4 Lokos in the French Quarter: A Cultural Investigation of the Deep, Dirty South

I'm sorry, loyal followers of this blog, for my lack of posts in the last month. I have been busy moving back to Colorado and I already wrote about Tebow here, so I'm not sure I have a whole lot to add. BUUUUUTTTT, I just went down to New Orleans and Houston for an epic trip, so this recap and the upcoming Jersey Shore season 3 will keep me busy (especially since I am back to unemployed) and you entertained.

This may shock you, due to my appetite for Southern Rap, Southern Girls and Southern Football, but I have really never been to the SOUTH. In my past travels I have been to southern Florida, Dallas and driven through Texas as a teenager, but none of those really qualify as THE SOUTH (too few Confederate Flags is a key sign). So, when two of my CSU buddies invited me on a New Years Eve trip to New Orleans, it took me about six seconds to agree (on Twitter, proving just how awesome of a network tool it is).

Let me tell you, this trip did not disappoint, Yes, the following post is long, but if you plan on going down South anytime in your future, read. Plus it is pretty damn funny, if I say so myself:

Setting: The Derrty Souf aka Houston, Bumblefuck Bayous and New Orleans.

Cast of Characters

DJ Stringer Bell: I sometimes joke that I am black, but when push comes to shove I know that I am no such thing, not even close. Stringer, well, I'm not sure he knows that he isn't. He really is a DJ, and his love of soul music and hippity-hoppity is integral to his personality, which certainly captures the rebelliousness of rap music. He was our host in Houston, and he was kind enough to volunteer the use of his "Quasi" girlfriend's Oldsmobile Alero to transport us to the Nolia.

Stringer is not shy to share his opinions, finds a ton of humor in ghetto folk and due to his problems with authority, the odds were against him staying out of jail. He was also the only person in our group who had ever been to the Nolia, so our official tour guide.

Ted Galaxy: A former all-American DJ (or the radio equivalent) at CSU, but is now a grad student at CU. This conflict of interests also is apparent in his sexual persuasion. He isn't gay (I think?) but he does love fashion, Lady Gaga and E! so much that he really could go either way.

More importantly, his Tyrone Biggums-esque crack-addict voice scarred the shit out of me constantly, as there were certain moments driving through the 9th Ward that I thought our car was being invaded by the locals.

Arab Money: He used to be the color man for CSU women's basketball team and now works for an awl (that oil to you Yanks) company and was the organizer of this journey. A well-seasoned traveler and talented drinker, his background research of HDNet's "Drinking Made Easy," was vital to our trip.

The Trip
Pregame, Day 0:

-While at a pregame feast at BD Grill in Denver, Stringer Bell’s father, Hubie Brown (so named because of his likeness to the NBA analyst), regaled us with a lovely tale of New Orleans fun. About a guy who thinks he has picked up a girl at a bar, leaves with her and catches a ride with her and her two male friends, gets robbed, shot in the head and left for dead on railroad tracks, but miraculously survives. His other story is about seeing a guy dead on Bourbon Street and people just walking around him like it ain’t no thang.

My father has spent the entire holiday break regaling me of his stories of New Orleans, ending most with “and then I saw some guy talk back to a cop and end up bleeding from the skull.”

Stringer jokes that we are gonna walk around New Orleans shouting
Katrina." We are so gonna die.


Day 1, Houston's Hood

-We land in Houston and Stringer rolls to pick us up. Buckled up in each seat is a nice, frosty Sheisenbacher (or some German-named beer). We crack these as we roll by the cop car at the terminal. Texas, Y’all: You better be drinkin’ if you is drivin.’  

-Our first stop is Mr. A's The Club. There is a Mr. A’s in Colorado that Stringer likes to frequent, and it is probably the ghettoest place in Denver. The one in Houston, apparently is no different, as indicated by the crack-addict parking attendant who we dub Marvin Ely. Located smack dab in the middle of Kashmere Gardens, Mr. A’s proudly features Hood Night (gets real, real ghetto) on Thursdays, Hood Poetry on Tuesdays (sadly, on last Hood Poetry night the roof caught on fire. For serious) and God knows what the rest of the week.

The four of us enter the bar and we upped the count of whites in the bar to exactly five. The other honkey is a waitress, who quickly comes over to ask us if we are lost, in so many words. We let her know that we intended to come, and we would like her cheapest beer. Except Teddy G, who gets the strongest drink in the bar, a $9 Long Island that does indeed put him on his ass.

The club is actually pretty mellow, with an awesome R&B cover band and about 20 black folks that all can be best described as older and pretty fucking chill. Still, they is hood. We chill, watch the locals and chat up the waitress, who tells us she got the job because “her baby’s-daddy is the brother of an uncles whose son is that bartender right over there.” Which is a very complicated and unnecessary way for her to let us know that she is a whore looking for black dick.

We make such a good impression that one of the guys at the bar invites us to the Rap-A-Lot Records New Years party. As tempting as it would be to party with the Geto Boys, we decided that New Orleans was a better location for people of our pigment. Turns out, not really.

-Our next stop was at a Taqueira literally run out of a trailer in a dirt parking lot. It was surprisingly good. I especially enjoyed the outdoor foosball table and patio covered with an awning. Classy.


Day 2, Galleria and the Ghetto

-The next day saw us take a look at the prize jewel of Houston, the monstrous Awl Money pit that is the Galleria. Probably the biggest, fanciest mall this side of Dubai, the galleria has every overpriced chain you can think of, and 25 more. Because land in Texas is cheap, yet atop tons of liquid gold and full of people who want to buy class, the galleria is the epicenter of the Fake Aristocracy that is Houston’s elite. We wandered around ignoring much of the merchandise, mostly debating how attractive the girls would be compared to Colorado girls, since these Texas girls dressed to the nines and packed on make-up to get the maximum out of their God-given 5 rating, while Colorado 7s don’t put in the effort whatsoever. We dubbed it the “Plus-1” system.

-We were in a desperate search for Pedialyte, because according to Arab Money’s research, chugging a full bottle of Pedialyte before bed was a great hangover preventer. We ended up stopping at a Fiesta Grocery, which was the world’s most hood grocery store. Doubt me? There was a fucking Church’s Chicken inside the store.

Inside the store was fucking chaos. People yelling, lines 15 deep at registers, folks just milling around doing nothing…and LaTarian, the loveable scamp who just loves to do “Hood rat things with his hood rate friends.” Well, it wasn’t exactly him, but it was a mouthy 10-year old who had commandeered a motorized shopping cart and was crashing willy-nilly into every person, cart and shelf in his path.

Teddy and Stringer followed him, attempting to get a picture, but he got wise to their scheme. To quote Ted, 

"The only stuff I can remember LaTarian saying was: 'Hey ya'll are ya'll spyin' on me? I see you. Quit Spyin' on me.' At that point I blacked into hysteria and couldn't remember a thing he fucking said after that."

There was no Pedialyte to be found, but Arab Money and I each purchased 24oz. cans of Schlitz, because when in the ghetto…


-The thing you notice quickly in the South is the racism. It is palpable. The whites dislike the blacks, blacks dislike whites, and both hate the goddamn Mexicans. It isn't healthy, but just looking at the stereotypical people all around, it is impossible to ignore, and it is so easy to get caught up in...especially for someone like myself, who thinks stereotypes are hilariously entertaining.

-Following the ghetto shopping spree we hit up a giant ass liquor store. Which wasn’t exciting, but when we left we witnessed a dude attempting to straight jack a Caddy. He was just milling around, pretending to look for a key, until we pulled up and I tried to take a picture, at which point he fled.

-That evening, after we had mocked Houston in front of Stringer for about 24 hours, he decided to show us that Houston in fact did have nightlife, so we took off to Washington Ave to get our club on. The area was actually really fun and much less pretentious than most downtown/club areas that I have experienced. No covers, attractive girls and not an overwhelming amount of douche. Good times, but the highlight of the night was the last song of the evening, Busta’s “Arab Money,” which could not have been more fitting for Houston, and was obviously the impetuous for the nickname.


Day 3, Chupacabras, Tigers, Gators and Lokos 

-The next morning we had to stop before leaving for N.O. to get an oil change. Once it was finished, DJ Stringer yelled out “Time to go, you crazy Chupacabras.” The black cashier broke out laughing, wheezing out “He jus’ called you hairless dogs.” After that exchange, Chupacabras became a pretty prominent word on our trip, describing all the "undesirables."

-Following this, we had to backtrack to Stringer’s apartment because he had forgotten his razor. Which isn’t that interesting of a story, until he realized in Baton Rouge that he had also forgotten his money.

-We stopped for gas and gas station chicken on the outskirts of Houston, and among the random collection of crap for sale at the store was a t-shirt that said “Don’t be sexist…BITCHES hate that.” Texas, y’all. It was here that we remembered driving sober through Texas and LA wasn’t allowed, so we popped open the trunk and grabbed warm Lonestars. Then, in Iowa, Louisiana, Stringer picked up some El Jimador margaritas in a can. Wooooooo!!!

-We made a pit stop at the Lion’s Den Adult Store, and it did not disappoint. No, the awesome selection of movies, mags and anatomically correct torsos wasn’t that special (but the Kentucky, Louisiana and Texas Swingers Guides were a great find), but the best part of the store was outside…the fact that a father had locked his 4 year-old daughter in the car as he popped in for some smut.

-No drive through the Bayou is complete without a visit to LSU in Baton Rouge, a campus right in the middle of oil rigs and nothingness. We toured the campus (shockingly similar to CSU architecturally), attempting to sneak into Tiger Stadium but were foiled. Instead, Arab Money humped the Bayou Bengal statue and then we were gonna throw some pets to Mike VI, the live Tiger mascot, but this sign prevented us:

Ladies and Gentlemen, L-S-U!!! JaMarcus' intelligence, or lack thereof, makes a lot more sense.

-For dinner, we hit all the Cajun bases; Gumbo, Shrimp, Oysters, Catfish and Gator (chewy chicken, yummm).

-Following a heated discussion about our gas situation (it was somewhere between a quarter tank and an eighth), we stopped just outside the N.O. for some gas…and got hit in the face with straight South. First, Stringer purchased a knock-off Saints Super Bowl t-shirt with fake beads. He left the store for a second, then came back in wearing the shirt, spied Arab Money in line at the counter buying Sippin' Syrup and said “Boo-yah.”

This apparently mystified the fat black lady standing next to Arab, who looked at him and said. “Wha’ dat boy be saying dat boo-ya at ma?” (Why is that guy saying Boo-ya at me?) Our first genuine WTF ghetto/Cajun coonass moment of the trip. There would be many more.

-A couple hours later we hit Nawlins and checked into the Superdome Holiday Inn. After a quick shower, we bounced out towards Bourbon Street, but got a little lost trying to find Stringer’s “hood-certified” liquor store. After a quick detour through an overpriced corner store, we finally rallied to the find this Mecca of ghetto alcohol that was promised, and God was it awesome. Every type of malt liquor and Bougie smokes you could dream of, not to mention anarchy from all the hood folks trying to beg, borrow and straight steal the booze.

Yes, though we doubted Stringer’s directions at time, his pick of the Unique Grocery (half a block down Royal Street off of Canal, an area later described as Diagon Alley /Harry Potter) was on the money.

And when I say this place had every sort of liquor, I mean they even carried the recently banned, but surely never forgotten, cocaine-in-a-can that is 4 Loko, and if you see 4 Loko, you drink 4 Loko.

For those unaware of the glory, 4 Loko is a malt liquor drink that basically has the equivalent of 5 beers and 2 cups of coffee in a 24oz can, sweetened up to taste like your favorite Kool-Aid. It is now banned everywhere in the country by the FDA, except New Orleans and Las Vegas, allegedly. Well, in this ghetto LQ, 4 Lokos were going for around $2.20 (and I say around because apparently the price changed per hour, fluctuating from $2.09 to $2.50, probably depending on the amount of 4 Lokos the clerk had sucked down). Quite the fucking deal.

-Armed with two 4 Lokos each, our posse mobbed onto Bourbon Street and pretty much walked straight into titties, which was awesome. The best way to describe Bourbon Street is that it is the strip in Las Vegas, shrunk down to the size of an alley, featuring real architecture that no one has reinvested any money into ever. Every building feels like it is 200 years old, and while there are big neon signs and shit everywhere, the famous bars/clubs barely have sings signifying what they are.  And there are crazy drunk people everyfuckingwhere.

-About 1/3 places on Bourbon St. are strip clubs, and despite Stringer’s plan to hit up the Deja-Vu with it’s 3-story stripper pole, we got roped in by the promise of free cover at a place promising World Famous Sex Acts. Tough to pass that up, but like most places we visited, not exactly what we expected. See, the promised sex acts only happened upstairs, where strippers promised to “make you cum, baby,” for $50, but those performing said sex acts weren’t exactly the most attractive girls. In fact, they were all pretty ugly, fat, tatted up, uglier, anorexic, C-sectioned (I think it was this one that might have given Arab Money pink eye), herped out, etc.

Except one special girl, who had a pretty face, great ass, some decent tits and a MOTHERFUCKING BABY. Yup, we got to watch a lovely woman dance around in a g-string and semi-muumuu with another human incubating in her stomach. When she bent over in front of us I was pretty sure I could see the baby up her birth canal. It was pretty awesome.

-You can only look at so much pregnant pussy, so we moved back out onto Bourbon Street, which was in full chaos mode. People of all ages fucked the fuck up, beads flying, tits popping out sporadically, cops on horseback plowing through the crowd. Oh man, just an epic convergence of drunk, horny and dumb. 8 Lokos deep and now sipping on Hand Grenades, we were no different. We fought people for beads then threw them back at those on top of balconies, pissed on side streets and tried to comprehend what was going on.

At some point near midnight we met a group of girls. I introduced myself as Jermaine, they bought it, showing their level of; A) Intelligence & B)Intoxication, so they were right in my wheelhouse. For some reason I was dead set on going into a bar (even though now I can’t see why. Being out on Bourbon Street to welcome 2011 would have been more fun, but I was fucking 4 Loko fucked up) but the girls couldn’t get in, Why? Because they were 19. Which I think, I think, I may have told them I was as well during our initial convo. We made plans to meet up later, which thanks to a lack of cell phone service and supreme intoxication, never came to fruition.

-Following a wholly underwhelming New Years countdown (sorry again boys), we bounced from whatever shitty bar we were at…except somehow we did it sans-Arab Money. Sometime in the next two hours (which pretty much blurred by) while we people watched and generally behaved like animals, Arab Money wandered around some of the more colorful sections of New Orleans. Sometime during this trip he gleefully called his mother laughing that he was lost. She wisely told him to hang up the phone and get home. He then snapped into “survivor mode,” crouched down to hide while he was looking at directions, and fortunately made it back to the hotel unscathed. Sorry again, buddy.

-Arab Money and I passed out at about 2:30, but Ted Galaxy and Stringer balled out until like 6AM, visiting several ghetto locations, like the Tequila Room, which Mr. Galaxy describes:

In regards to the tequila room, I have never been more worried for the safety of my life. I would have felt safer walking naked in the 9th ward with the "N" word tattooed all over my body than spend another night at the Tequila room. We arrived there around 5ish early New Years, after Stringer heard the sound of black women squealing and records scratching. It must be a DJ thing. We walk into this place and it so packed that you are literally shoulder to shoulder with everyone, and the noxious fumes of every guy wearing excessive amounts of Roc-a-Wear about made me ralph up my third 4loko. This place has the square footage of a double-wide, yet Stringer insisted that we go and join the pit upstairs, which I pleaded not to do.  Every song was full of "504" chants, drug deals, and fat black chicks eating chicken fingers in the back. Since apparently all DJs speak the same lingo, String had to talk to the DJ at the place, who looked like Kid Rock and Sandra Bernhard's aborted child. While they discuss vinyl and whatever else bullshit DJs talk about, some kid that literally looked no older than 13 came up to me and said, "Hey cracker, you got any coke?" Which I replied, "Nope, but go to Unique Grocery and they got tons of it." After pleading that I didn't want a "504" tattoo edged into my skin by some kid, Stringer finally decided to leave.

-Before passing out we conducted a little science experiment with the Pedialyte. On day one, we awoke with no hangover. After day 2, nothing but the healing touch of God could have staved off our hangover. Still, Pedialyte definitely helps during extreme partying.

Day 4, Jon Beignets, Jumpers and Jambalaya

-The next morning I awoke to the sounds of sirens. I went out to the patio and witnessed about 25 cops cars surrounding our hotel and blocking the street. Arab Money and I decided to investigate, so we bounced downstairs to find about 30 cops milling around, vaguely staring up at the abandoned building across the street with all of it’s windows blown out.

We looked, asked a quick question which was greeted with no response, shrugged our shoulders and set off towards the Unique Grocery for some more Lokos.

-After basically skipping dinner the night before, we were fucking starving and decided to get some Beignets, a Nawlins staple. We located Café Du Monde and it’s long ass line, and noticed some girl in front of us Tweeting. We struck up a conversation, and turns out, she was Twattering about us: 

“Dudes next to me in line at Cafe du Monde drinking four loko. At 11 am. #neworleans” Celebrity status, y’all.

While chugging 4 Loko, I arranged the excess powdered sugar on our table into monster coke lines as we ate sugary Jon-Beignets (get it?) and sipped on Chiquri coffee. How our hearts didn’t explode I will never know.

-After meandering home, we witnessed Ohio State get a police escort to their bowl practice, so I then stupidly asked a cop if the police presence was all for them. He laughed and said no, but as we rounded a corner toward our hotel we noticed that the cops and a small gaggle of civilians were still looking skyward at the top floors of the abandoned building. Overcome by curiosity and Lokos, I decided to ask what the fuck was going on? I was assured that it was "None of my damn business" and I “should probably quit looking for gossip,” but I gathered enough to assume that it was probably a jumper across the street and that our hotel was not an Al-Queda target.

-As we entered the hotel room Arab Money and I began singing “That shit make me wanna JUMP! JUMP!”

Then on our balcony.

Then we decided that the pool would have the best vantage point, so we moved out there, continuing our serenade.

Then the guy swan dove off the building singing “I Believe I Can FLLLLLLLL-(splat).”

No, that didn’t happen. Thankfully, because then I might have felt a little bit like an asshole.

-Following another awesome Cajun dinner, we retired home to watch the Rose Bowl, but all of us got the ‘Itis and slept through the second half.

-We awoke, dazed though we were, and rallied. Out to Bourbon Street we went, and after a Loko pit stop (which I passed on, as the key ingredient, battery acid, was causing my stomach lining to leak) and a very entertaining dinner at a super hood Popeyes, Stringer was on a mission to get Ted Galaxy to a gay bar. We went, but having bounced for Super Gay Sundays, I really had no interest. But I really had to take a shit, figured gays are notoriously clean and it was too early in the night for there to be too much spunk flung around, so I figured “What’s the worst that could happen?” Well bathroom didn’t have a door and the shitter also didn’t have a door.

To quote Mr. Ford from Frisky Dingo, “There are three things Americans want; cold beer, warm pussy and somewhere to take a shit with a door…because you don’t want the dog looking at you.” So I had to brave the piss covered jon at a regular bar and hover-shit my explosive butt nuggets. Worst shit ever.

-I lost the other three during this ordeal, but soon located them atop a balcony hucking beads at girls. Here is how the next hour went:

Me: “Hey, hey you with the tits?”
(Stupid girls looks up, sees beads, shakes head no)
Arab Money: “Show me your fat tits!”
(Fat whore stars to husky walk)
Stringer and Galaxy: “Whore! Fat fucking WHORE!”
And repeat. This backwards ass logic may have hurt us some, but the biggest factors against seeing boobs was the cold wind blowing through and the fact that everyone on the streets was from Ohio or Arkansas.

But if some girl did show tits, or engage in some other slutty behavior, she would not get beads tossed to her, but beads flung at her head Ubaldo-style. At one point Stringer found a severed umbrella stand and threatened to harpoon the next fat bitch he saw.

One random homeboy next to us was so fucking shithoused he was just throwing money down on the street to “see what happened.” Not even poo-dollaring people, just making it drizzle but not at a club. Retarded. Then, out of the blue, he saw some girls and yelled out, “Hey, cool pussy.” Probably the most absurd thing one could say, even compared to the filth spewing from our mouths. We spent about another 30 minutes just yelling, “Hey, cool pussy, man!” at everyone who passed.

Oh, and all of this was happening across the street from about 15 cops who didn’t even bat an eye, except when someone brained one of them with some beads. Then they kinda got pissed.

-Going horse, we bailed downstairs to head to Déjà Vu and ran smack dab into the three whores we had met the night before. No matter where I go, there is always some coincidence like this. They were dumb 19 year-old whores, but whores do have vaginas, and vaginas+strip clubs are usually fun. So we got them to tag along. Minus some drama about cover charges at the door, we all ended up inside with what should have hot strippers to watch and easy pussy to entertain, but these whores were so fucking stupid it was pretty much impossible to handle.

My girl told her father (who she was staying with, akward) that she was at a strip club and his advice was “Take pictures and get out of there.” She only followed the first part, and because she was a girl, somehow wasn’t kicked out.

The blonde girl “backed her ass up to the fence” and let Arab Money fingerbang her for a bit, then recognized a “friend” and put on a better show with him than several of the strippers on stage.

The last girl was the dumbest of them all, and not shockingly also the fatty. She whined about how she was too fat to be a stripper and then showed us pictures of her pet…which was fucking RACOOON. Only in fucking Lafayette, LA, where all three of these twats attended Juco (Yuuuuppppp, not smart enough for Louisian-Lafayette).

They finally left, and despite the allure of dumb pussy, the simple fact that a prophylactic error could have meant 18 years of pain and horror overruled the little head. 

 

-Hungry, we stopped at Brother's, basically the South's 7-11, for some more fried chicken, basically the third time in the last 24 hours we had friend chicken. My insides turned to mush as I ate. Leaving Brother's we spotted a fucking Delorian with a Christmas tree tied to the top, grabbed a random drunken Asian and forced him to take a picture. On his third try he took this picture and inspired me to start a blog called "Pictures of Me by Drunks." Should be fun.

-We closed the night with a few Hurricanes at Pat O'Brien's and became entangled with a Texas Threesome, but finally bailed on the night at like 5:30.

Day 5, Hood Tour New Orleans-The next morning our terrible slumber was broken by thousands of Saints fans chanting "Who Dat?" down below on the street as they drunkenly wandered to the Superdome. We all awoke with horrible hangovers, but managed to wander around checking out the gameday scene. Following a lunch at a restaurant where every person working ignored us to watch the game, it was time to see the "real ghettos of New Orleans."

-Which were not at all easy to find. We drove straight through the 9th Ward, right up to the levies, turning at every corner that looked awful, but really couldn't find much besides abandoned houses. a couple crackheads and a few people chilling on stoops. And a very nice, neat hipster area. This fact really pissed off Stringer, who was bound and determined to get us lost in the hood. At one point I quipped "This area is so ghetto that the white guy with dreads didn't even lock his Honda," and I thought Stringer was gonna kill me.

-Working his IPhone and searching "Worst Parts of New Orleans" Stringer took us to the Garden District, which had one block of Hood (Pitbulls, hoopties, cops breaking up some disturbance, hoochies, etc.) and then tons of fancy homes owned by people like Peyton Manning. Stringer was fuming with anger and wouldn't let us leave until we saw a real ghetto, so I started singing random Lil' Wayne verses and came to the realization that we had to go to Wayne's home, Holygrove.

And when we arrived, we finally found our ghetto. Stringer was so excited he rolled down his window and just started snapping pictures like we were at a goddamn zoo. I'm pretty sure the citizens of the 17th Ward were very confused at our presence, therefore helping us escape alive. Also, Arab Money eventually child-locked Stringer's window because he was yelling about Chupacabras and other inappropriate things.

Day 6 & The End

-We then meandered our way back to Houston, with a couple more stops for fried food, and then Arab, Galaxy and I flew home the next day, more exhausted than I have ever been. New Orleans is a crazy place, not for the feint of heart. It is for the real drunks, there is nothing sanitary like Vegas. Still, it is a place that everyone should visit at least once, before you get too old.

I would just recommend going easy on the 4 Lokos, they ain't nothing to fuck with.

Jersey Shore Hook-Up: Week 7 and 8

Two Jersey Shore 'sodes this week. That is almost too much Guido. Almost. The Roommate chose the Situation in the drinking game and ended up passing out on his fiance's leg. Double episodes will fuck your shit up. On to the action, crank up that AC y'alll:

-"Only thing that we care about is gettin' girls. And going to the gym." -The Sit. A great response to the Rammy drama.

-Rammy is that annoying couple that is convinced everyone is jealous when everyone is really just sick of them. I hope they fucking die.

-Snooks has really started growing on me. She is so tiny, so bubbly. And she really is the only one that is able to keep the house together. I hope she finally gets fucked. By John Deere. "I've been with goats, sheep, deer, horses." Has she ever been with a man?

-Why is Vinny worried about the Situation wearing a condom? Or is he just worried about what the girl will catch? Probably the latter.

-Jersey tweet of the week. Jack O: The Jersey Shore "family meeting" was like a re-creation of the Lincoln/Douglas debates.

-The Situation just fucks up the situation. He should trade names with Drama from Fantasy Factory, because Drama never causes drama and always ends up in stupid situations.

He destroys that poor girl, fucking her in the hot tub and then not waking her up. Now that is a way to make it onto MTV. Should have just done a porn movie, honey, at least you would have made some money.

-Vinnie vs. The Situation, Round 1: Mike starts off with a few jabs, but Vinnie comes with a fucking haymaker. "No game? That's not what your sister said." Vin gets the points. V=1, S=0.

-Vin's game is my game. I pull girls that my friends know. I am Vinnie. Edy is the Sit. And guess who hooked up with his "little sister?" Yep.

-Vinnie vs. The Situation, Round 2: At the club, Vinnie starts making moves on Mike's sister again. Then he disses her, but the Sit shows some awesome strength with a wicked reversal by forcing Vin back to her. Vinnie throws some solid shots at the Sit by making out with lil' Sis, but it appears that Mike gets the W when he separates the two at the end of the night. That is until the Situation Without Abs sneaks downstairs to spend the night with Vin. The excitement of this contest blows Pack-Cards out of the water. V=2, S=0.

-Pauly D feelin' the Jew. Until she says no sex til marriage. Record scratch. Pauly D is not on the ones and twos.

-AC bitch. Fitting that a shitty Jersey Shore paradise would have the same initials as the shitty Nugget. Even when I boycott the NBA, reminders everywhere.

Apparently it was "Don't make fun of the fatties" week on MTV. Or body image week. Shockingly, almost every girl on the network has an eating disorder. It's like they seem to have a certain profile they look for on this network.

-A girl in a bubble bath has never been less sexy than Snooks and yet I have never seen anyone over 5 have more fun in a tub (maybe Tubgirl, I dunno) than she did. To see the world through her eyes...

-Vinnie vs. Situation, Round 3: The Situation snakes Vin's girl, and Vinnie gets all sorts of bent out of shape. Deservedly so, but you did not give her up, she just straight left. And Vin, I'm sure a girl that slutty had sucked off a couple of dudes that day before even finding the club. Though the Situation does take this round, Vin sneaks in a late, questionable shot at the bell by letting go of J-Woww so she can throw that twirling, backhanded punch. V=2, S=1.

-"We left the club at 4am and we had been there since 12. That's like 5 hours." -Ronald. Stick to knocking fools out.

-No idea why J-Woww wanted the Sit. to leave. Stupid fucked up bitches, cockblocking out of control. If you throw up, you leave yourself. You don't need any fucking help. Unlike the Sit, who hides behind three body guards and talks shit. Last year Brandon Marshall said Joey Porter had "popcorn muscles." I disagree with Mr. Marshall, but Mike has popcorn muscles for sure.

- "If you leave tonight I'm going to stuff your nose with tampons" Snook to J-Woww

-"I don't really remember his face because I was wasted." Snooks, discussing the new love of her life, John Deere. She is on a fucking roll tonight.

-"I'm not trashy unless I drink to much." -Snooks again. Semi-Mike Tyson-ish tonight with the quotables.

-Turns out that Pauly D's girl is a Mossad agent. Or a sneaky jew. Or a Jewish person who is sneaky (all Jewish jokes relate to Always Sunny: The Gang Goes Jihad episode). Anyway, Pauly D doesn't love Jewish girls anymore. Stick with those slutty Wop Guidos, Paul. Racial slurs for everybody, courtesy of yours truly, a dirty Cossak, Hun Slav bastard. (Not that I have been doing research, or anything.)

-Vinnie vs. The Sit, Round 4: Vinnie does a Mike impersonation on the phone. Gets rid of the stalker. Mike mixes up some "old funk juice, with a pickley smell" and hides it in Vinnie's room. Advantage Mike, considering that shit lasted like three days. V=2, M=2. Oh man, it is a barnburner.

-"I'm not pissed off that Mike and Pauly put pickles under my bed, I'm pissed that they wasted like two pickles." -Snooks.

-Whatever they are eating while Pauly D tells that bitch off looks amazing. I want some. Philly cheese-steak. MMMMMMMMM.

-What kind of girlfriend watches their man make out with Snooki and then has her friends break it up. WTF is that all about. Then Snooks goes to find a man, who rocks a wicked chin strap. That is someone you can settle down with.

-Ron-Ron lays the fucking Boom-Boom. "One shot kid. One shot bro." Says Ray Lewis Ronaldino. Who then later claims it is self-defense. Uhhhh, not exactly. Kinda like Gil claiming self-defense with his locker room guns. Watch that cornhole, Ron.

-The way that guy is after being knocked out is awesome. Lofty position. Scotty McKnight is jealous. Face down, ass up, that's what happens when we get fucked up.

Winner of the Vinnie vs. Situation battle: In typical Jersey Shore fashion, we'll find out next week....


ON THE FINALE...DUH, DUH, DUUUUNNNNN

Jersey Shore Hook-Up: Week 5

When we last left Jersey Shore, Snookers had just taken a shot to the jaw. It was beautiful, until MTV cut it. Weak. It was nowhere as tough as the LaGarrett Blount Falcon Punch . Really, those are the two moments that will always stick in my memory when I think of 2009, Snookie and the Blount. Kind of shows what a bleh year 2009 was, that two white bitches getting socked are my defining memories.

Anyway, I know that I am late with this, but I was still so drunk/hungover when this episode first aired that I was incapable of drinking (and I also had to report to work on New Years), and I didn't want to rob you of my drunken opinions of the only greatest reality TV show there is (I wanted to say only, but I have started watching two others. Before you judge, realize one focuses on CSU and the other features some clown from CSU. Maybe more on the latter, later). So without further adieu, here are my snap reactions to episode 5:

-Honestly, how in the world did the Situation not beat some ass. Just one or two swings, even half-hearted and that guy is dining on pussy the rest of his life. He would be a hero for standing up for girls everywhere. Instead he froze like someone shot by Schwartzenager in that awful Batman movie (insert more current reference here). I also like how Ronnie acts like Mike is a bitch, but he didn't do shit either. None of them did. That is weak.

-Mike "El Situation" creeping still after Snooks got blasted was maybe the most hilarious moment of 2009. Just absolutely no class. That is like stealing a man's wallet after he gets jumped, lays bleeding to death, and not calling 911. And yet he still comes off better than some of the other cast-members at the close of this episode. This cast is more shallow than a kiddie pool.

-The cops make Snookie walk home. Jersey Shore Po-Po need to step up. You even make the Bonedale Police look lazy.

-Everyone decides they actually like Snookie after she gets KTFO. As if that is some sort of badge of honor.

-Even Ron-Ron's parents are shallow and all about themselves. Or, as Vinnie calls them, good people. (Wa-Wa-What?)

-Ron, to his mother: "Drink your Mimosa, smoke another cigarette and take it easy." Ron, your mother just wants to get her cancer tan on, don't make her get her cancer smoke on.

-Vinnie is like a fucking lost puppy so far in this show, just tagging along. For fuck's sake, do something. If anyone is playing my game and drafted Vin, you now know how Detroit Lions fans have felt about every draft since 1989 (Barry Sanders, fyi).

-J-Woww's advice to Snook. "Let's drink heavily." Based on that line alone, I want to marry her. She is a woman after my own heart. Every situation can be solved with shots and rapid chugging of beer.

-Snookers, on killing Lobsters: "I don't like to eat anything that is alive when you kill it." Good thing it is a well-known fact that cows are born dead, or else hamburgers would be off my personal menu as well.

-DJ Pauly D, on the strength of his hair gel. : "I'm not sure my hair is bulletproof, but I'm not about to test it." I am willing to bet there is a significant portion of Americans that are willing to test this for you. "I'll play the part of the barber and put a part up in your hair. Sit inside of my barber's chair, I'll let the four-fifths clippers clip a ni--a" Gratuitous rap lyric supplied by Ray Cash- Killa With the Flow (prod. by the Kickdrums

-Pauly D on some girls: "They aren't whores. We might have to see them once or twice." Vinnie piles on. "Some girls will come in and jump into the hot tub. Some girls you have to treat like human beings." I hate bitches that I have to treat as human beings. I want to fuck alien bitches. Mainly illegal alien bitches. You have to pay less that way. And you can beat them up without paying extra.


-FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT. Chick fight and Snookie didn't even get a fresh one in the kisser. J-Woww done Guido Windmilled some bitch. Then, she had to adjust her boobs, because they were pointing completely different directions. Like googly-eyed Jason Ibanez from my high school soccer team (or Stuart Scott, for you non-Carboners)

ASIDE: I see a whole shit load of boob jobs out here in Cali, and all I can say is, girls, go the whole ten yards. Don't half-ass a boob job like J-Woww. I appreciate all boobs, real or fake, but when they look like they are trying to separate like Jon and Kate (whoo, totally out of date reference) it kinda grinds my gears. Make sure you go under the muscles, the over-the-top treatment just doesn't work. Boobs should work together, they should not be trying to avoid each other like the polar sides of magnets.

-Ronald dispenses some great advice, on J-Woww's boyfriend Tom, who is a biggity-bitch: "I would send her a picture of my dick and some bubble gum." If I ever were able to have an ex-girlfriend, I would send her this. I should send this to a bunch like my one hook-up. Look out, (radio edit). This would actually be a nice present since Trophy Wife's mother said I had a nice looking penis once upon a time. Again, this would mean I would have to have a girlfriend, and that will probably never happen, until I am more whipped than Ron-Ron.

-Vinnie finally breaks out. Stealing the bosses bitch. What a way to finish. It only took him five episodes to finally shine. Is he a Chauncey Billups, a late-bloomer who became captain clutch, or is he a Kenny Anderson who teased us with potential and never amounted to shit? The jury is out.

Next Week: Is only two days away. The best part about procrastinating is that you shorten the waiting time. Right?

P.S. The Real World features some kid from CSU. I will update on him as well, but the AZN summarized him best after one episode, and when I can steal material, I do (Ignore her bad grammar):

"thanks to RW23 and Andrew, Colorado is represented as a nerdy, hilarious lying, sexually active but not really at all, racist, retarded, stuffed animal lovin, kind of creepy, kind of awesome state... HEY RAMMIE, way to rep your C-STATERS."

Why the fuck wasn't I on the Real World? Bullshit!

The Weekend Sack-Up: There's the Kyle Orton we all know and hate

I watched about five minutes of yesterday's game. If I wanted to watch a three-hour disaster where I knew the ending I would rather watch Titanic, because at least there are boobs in that. Denver missed the playoffs when they shit the bed against Washington and Oakland. Still, my futile effort was better than the one made by the Denver defense in getting reamed by the immortal Jamal Charles.

Oh, and Kyle Orton certainly dealt with the loss of Scheffler, Royal and Marshall by getting blacked out to the point that he thought Derrick Johnson was wearing blue and orange while channeling Cutty-Buddy.

All I know is the Broncos better vastly improve on both the offensive and defensive lines next season. You win games in the trenches and we got destroyed there like the French in WWII.

I also know that I am going to miss Brandon Marshall. He is a beast, but I see no way that he comes back. Hopefully we get some compensation for him. McDaniels needs to find us a QB.

Three years in a row we have blown the home finale with a playoff spot on the line. Fuck that shit.

I guess, based on the way the year started with McD pissing off everyone and alienating Cutler, this shouldn't have been a surprise, but after a 6-0 start this is still severely disappointing. At least I'm not a fan of a team that lost 9 straight to lose the season (oh wait. Thanks to CSU my football teams have combined for two wins in their last 17 games. WOOOOOO)

Oh, and if you expected pictures you can go fuck yourself. I'm pretty happy that I was able to make it out of bed today. If you hear of a slaughter of Chargers fans in the next couple of days, you should probably wipe this blog from your internet history, lest you be culpable somehow.

Nuggs: Chauncey and Melo out and the Nuggs at least pulled off one W. Get healthy, boys.

CSU Basketball: Beat the shit out of Yale. How Do You Like Them Apples? /Matt Damon movie.  What, wrong school? All those Ivy League schools can go suck a dick anyway.

Also, if you are a CSU fan you need to check out Reaching the Peak, the CSU basketball reality TV show. It is on the MTN, but actually pretty well done. Timmy Miles cracks me up every time, especially his constant speculation about Jesse Carr's pelvis. (How is that for a teaser).

CSU Football: Joel Dreessen had his best NFL game ever for the Texans. Check out this shit:
Fort Morgan's Own

Too bad guys named Chris/Kris Brown combined to cost the Texans at least four games this year.

 New Years and Club Shit: New Year's Eve at the club was actually very uneventful. The day before NYE was much more eventful. It was the night of the Holiday Bowl, so all sort of Nebraska and Arizona fans and players dropped by afterward. Ndakumognganga Suh was there as well. But the real highlight was my first semi-chokehold and kneedrop on some drunk asshole who tried to run away after getting into a fight and knocking over some shit.

The clapping wasn't necessary, but thank you.

New Years consisted of a really boring night watching amatures get way too hammered, but at the end of the night my bosses rented a party bus and a suite at a badass Sheridan that overlooked the bay. So while most of you assholes were passing out after getting cleared out from the bars, I was drinking free booze. All night and until the sun rose.

Then, as the sun was rising over the lovely Pacific Ocean, I took a cab to a bar that had opened at 6AM for 3$ U-Call-Its. I had a few Bloody Marys before finally heading home to pass out at 8:30AM. That is how New Year's is done.

Avalanche: Still rolling along at a pretty good pace. 18 games until the trade deadline, the Avs need to make a little push so they can add a couple of pieces at the deadline (I'm thinking a couple of veteran wingers who play good D while also being able to chip in a few goals.

Rockies: Miguel Olivo instead of Yorvitt. Not sure that is what I would call an upgrade. Hopefully Dreamy Iannetta hits above .220.


Tweets of the Week:
gilbertarenas: i guess everyone wants me to act like the rest of the nba twitters players...(i bought a shirt today from the mall)(practice was tough 2 day

-Yep, Gilbert began tweeting this week. I wonder why? Do they not let you tweet from jail?

Seriously, I'm sure it was just a joke gone awry, as he said. The man made a dumb decision, but he shouldn't be sent to jail, ala Chedder Plax. This shit will blow over, I hope. Because the man is Nick Cannon. Hil-Lar-E-Ous.

jimgaffigan: "I gotta feeling" that I'm gonna get really sick of that Black Eyed Peas song.

-I will stab Fergie if I ever see her, but she probably won't come back to SD after pissing her pants during Street Fest a few years ago.


Go Fuck Yourself: Every week I choose someone special to fuck off. This week, it is Fox:

Dear Fox,

You need to stop broadcasting college football. You are fucking awful. Just fucking pathetic. So go fuck yourselves.


You make me so angry while watching games that I yell at my father to put it on mute. Thom Brennamen and whatever other shitcunts that you have in the booth continue to call players the wrong name and only slurp the stars, because these games, only the biggest of the year, are probably the only games that they have watched all year. Plus, I get Jimmie fucking Johnson and other dickeared manginas telling me about the game, like that asshole has watched a college football game since he left Miami in 1988.


Plus, you have way to many fan and band shots. Instead of showing interesting stuff like replays or stats. Nope, I get 5000 shots of Potato-fucking clowns from Boise wearing TOTALLY RAD facepaint. And if you must show fans, show hot girls. Find a few, and just show them. I have been TCU, I know that there are only atractive girls everywhere. How your cameras kept zooming in on purple fatties I will never know. As for Boise, errr, well, put Ian Johnson's fiance at one of the 40 yard-lines and cut to her. I understand hot girls from Idaho are hard to find.

You finally found some hot TCU girls crying at the end, when it was far too late. I don't want to see crying hot girls, that is the time that I like the beautiful shots of the crying fatties and kids.

And please, bands are not to be shown up close. Show them from the fucking blimp, spelling out cool stuff on the field. Those fucking nerds are the dregs of humanity and have no business on my TV. If I was fortunate enough to have an HDTV I would have been forced to switch to the regular feed.


GO FUCK YOURSELVES


P.S. Troy Aikman and Joe Buck are so shitty that they influenced my hatred, without ever appearing on my TV screen.

This Week:  I'm terrible at following the schedule I set, but you will get two Jersey Shore updates this week. Guido's honor. One from last week and one from Thursday's show. The Nuggets/NBA discussion will be moved back a week or so at least, it will just be a midseason report, not a 1/3 season.

The Weekend Sack-Up: JaMarcus Russell Ate My Dreams

How? How the fuck did that happen? JaMarcus "Big Fat Waste of Life" Russell just shat triumphantly on the Broncos. The man born to throw interceptions somehow managed to drive about 80 yards in the final minutes of a game to beat the Broncos by one fucking point.

The best part of it all? This happened literally seconds after watching the Chargers win in some truely cuntastic fashion. Cinci had just managed to tie up the Chargers and was 15 seconds from going to OT. All they had to do was keep the Chargers in bounds, as SD has no timeouts left. They weren't going to try a 67-yard field goal. Instead the bumblefuck DBs for the Bengals shit themselves and gave up a 15-yard out pattern and Nate Kaeding kicked a fucking bomb to win the game.

When that kick went through I knew the Broncos were going to find a way to lose. It was in the cards. I think I have some theories why:

-God hates me and wants to punish me. Probably for the fact that I habitually masturbate and am generally a bad person. And for making fun of Brittany Murphy (Seriously, her greatest role was as the 3rd lead in Clueless. Gimme a break. Aston Kutcher ditching January Jones for her and then moving on to Demi Moore has got to be the world's biggest Punk'd episode. I think Brittany was going to spill the beans so Aston had to have her killed. Or she was just going to out him for being gay).
 

-Someone teach the Broncos coaches the Heimlich maneuver. Damn.

-The Broncos defense is all about eating. They mime eating after big plays on defense, Darrell Reid's Twitter talks about not eating lunch or breakfast and going to the game hungry, etc. Well, guess what? JaMarcus' fat ass is always hungry. He is just a big, hungry Bammer. JaMarcus can out eat everybody. He is like that Kobiyashi guy. Mow, Mow, Mow. Always eating. Which is why, as soon as Charlie Frye got KTFO (Cue Chris Tucker: Knocked the FUCK out!) it made perfect sense for the Big Fat QB to come eat everything, especially my dreams.

-The refs sucked donkey balls. D-Reid and the Broncos defensive linemen couldn't eat, especially on that last drive, because they were getting mouth-raped by Raiders lineman. And B-Marsh was held at least two times in the end zone by Raiders cornerbacks, yet got no calls. But Broncos DBs were flagged twice on the last drive to keep it alive. Andre Goodman, what the fuck were you thinking? That pass interference on 3rd-and-29 was really helpful.

Rewatching the last drive, Robert Ayers has a clear shot to go after JaMarcus on the fourth-and-10, but after he beats two guys he gets tackled from behind. No one likes to blame the refs, but sometimes you have to point it out. But the refs didn't run all over the Broncos. The Broncos tackling made the Raiders' backs look like they were Chris Troxel (wonder what happened to that kid) and McLovin trying to stop Adrian Peterson in Red Rover (That is a confusing sentence, but I STICK BY IT.)

-Maybe the Refs had lasers in their eyes.

-Knowshown doesn't know how to score at the goalline. Before the Broncos last field goal, all he had to do on the second down run was outrun the Raiders to the Pylon, but he tried to cut up the field too soon. He can't run over people in the pros and he isn't an everydown back. Please try Peyton Hillis or Lamont Jordon instead. Fuck, those option aren't that great either.

-Big, talented, troubled WR. Learn from Chris.

-We lost to this Buzzcock. We don't deserve playoffs.

In the club: Work has been really boring. Only one semi-interesting thing: My boss had to kick out a one-armed man who was punching someone, and all he could think about was how he was going to handcuff him if he had to. A lofty question.

I also got another free night of drinking with my entire work crew. This time I waited until I left the club to black out. Then my boss, trying to show off his impressive Judo skills or something, Karate Kid-style swept my leg, sending me ass over teakettle into a bench. So even if I wasn't blacked out before, I added a concussion and head wound to the equation. Slept like a fucking baby though.


So if this is a little disoriented, it isn't because I was drunk this time, it is just that I now understand how it is to think like Troy Aikman.


CSU Football: On the rise. We just signed a 4-star QB in Pete Thomas. That is ballin' as shit. And he is from ballin' as shit San Diego and going to enroll at CSU for the Spring. I think I should stalk find him to make sure he is up to the CSU QB dranking standard. BVP was plum hammered all the time. Justin Holland has been blacked out every time I have met him, so that explains why he threw the football around with less care as than Kappa at Wash Bar (Last year Holland gave Nasty N one of the three beers he had pilfered from Drunken Monkey before they closed). Billy Farris crashed parties at my house. Eastman is Mormon, he doesn't have the drinking chops. Uncle Nico might be a threat, but I'm not sure I want Guidos leading my team. Borky hangs out with Forristall, so I'm gonna say he is far too dumb to play QB; that kid lowers IQs like no ones business. Get after it, Pete, grab that Keystone Light and lead the Rams to the promised land (which is hopefully a Poinsettia Bowl bid. That would be a nice present for me next Christmas).

CU Football: Trending down. CU's ex-QB James Cox may be the newest employee at my club. Any and all comments about the difference of value between CSU and CU degrees can now be throw out the fucking window. A former football player at a "supposedly" better school should have better connections than I, right? Or maybe our schools are basically even, minus the fact that WE BEAT YOUR ASSES AT EVERYTHING THIS YEAR.


CSU Basketball: Trending up. We kicked the Buffs ass and then snuck by some Big Sky teams. 8-3 is already almost better than last season. They go for win #9 tomorrow at UCLA and I will be in attendance. I might just rush the court if we win, even though UCLA sucks. I'll just pretend we beat Bill Walton, Lew Alcindor and John Wooden.

Fact: CSU actually beat UCLA in 1961, a year UCLA went to the final four and was coached by Wooden. Fact: This shocked the shit out of me.
Fact: Jesse Carr is back, which means classic quotes like this one: (/Dwight Schrute)
"It's not like we're playing pud teams, either. We're getting in good games, and everyone's giving us their best shot."
Only someone from Ainsworth, NE would use the phrase "pud teams." Or someone from Carbondale.

Plus they have a sweet reality TV show. Sadly it is one year late to fully capture the greatness that I would have been. My journalism skills would really have shown up. Plus they had some CSU Media basketball game. That would have been my moment to shine. Miles would have asked me to walk on. This blog would be fucking bigger than Club Trillion. Why was I not born one-year later? Why did I graduate in such rapid fashion? I want to go back to college.Or onto an MTV show.

Tweets of the Week: 
Tjedy: When faced with a tough decision, ask yourself WWTSD: What Would 'The Situation' Do?
Messiahthadon: @tjedy I think the answer to every question is to take your shirt off
The_Real_Pat: @Messiahthadon and coincidentally, that's how @tjedy solves every problem.
-Again, if you don't have Twitter you are doing it wrong.

Not Jay Cutler: Looks like I should cross Brittany Murphy off my "Famous chicks to bang" list.

Nuggets: Trending down. Get your shit together. 1/3 of the season update with Edy will come soon. Or at his pace, we might be lucky to get it done by the fucking all-star game.

Avs: Semi-upwardslopish. As long as they aren't against the fighting Ovies, the Avs are doing pretty well.


Happy Holidays: I didn't get any of you bastards anything. That is a lie. Someday, when I am rich and famous, you will be the people that get to say "I like Sack when he started out, but that Douchezilla really sold out." So I am giving you the most precious gifts of all: Haughtiness and spite. If those were entities, this blog would be gushing like a fucking gyser.

Merry Birdmas, have a super Shawn Greenuka, a lovely Kwanza Kilpatrick, whatever. Give some gifts and whatnot.

Jersey Shore Hook-Up: Week 4

Guess what? Not much is going on in the sports world, so I live Tweeted Jersey Shore. Now I redo it. Lazy? You bet. Entertaining? Duh.

Mind you these Tweters began at 4:00am, after I got off for work. And keep in mind I finish two monster Whiskey-Sprites while playing my drinking game.

My tweets are numbered and in bold, followed by further explanation not in bold, as if that is needed. Enjoy:



1.  Jersey Shore Drinking Time. @greenaaker turn off your texts haha. The Situation is that I am going to get drunk.
-Last week's Tweet of the Week, if I had actually done that Sack-Up, would have been:
GreenAaker:

Waking up16 times by drunken tweets about #Jerseyshore between the hrs of 3a.m.-6a.m. = Im officially unsubscribing via SMS 2 @messiahthadon
Sorry Benjamin, but at least I warned you this time.


2.  Ron-Ron keeps talking about "The Equation" with Sam. Don't lie Ronny, you can't do math.
-Ronnie's laugh is seriously the dumbest, non-retarded laugh I have ever heard. Brennan, the retard my roomate once punched, laughed more intelligently.


3. J-Woww needs to break it off. Worst two minutes of this show ever. I'm not watching these people for relationships.
-Ugghhhh. Drag. It. Out. A. Little more MTV.
Shit, I couldn't even handle typing it that slow. Let J-Woww get single already. We don't need to wait four episodes for her to get gangbanged. I know it will happen eventually. Pauly D will make her Miss D eventually.


4. "Sex is natural...yada yada" Sam's description. Ron-Ron: "Yeah, we smushed." Succinct, Ronald. Nice.
-Hard to capture this in 140 characters, but nothing illistrates the differences between men and women more than this. Sam goes on for quite a while describing what happens, then they cut to Ron and he sums it up in three words. Ronnie, a journalists dream.


5. Thank God for Sit and Pauly D, at least they have fun.
-You know, and try for unprotected sex. What kind of asshole joins an MTV show with a significant other. Has this ever worked?


6. Snoooookkkkkkerrrrrss gone get done up, y'all. I have a boner. Can't fast forward commercial break fast enough. 
-MTV really played this up well. I was more premature than Jason Biggs in anticipation for this Sucker Punch Heard Round the Shore.


7. Another commercial break...Fuck it, pausing it so I can watch the punch online....Whammy.


8. http://www.nj.com/entertainment/celebrities/index.ssf/2009/12/mtv_jersey_shore_snooki_punch.html Snookered.
-But, like real life, I just found a video online to satisfy my craving.


9. Oh man, her hat just goes flying. 
-It is like a snuff film. I assume. Never watched one. But if there was a Snookers snuff film, I would probably download it.


10. Another commerical break = more watching snookie get punched.

11. Russ/Ron...Shit, I'm surprised Snookie was that close.
-There is a friends episode with a Russ/Ross story line. I may be gay for comparing this.

12. Vinnie is the Ronaldo Balkman of this show. What role does he play? The man is funny, get him some airtime.
-Oh, I finally relate this to sports. About got damn time.

13. Snookers is so pissed she hasn't gotten pounded yet by a dude. Time for the Universe to teach her what Irony is...
-I really wish her mother would have been next to her when she got snapped on. I was fully expecting this. WHAT A FUCKING LETDOWN, MTV.

14. That guy was a (gym) teacher, so maybe he was trying to teach her. In the old "What do you tell a woman with two black eyes" way.
-The joke is that you tell a woman with two black eyes "Nothing. Because you already told her twice." Fucking character limit.

15. I am so calling Brad Lidge "The Situation" next time I'm at a Phillies game.
-hahaha. Yeah jacko2323 said, "When it comes to "closers" nobody is ever going to compare "The Situation" to Mariano Rivera." first, but he also watched it first. I would have come up with this joke as well, it is easy.

16. Jose Mesa actually translates in "La Situation" in Spanish.
-See, I just topped it.

17. J-Woww dancing with "Some toolbag with a blowout." Really narrows it down there. "You see any..." "Only when I open my eyes" /Harold&Kumar'd
-Does J-Woww's boyfriend spell his name Taaaammmm. Because he should. Or maybe Ta-M. Taw-Emmm. He can't be just Tom.

18.I love how even Guidos hate frat guys....@valerie_jb kinda said it first. Greek Life really has a tough PR job. Maybe I should apply there.
-Seriously, being in PR for the KKK is easier than trying to stick up for a frat these days.

19. MTV would pull the actual punch yet make the whole thing a two part episode.
-But you know what this means? More Snooookies fun next week. Holla.

Pregaming Post-Analysis: Some Blogs Don't Stay in Vegas

I promised to report on my Vegas trip, and now five days later I was finally able to recover and put it into words. Everyone I know probably had a connection of some sort to this weekend, as it was like CSU threw up all over Vegas with the number of Rams in town (even into the fountains at the Bellagio...allegedly).

(Side: I have started giving everyone nicknames, in case the part you play in any story of my life is illegal/horrible/cause for termination/embarrassing/etc. Probably better that no real names and the phrase "got a squeezer from a tranny hooker" end up in the same sentence on Google. Because that would suck. I have put about 1.2 seconds of thought into these for each of you. Have fun and see if you can guess your nickname.)

Anyway, this is what happened, best I can recollect. Enjoy:

Key Players in the Vegas trip

Wheel: A drunk Texan and former roommate of mine who flew out to meet me in Vegas. He was the drunkest person in Vegas from the moment I arrived and may have continued his drinking long after I left. For all I know he could now be one of the underground sewer dwellers that infest Vegas (told you it was true, haters).

The Azn: A friend I met late freshman year in the dorms when she came to check out our hall on recognizance, if I remember the story correctly. An infamous member of the 'I-99 Sluts.' Now out in LA. Invited the FOF. A social butterfly in the truest sense.

The Friend of a Friend (FOF): One of two girls who accompanied me on my drive out to Vegas from LA. She is a friend of the Azn's who also went to CSU. Knows almost every person I know.

Johnny: I met Johnny at the Poinsettia Bowl 4 years ago in San Diego with Edy (who doesn't get a nickname until he apologizes for his horrific slight of me on Facebook), Kilometers and the Actor. My only bowl game I attended in five years at CSU. I think he was a few years graduated from CSU (about 25 years old) was fucking bombed and passing out carbombs like candy. He and his group took in four young Rams and took away all our fears that we would get MIPs. He was kicked out of that bowl game at least two times. I had not seen, or really remembered him since.


The FlyBoy: Played football at the Academy, dating the Trophy Wife. Happy you got mentioned?
The Trophy Wife: I-99 slut, dating the Cadet.
Nasty: One of those ironical, alliteration based nicknames. From the Dale.
The Wrestler: She dated a wrestler at Wyo.
The Secret Twin: Separated at birth (allegedly) from the FlyBoy, now his roommate.
Cartman: He is a Lakers and Dodgers fan. Football: Cowboys. We argue constantly.
Grand Theft: It will be pretty obvious why this is his nickname.

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Friday, 3:30AM. I get off work and finish packing. I debate if I should just blow town immediately and drive to Vegas, forcing my potential co-pilots in LA to drive themselves the next day. I could have made it by 9. I call Nasty. He got into Vegas earlier in the night. I tell myself, if he answers, I will leave for Vegas right then. He doesn't. I decide to make an honest attempt at sleep, no one wants to go to Vegas on an empty tank.

6:30AM: This sleeping thing is bullshit. I should have taken a Tylenol PM. Too excited. The Azn, getting ready for a half day at work, calls to question if it is cool that I have to be back in LA by 6:30 on Sunday. I think for a second she means 6:30AM. I am already delusional. I agree. I attempt some more sleep.

9:30AM: No sleep on the way. I give up, burn a CD since I am IPod-less and don't trust girls to have good music. It is time to go.

11:00AM: I reach the 101, it is slow. I announce how much I hate LA. I also have been awake for almost 20 hours straight. Probably shouldn't be operating a vehicle.

12:30PM: After a quick lunch I drop by FOF's house. I have never met her, but I am going to be driving with her for at least six hours, so I don't feel that asking to take a nap at her house is imposing at all.

When I pull up, we recognize each other at first sight, even though we had failed to ever be officially introduced. I go inside her house and the first picture I see is one of her and a girl from Aspen. Apparently we know some of the same people. Or everybody. We lived in the Lofts at the same time. The amount of similar friends and experiences we shared was unsettling to the point I almost felt that either one of us was lying or we both had a deep-seeded mental block.

I make the situation less awkward by falling asleep for 20 minutes or so.

1:45PM: We leave to pick up the Azn. Sometime roughly around now Wheel! arrives in Vegas. He texts asking where I am. I tell him I won't be in until about 7-8. He begins drinking.

2:30PM: We drive the 10 miles to meet the Azn at her work. I hate LA. We pack up and roll out.

3:00PM: The Azn announces that traffic should soon break, as we are close to the 10. Wheel decides that the best deal in Vegas is a yard drink in the basement of the MGM Grand. He has two.

4:00PM: We are on the 10, traffic has failed to break. We take our first bathroom break I am removed from the driver's seat. I would rather light my foot on fire than let an Asian girl drive my car, but I am exhausted to the point that I struggle to form sentences.

5:00PM: I slip in and out of sleep for a while, always irritated that we haven't broken out of traffic yet. I decide not to ask the Azn for any lucky numbers, Nostradamus she is not.

7:00PM: Traffic finally breaks. We reach Barstow. We get Inn-N-Out. I am happy. Everyone waiting for us in Vegas is now already getting drunk and ready to go. The girls are hydrating hard to make sure they don't die. This is a smart idea. Unfortunately their tiny bladders have to pee constantly. At every stop I plot how I can buy beer so that I can drink in the car. I am so ready to get schammered, but decide to wait, as Vegas never closes, so I should be able to take it slow. 

9:00PM: We reach the edge of Vegas and stop at a Whole Foods for some reason. They have a special display of 24 oz. PBR cans for $1.50 each. I buy 10. This is a good omen. 

9:30PM: I get in line to check into the hotel. Wheel finds me. He has no luggage and his second or third yard drink. He can't remember. He is swearing up a strorm. He is actually making people in the line around us, people checking into a hotel in Las Vegas, shake their heads at how drunk he is. 

9:40PM: Admittedly I packed poorly and haphazardly, with one backpack and two paper bags full of beer and random stuff. Wheel offers to help me hold a bag, but he won't put down his yard drink. The bag rips, sending tall-boy PBRs rolling all over the tile. The guys behind us are the only ones who seem to find any humor in this. 

9:42PM: A Vitamin Water falls, it's lid breaks off, spilling all over. I convince Wheel it is time to go locate his missing luggage. He finally wanders off. I wonder if I am going to even get into the hotel, then come to the realization that this is Vegas and people like Wheel are the reason it was invented. I relax. 

9:50PM: My room is upgraded, I get free drink vouchers and advice about which clubs to go (it's my brithday, Boosh). So much for Wheel being too drunk.

10:20PM: We get to the room. Wheel demands I give him some of the beer. He really doesn't remember much of the previous exchange in the lobby. As he tries to hook his laptop up to the 13.99/day internet I decide to make it so no internet/porn can be charged to my room. I am still sober. I lock up my camera and Wheel's laptop in the safe, but for some reason don't lock my keys up. FAIL.


11:00: A few PRBs down we cross over to the Monte Carlo. FlyBoy, Secret Twin and Nasty are there playing craps, along with Trophy Wife and Wrestler. Wheel wanders away from us before we even can make it over two escalators. This would be a theme.

11:30PM: We meet up. Everyone is ahead of me, drunk-wise. I am out of beer that I bought and don't really want to pay for any more. I decide I will give Craps another try, even though it confuses me and steals my gwop. Instead of actually betting, I just watch and snake drinks. The girls talk about something sad. I steal their drinks. File this under obvious foreshadowing.

I also decide that the theme song of the night is 'Shots' by LMFAO and Lil' Jon.

Saturday 12:30AM: I head out with the girls to head to a club at Treasure Island. The guys say they will come later. We meet up with a group of about 15 CSU kids, who have bottle service, and basically a private patio section, at the Christian Audiger Club.

12:45AM: I begin arguing with Cartman and friends about Lakers vs. Nuggets. This goes on for a while. There is dancing, lapdances and other belligerence. There is a fairly intense discussion of ovaries and testicles, and the comparisons between the two sensitive areas after Trophy Wife nut-punches me.

1:15AM: I take a long ass trip to the pisser (read; Get lost) and realize I am drunker than I thought. I resolve to slow down and get some water.

1:54AM: I respond to a text message with "Shots. X the Western World. Let's get it." I am clearly taking it slow.

I
AM
BLACKED
OUT


8:30AM: I have no idea how I got home. I am not wearing any of my clothes. I am alone in a bed. There are more people in the room than there should be, yet a couple people who should be in the room are absent.  I find this odd. Not as odd as the people in the other bed, Wheel, Grand Theft and Azn. I think someone is on the ground. I don't care. I go back to sleep.

In the time I was blacked out this much I can gather:
-No one remembers when exactly we left the club, or if I even left with the group. All they know is that when they returned to the room, I was already there. Teleportation at it's finest.
-Some continued the night gambling and doing God-knows-what.
-Two people (Cartman was one, I believe) yakked into the Bellagio Fountains. I am so disappointed that I didn't get to remember this.

10:00AM: I think Grand Theft leaves, and I awake. There is not a whole lot of energy in the room. I start to drink a PBR. It isn't going well. Wheel wakes up singing Miley Cyrus' "Party in the USA" and immediately begins drinking. He is in college, I am not. He is also quickly returning to super fucked up, while I decide that I need to take a break. There is tailgating to plan, and all the PBRs are now gone. 

11:00AM: I look for my keys. They are nowhere. That is odd, as my phone and wallet were neatly stacked on top of each other. I did use my cell phone all night, but don't remember taking my keys out. Why didn't I lock them in the safe? Goddamn, I am a fucking idiot. Wheel assures me I that will find them before the end of the trip, as suitcases eat thing. I remind him I don't have a suitcase, I am not taking a plane home and I need my car.

11:20AM: After frantically looking I give up. They are gone. We are fucked.

11:21AM: I remember I have On-Star and a spare key in the car. FUCK and YES. Maybe I donated my keys to the Bellagio Fountain or something, in my drunken haze, but I can still get out of here.

12:00PM: Wheel and I decide it is time to go get food. I call On-Star while Wheel finishes up his beer by the car. The girls need some more sleep. I drive to Whole Foods and pick up more big PBRs. Wheel and I blast "Shots" the whole way, repeatedly replaying Lil' Jon screaming, "SUCK MY COCK." I declare myself Vegas sober. 

1:00PM: We eat Chipotle. Wheel demands they make nachos, even though they are not on the menu. He is already getting drunk to the point it is risky. I order a beer, but then realize that I am probably still dangerously close to drunk, despite not really drinking anything all day and eating a giant burrito. I give the beer to Wheel. I am what you call an enabler. He begins to get angry that a family near us is dressed in Arizona State gear. Especially the baby.


1:10PM: He actually says he wants to fight the baby. It is time to leave.

2:00PM: After a stop for two 18-packs of Coors Light, we finally get back to the hotel. We find out that tickets to the UNLV game are only 5 bucks each if you donate three cans of food. Back to the Scratch-Mobile.


2:30PM: A Vons trip consists of: 4-48oz. bottles of water, hairspray, 6 cans of Golden Corn, 6 cans of peas, and every single 5-hour energy in the whole store. Such a ghetto Vons that you need to have someone escort you into the Beauty Supply/vitamin aisle. Fucking Meth-addicts.

3:30PM: Back to the hotel to prep for the game. I drink my entire bottle of water in about ten minutes. I debate my second 5-hour energy of the night. I drink half.

4:00PM: I call down to the Valet and ask how much cab fare will be to Sam Boyd Stadium. "About 10-12 dollars." Sweet, we roll.

4:30PM: In the cab, Wheel is shocked by the fact that we can have open containers. In the confusion of this and the fact that Miley Cirus blows up on the radio, ("I got my hands up, their singing my song") we get taken for a loop by the cab driver. Yes, we didn't have to stop at any lights, Mr. KANSAjsalhkfo3wefi, but you took us down to Henderson before swinging back up to the stadium. SHHHHHHEEEEET.


5:00PM: That'll be a $60 cab ride. Dumbass valet, dumbass me and dumbass cabby. Oh well, fuck it. Let's get drunk.

5:10PM: Wow, the parking lot was depressing. Not a whole lot going on for those folks. I don't blame them, since they are fucked way worse by stadium location than even CSU. Unlike us, many CSU 'fans' who claimed to the game was the reason for the trip skipped it entirely.

The only nice thing was that half of the tailgate was on some sweet grass (aka not mud/snow) and it was nice weather. Still boring, but CSU knows how to party.

5:30: After walking all the way to the Northwest corner of the field, we finally find a few CSU people. After bullshitting a little bit and throwing around a football, CSU fans do what we do best. Create a drinking game. In this case, Duck-Duck-Goose.

It was surprisingly entertaining when you involve people that have been drinking for hours (no one showed up to this game in any form of sober). Basically you just take turns running in a circle and tapping heads, because now that we are older no one ever catches anyone else. Unless the goose is fucking hammered with no coordination (Wheel!). Yep, out of about 30 turns he was the only one caught. Still, you chug your beer if you are the goose (or Rebel, as the game progressed to be called), so you get drunk. Shotgunning would be a more Brawsome penalty, but I didn't think of this at the time.

Look at that unbrideled joy. Johnny getting Ram-Ram-Rebel going.

A redheaded homeboy was so amped up, that every time he was close to being tapped, he would cheat and get into a sprinter's stance, but every time he would burn out and fall onto his face. Another spirited participant in this activity went by the name of Johnny. He begins calling me Stretch. I was certain I recognized him, but couldn't place his face. In fact, as Stretch has morphed into my nickname at work, I thought he knew me from there. He was from the San Diego area, and had heard of the bar, but had never been. Later I would figure out how I knew him, and this connection would turn out to be vital to my Vegas survival.


6:00PM: At a tailgate in Nevada I meet two people from Aspen, one from Hotchkiss and run into an old friend from Basalt. Western Slope represent. Johnny's Tahoe runs out of battery. He receives a jump from someone in a Toyota truck, leading to a barrage of "Nice truck, Howie Long?" and "What is this, a Toyota commercial?" jokes.

6:30PM: A game of catch nearly kills an old couple with the unfortunate idea to tailgate near us.I am absent for much of this, dealing with a list issues that could have gotten me fired. I am 500 miles from work and still able to fuck up. I think that maybe I am getting a little to drunk, then take a look around at everyone else. I am fine.


7:00PM: The game is about to start, but no one has made any movement inside.


7:15PM: The beer is pretty much gone and everyone begins to move inside. Everyone partakes in one final shotgun. We should have just stayed outside.


7:30PM: Despite having no one to deal with, UNLV ushers are fucking worthless. We finally are able to find the CSU section. Most of the group is late arriving as they rush to buy more beer from the concession stand. FlyBoy is excited to watch Nick Oppeneer, as he is another of the rare white cornerbacks.


Failgate of the week: 7:45PM: Wheel enters the front row armed with what looks like a cup of whiskey. He begins screaming curses and insults at everything UNLV. Everyone tells him to tone it down. He does no such thing. He isn't even focusing on anything in particular, just shouting at the top of his lungs that "UNLV IS FUCKING FAGGOTS."

I have been drunk at games. I have seen other wasted kids yell dumb, ignorant shit. I have yelled worse things at refs in anger. I have yelled stupid, retarded shit unrelated to the game and seen others do the same. But nothing, nothing, compares to this. His anger and unrelenting vulgarity make a crowd of about 50 people take a collective step back.


8:00PM: A security guard comes over and attempts to calm Wheel down. They get into an argument and it seems there is no way he doesn't get kicked out. This may be Las Vegas, but it is a football game, still a family environment to a certain degree. And with only about 10,000 people in the whole stadium I can say that almost everyone could hear him.

Somehow Wheel has talked himself out of trouble. Still, if you had given me odds I would have taken 1000-1 that he got kicked out. Glad no one took that bet.

8:15PM: CSU is playing more terrible than even Wheel could describe. When they finally score a TD to make it interesting, UNLV shoves a TD right back up our asses in about 30 seconds.

FlyBoy notes that Jon Eastman's delivery is "embarrassing to football." Awesome.


8:30PM: Halftime: UNLV has the mini cheerleaders come out to perform. What a terrible idea, in that town. Even the Pope couldn't avoid making future hooker/stripper jokes.

9:30PM: The CSU side begins to empty as it becomes apparent we will drop our seventh straight. Most have given up hope, not Wheel. In an effort to keep him from yelling horrible thing at the field, I sit a few rows behind him and begin betting him on every play. He keeps betting on CSU getting a first down, I keep accepting. This keeps him busy for most of the fourth quarter, including a five minute stretch where I bet him he couldn't use any word beginning with F. He slipped once, only using the word 'five,' so I gave him that one. In total, though, I would rack up $55 from him. Fuck blackjack, I am just going to wager the house against the Rams from now on. I'll get that tuition back quickly.

10:15PM: The game is basically over. I can't even remember who has the ball, but the game is down near the end zone in front of us. Nothing is really going on, but as the ref goes to set the ball Wheel decides to yet again yell, "FUCK YOU FAGGOTS." I don't know if he was insulting UNLV or CSU, or the refs, but all three guys on the chain-gang turned around, looked at Wheel, started chuckling and rolled their eyes. So absurd and surreal.

Refs work extremely hard to block out the crowd, so you know it was something pretty blatant to get their attention, but it was like everyone in the crowd had a "Fuck it, it is Vegas"-reaction. For all the embarrassment and annoyance that Wheel brought that night, that moment pretty much redeemed him. Not a single person who witnessed it didn't laugh. Even some mothers of the CSU players laughed. Maybe Wheel may have been one of those "people that can't handle Vegas," but he pulled it out in the end.


10:30PM: The security guard who almost kicked Wheel out comes back, and in the burn of the game states "You are the only guy I threatened to kick out who actually wanted to stay." UNLV-CSU: quality college football played here.

10:45PM: The game mercifully ends, and everyone begins to leave. I exit the stadium only to realize that I suddenly am alone. Wheel wandered off to piss, and the girls, it seems, bailed early, forgetting that they have my wallet in their purse. Awesome, no money and a drunken friend who I will be hard pressed to find and is probably getting arrested/in a fight.

I hear someone yell, "Lurch." at me. I turn to see Johnny from before the game. If he and Wheel were to have a drunk-off it would be Forman-Ali-esque. I remind him that he labeled me 'Stretch.' He tries to get up in my face and act tough, but due to size and sobriety he sort of half smiles. Suddenly I know where I remember him from. The Poinsettia Bowl four years ago. I remember that he was in the Tahoe and I ask if I can get a ride back to the strip. He says, "Pile on in, why the fuck not?"

I struggle to track down Wheel as the crew around the Tahoe grows to about 10. Finally I locate him and we get ready to jump in. The driver, affectionately being referred to as Pablo or El Diablo, doesn't seem too thrilled to be the official random-CSU sober driver, but he shrugs as we jump in.

We finally get going, and Johnny jumps into the front seat and begins cranking the tunes. Diablo shuts them off. They seem pissed at each other. I am just worried that Wheel is going to begin screaming dumb shit and get us kicked out of the car. Turns out is was Johnny up front who was drunker than Wheel, along with the  redheaded guy in the back who passed out mid-drink of his Coorls Light. I begin to worry a little less, but get anxious every time Wheel yells song requests to Johnny.


Johnny gets a call on his cell phone and drops an N-Bomb on whomever it is. The black guy next to me in the car could not have been too thrilled. I was certain something serious was going to happen. It turned out that he was also a random getting a ride, and like me wasn't going to say anything to rock the boat, but it was still a couple of pretty tense minutes.

We almost reach the strip, and I can see our hotel, but instead we cut up a backstreet, apparently the Tahoe group is staying somewhere else. Diablo seems to have relaxed, and after a little heckling about his driving ability, decides to race the car next to us at the light. We lose the race, as the Mazda cuts us off, only to almost immediately get pulled over by one of the two cops in Vegas. You have got to be shitting me.


11:00 PM: We pull into the Pallazo. I jump out of the car and almost kiss the ground. How do I always find myself in these situations? What's that? Sure, Johnny, I'll drink a beer and toss the football around with you, in this parking garage full of expensive cars. What was I worried about again?

Johnny demands that we meet him at Tao, right then. I tell him that I might have to change to meet dress code and he finally lets us go.

11:15PM: Wheel and I catch a cab back to the hotel. The girls are ready to go out. They are sorry for ditching us. Apparently we know some other CSU people with a VIP table at Tao. We rush to get dressed in our clubbing clothes, and Wheel is so excited to dress in his suit, even if it seems a little overdressed. He does get on his sweet cowboy boots and resumes singing Miley.


11:45AM: We get to Tao and pound some PRBs. The line is starting to back up, and we don't really want to pay $100 to get in. The girls wander to try and find a voucher to let us in cheap. Amazingly, within a couple of minutes, they find one for two girls free and two guys discounted. I have yet to place a bet in Vegas this trip, but I have certainly have seen some wild swings of luck.

Before we jump in line Wheel tries to give away our last PBR. The first poor bastard to meet his eyes happens to be a Gaysian. As I walk to the line I just see him sprinting away from Wheel, shouting that he isn't drinking.

11:58PM: Wheel and AZN get into the wrong line, and as I try to get them to step over the ropes, one of them gets their foot caught and knocks over the ropes. We might get into this club, but I am very certain that we won't be there for long.

12:05AM: I get a text. "Happy birthday. Hope you are having fun. Stay safe. Will call tomorrow. Mom." I just turned 24.

Shots? You bet.

Post Script: We exited the club, to the best I can tell, at around 4:30, maybe. When people started to pass out in the booth. Got a taxi back to the hotel. Having not really eaten in hours, we then hit up the Dan Marino Steakhouse inside the neighboring Hooters Hotel. Finished that meal at about 6:30AM. I did not see Johnny again, and I am unsure if he would have even remembered his own name, let alone mine.

I awoke at about 10:30 due to some my grandpa calling from the hospital (he's allright), and then never really went back to sleep. We checked out the hotel at noon, said goodbye to Wheel, who had another day until his flight home. About six hours later we pulled into LA, in time to allow FoF to pick her friend up from the airport. I drove the whole way. By the end I was literally unable to form sentences again, but I could focus on the car ahead of me, which was really all I needed to do.

In almost 80 hours I figure I slept, at most, about 15 hours, and drank heavily most of the time I was awake. It was quite the experience. Having that many CSU kids in Vegas was amazing. I recommend a return visit in two years, and next year I'll help host the shitshow in San Diego. 

Monday night, while watching the Broncos game, the Azn called. It turns out that Grand Theft, on his way out the room early on Saturday, pilfered my keys. Turns out I am not the only one with black Chevy keys and a New Belgium bottle opener. I have now lost a cell phone and a set of keys in the giant city of Vegas, on my last two trips, yet I have managed to have them returned both times. I would say that makes me lucky.

CSU may have played like shit, but the Rams presence in town gave me the best birthday weekend of my life.

I guess the motto still rings true for CSU: Win or lose, we still booze.