" Also asked me "Are you a drummer or something? You in a band? No? Then stop banging on the damn table!!" Love a dealer who will take our shit and bust our balls back.

2. Janet: The only thing keeping her out of the top spot is the fact that she was the Commanding Officer of The Massacre. Some of her favorite hobbies include calling me gay for not doubling an 11, and hiding my beer in weird places when I go to piss.

3. Helen: The one I proposed to. Not very funny herself, but she enjoyed our shenanigans, and we took a ton of money off of her.

4. Georgina: A 50 year old who doesn't speak a word of English, but we taught her how to reduce, reuse, and recycle, and whenever she saw us around the casino the rest the weekend, she would point at us and yell "Recycle!! Recycle!!"

5. Armando: Classy guy all the way around. Class class class. He also enjoyed the hand signal I made up for switching the cards around.

Last place: J.R. Wow. He started out cool, teaching us things like "you can't pimp a pimp" and such, but it quickly turned into arguments such as "T.O. is the best receiver in football, and Romo is a damn bum for not getting him the ball more." and this beauty "Ron Artest got traded to the Clippers weeks ago, man. Get with it. You say you follow basketball? Shit, man." And he would completely stop dealing cards to have these arguments with us.

So there it is, another Vegas trip in the books. Enjoy the pictures of Jen, Lindsey, and Brittany being, um, Jen, Lindsey and Brittany.