The Weekend Sack-Up: This keeps getting better and better...

(No pictures, I am too damn pissed to do that much work)

Am I trapped in a movie? A stupid, slackstick comedy, where I am in the Belly of the Whale stage (Sophomore Core ftw) and I ponder aloud "Could this get any worse?" only to have a piano fall and crush my car or some shit. Because it sure feels like it. It seems like yesterday CSU was killin' it, the Broncos were the tits, the Avs were cherry, the Rocks were epic and the Nuggs were mint (80s slang factor +1). Now, everything smells like taint and I don't want to look. The Nuggets only look good, but even they lost to the shitty LA team. What the fuck?

It is very nice that it is Thanksgiving and I will be with family all week (in lovely Sedona, Arizona) or else it might be wise for one of my readers to alert some mental health experts to check on me (Sedona is actually my aliby, as I will be hunting down both starting quarterbacks in today's game. SHHHH. I've got Marmalard in my sights, he is taunting a child whose balloon popped).  Seriously, shit is falling apart. I don't like it. We will go from worst to somewhat marginal as I grasp for silver linings:

CSU: CSU is so bad we aren't even inventing new ways to lose, we are being lazy and making knockoffs of 2006/07. This weekend's game against New Mexico was a carbon copy of the 2007 loss to New Mexico. Is there hope against Wyoming? I guess, but this Rams team just refuses to win. There are some bright spots for next season, as several young players made some big plays, but if CSU can't find a quarterback by next season it won't matter. Steve Fairchild and this team have gone from the Penthouse to the outhouse in just 8 games, and he better figure some shit out this offseason or he may not make it to year 4. I have been disapointed to be a CSU fan often, it goes with the territory, but this loss makes me embarrased.

Usually I have laid the blame on the fact that CSU was out-manned, but in this game the coaching staff didn't help at all. The staff didn't take a timeout with about 45 seconds left as New Mexico was obviously trying to set up for a field goal, allowing them to run the clock down to 15 seconds. Why not take the timeouts? We ran out of time in that game with one timeout in our pocket. At least it would have made New Mexico run another play, and as we saw against Weber State, sometimes one play can make a huge difference. I advocated a change from Sonny because too often his staff fucked up games like this, and last season this staff was aggressive and found ways to win. This season the team has regressed to the exact same place as 2007. I now wonder if we would have been in a better place by just keeping Sonny and skipping all the drama. This sucks.

The worst was the fact that the Rams could have stolen a win twice, when New Mexico muffed the CSU punt, only to have the lone Lobo in the area steal the ball from about six Rams and when CSU gave up the easiest 4th-and-3 ever on the final drive. Besides Sisson, Oppeneer and sometimes Elijah Blu-Smith, it seems no Rams defenders have the ability to make a big play. Weak. Jon Mosure's fumble was also terribily costly.


Broncos: The only reason this isn't the worst is that this game was fucked up from the start. It was just one of those games where everything that could go wrong, did.

-The Broncos had to start a back-up QB, when our starter isn't even that good.

-That back-up fumbled on his first drop back, killing all our early momentum.

-I am convinced that Knowshon scored before that fumble. He hit the gaurd's knee with the ball, and the guard's knee was in the end zone/on the goal line. Why the NFL doesn't have camera's on both goallines? I have asked this before and I will until it happens. The league makes billions and can't figure this out. This play was so crucial, and yet I saw two angles of it, none which made it very clear.

-Prior to the Broncos lone points, on third down Eddie Royal was held in his route and Merriman dove at an injured Kyle Orton's legs. That should have been two penalties, instead none were called. The Chargers only had one penalty called on them all game (two were nullified by calls on the Broncos as well), while the Broncos had 9. An entire NFL game and only three violations? Dubious, if you ask me.

-The Broncos didn't seem to bring much pressure and I have no clue why. Are we that scared of Phillip River's deep lobs that we won't rush. It was the key to the game last time and we sat back and let him pick us apart.

-The onside kick was baller, minus the Broncos failing to jump on the football. McD realized that it was now or never for the Broncos to grab some momentum and he risked it all. It failed, but I liked the gamble. I would rather get stomped 32-3 and have pulled everything out of the bag than to lose like 20-3 by taking the conventional NFL Head Coach route of deficit moderation.

-I'm really glad I'm not working this week or else I might stab my boss.

In da club: It was a very busy week, but nothing matched last week in the wierd category. Craziest thing was when some girl rubbed/grabbed the butt of one of our Gogo dancers (who may be dating Owen Wilson, if rumors are to be trusted). I usually am cool with girl-on-girl action, but everyone knows you don't touch the dancers. Sadly I was unable to break my choke-hold virginity on a girl, but I did have to escort her out.

Thursday I went into work and was told to post up six feet from a pole with three award winning pole dancers taking turns for about an hour-and-a-half. It really is a tough job. In order not to stare at them I also placed myself so that I could see them in the reflection of a mirror, thus I looked like I was scanning the crowd while I just kept watching. Sometimes I am smart.

Avalanche: Taking a page out of the CSU playbook by blowing leads late in the game. Not good. I want a reason to be able to watch hockey in March and April (or at least complain to Direct TV that I don't have VS). Please get your shit figured out.

-Matty Duchene is starting to score on the reg (/Kenny Powers). This makes me so happy. The kid is fucking awesome and he will be a star sooner rather than later.

Tweet of the week: (follow MessiahThaDon)  A tie this week between QBs traded for each other:

KingNeckbeard: Coach says i'm too drunk to start... What a flaming pile of horseshit! I only got this drunk so my ankle wouldn't hurt fuckface!
NotJayCutler : Watching Chris Simms throw is like watching Mozart paint.


Nuggets: The fucking Clippers? Without the Black Ginger. Fuck me. At least you righted your shit and beat those bitch ass Bulls.

-JR is blowing kisses to the crowd and that makes me happy.

-Birdman may be getting back to decent. I thought we were gonna have to start dolling out the coke to get him all excited again.

Rockies: Guess who is not on the 40-man roster? Yorvit. YEEEEESSSSSS. Sign that motherfucker next September, but until then keep his .200 average and spaghetti arm out of Coors.

Coming up this week:  To counteract all this negativity, I will fill a post of many of the people, websites and videos that make me love sports. Ya know, it is Thanksgiving week. Then a Pregaming edition for Wyoming, which will involve me trying to recount my Border War blackout last year.

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.

Pregaming Analysis: SDSU. Where we discuss the art and science of the shotgun

I probably won't have any real pregame analysis of any upcoming CSU game since I usually don't even get to watch them live anymore and would just rehash what is said in the newspaper, so I will stick with what I know.And while I won't bring you pregame analysis, I will bring you Pregaming Analysis. I stumbled upon this topic while discussing my hatred of Utah's archaic liquor laws in an earlier preview, and I like where that went.

Tailgating is awesome. I don't really need to tell anyone that, but it feels good to say it. It is one of the few times in life that you can drink a beer and feel no regret for tossing it on the ground, haphazardly. You know why? Because they make the drunks and perverts who need to perform community service clean it up the next day. Nothing rubs it in those assholes' faces like having to pick up thousands of empty, crushed Keystone Light cans, when they aren't allowed to even take a sip. Irony, Atlanis Morrissette-stlye, even if that is not irony.

Anyway, I fancy myself a bit of an expert at tailgating, having progressed from the kid who passes out midway through the Nevada game in my youth (story to come week) to the 23-year-old that still managed to be "the drunkest person on the field," according the Trevor Edy, after we rushed the field against CU. Okay, that may not look like a lot of progress, but during the CU game I was drinking the whole time to keep that buzz up and remember everything, while the Nevada game is one big blur of me falling down.

My secret, is to avoid hard alcohol and focus on pounding as much beer, as quickly as possible. The best way to do this, of course is the beer IV, but I can never find my veins with the needle. So instead I resort to my second favorite technique, THE SHOTGUN.

Yes, what a beautiful way to drink a beer. "NO thank you Pete Coors. I do not want to taste your swill or drink out of your fancy, new-fangled pull-tab. I want to stab this metal, sharp object with another metal, sharp object and then place my lips on a metal, sharp hole in order to make it shoot this alcohol straight into my throat. WHOOOO!"

What are the options. Simply chugging from the can takes far too long. I would guess 10 seconds or more at least.

Actually, we interrupt this blog for a quick episode of the popular discovery channel show, Mythbusters. In the name of science (and boredom and my new goal to raise my tolerance back to semi-college levels from the tity-drugger where I currently reside), I will now test this theory.

Shotgunning: 10 seconds to pierce can and make sure I don't spill all over the room, 3 seconds to chug. Total=13 seconds.

Chugging:  1 second to crack, 28 second to chug. Total=29 seconds. 


Conclusion: While the shotgun took a little longer to prep for, I was able to drink it at almost six times the speed. Impressive. Also, the prep time to shotgun would go down significantly if I wasn't sitting in front of my computer, but in a parking lot unconcerned by spray (but as I will teach later, spray can be avoided if you are smart). So, in a perfect world, I could shotgun about 3 beers in the same time as I could chug one. Don't need to be a Josh McDaniels math major to understand that one.

P.S. Anyone who believes that I wouldn't really do this, doesn't know me at all, but here are some pics. Best part, 'Born in the USA' by Springsteen came on while I was doing my testing. Bawse:

Well, now that we understand just how awesome, and how much quicker, shotgunning is, I think that we should get into the how exactly to go about the shotgun.

You might be saying, Sack, you have shotgunned a beer with every person who will ever have the misfortune to check out this site, you don't need to tell us how to do it. Guess what? That is a valid point, but I write this blog for the hypothetical blog scouts that might stumble upon it and sign me to a big-ass blog deal.

This video does a pretty good job of explaining it, minus the pussy, "you might die from this" safety warning. (Warning: If you drink beer responsibly, you could die from being a complete pussy. Who wants that?)

I also disagree with some other issues in this video.

-Very poor hole-stabbing technique ("That's what she said."). The best way to shotgun was first introduced to me by Sam Horwitz, a person I am beginning to think I invented in my head so I could pretend I knew a Jewish person. Anyway, he showed me during Thanksgiving Break freshman year how to create the puncture hole in the bottom of the can with your finger. You just turn the can over, turn the can back towards right-side-up,  locate the air bubble as it moves up the can, and jam your finger in. Should work like a charm (This guy shows you how). It doesn't always. In fact, often after I first learned this trick I would end up slicing my finger open. Ooops. At least alcohol kills all the germs.

-Use a key, not a knife. Now, I have simplified this approach, as I turn over the can, wait for the air bubble and puncture the can with my parent's house key. I think a key works better than a finger, and is certainly safer than a knife, but both work. Just apply steady pressure with a key after you have located the air bubble in the can, don't stab. Plus it reminds me of home.

Sure you can always stab beers alone or race a couple friends, but the only way to really get the full tailgate expirience is through the the BRO-GUN: It is the most common shotgun. A bunch of guys, hyped up, screaming, probably wearing body paint. They are gonna shotgun, they are going to peer pressure you into it, and if you are being a pussy and don't do it, you will watch and be impressed by them, because they have made this shotgun the center of attention for your parking row.

There isn't all whole lot of technique to the Bro, it is a smash-and-grab shotgun. It begins with a primal yell of "SHOTGUN. C'MON." Everyone grabs a beer, circles up, and takes turns stabbing their beer, often creating a fairly impressive spray, perhaps giving themselves or someone nearby a facial.

Everyone in the circle then has a "cheers" in the middle, yell something unintelligible and then powers down some Keystone at their own pace. Except, being Bros, everything is a little bit of a competition, so as soon as one person finishes their beer and chucks it to the ground, everyone picks up their pace to not look like a queer. But don't abandon your effort too soon, or else everyone will mock you for wasting beer, like a queer. It is a cruel cycle.


FAILGATES: I did not initially grasp the art of the shotgun, as before freshman year I still got confused exactly which hole was which (Wait, that may have been a different type of fail altogether?). At a party at my friend Mo's house once, while in a BRO-GUN, I accidentally turned my beer upside-down and opened the tab.

A great shotgun gone wrong occurred before the UNLV game last season. My parents were in town to tailgate and I also decided this was the perfect week to paint my body green and gold, as I had promised my friend Dusty I would do it. So right before painting ourselves green, my roommate Cheney and I also made Dusty honor his end of the deal, to shotgun a beer with us. But not just any beer, a tall boy PBR. Yes, 24 oz. of wonderful, 'Steak-in-a-can,' Blue Ribbon excellence.

A regular shotgun creates some apprehension, knowing that all that foam might fuck up your stomach's world, but a big-ass Pibber is a whole 'nother story. But being a true Bro and friend, Dusty stepped up to help Nate and I continue our good-luck stomach punishing.

And damnit if the bastard didn't kick our asses. Finishing probably 5 seconds ahead of me and not even taking a breath-pause, which I needed.

Still, almost as soon as he finished, he was bent over at the waist, struggling to breathe. And that was the day that Dusty puked in front of my parents, while I got drunk and painted myself green and gold. Welcome to CSU, family. I do have to give him props, because Dusty did rally.

Another great story involves my boy Fancy somehow puncturing his beer so poorly he swallowed some metal during his shotgun and had to force himself to vomit a piece of can up later. He is a special child.

(By the way, if anyone has any good Failgate stories of their own or wishes to remind me of one of my own that I forgot, please leave comments, e-mail or Facebook me)



Game analysis: Somehow SDSU has beaten CSU in blizzards several times in our history, so let's all hope for good weather.

And if we lose, I'm going to walk through my parking garage and break every single car window with a SDSU sticker, and there are a lot. No one wants to see that happen.

I don't know anything else, other than it is now 4:30a.m. and I am down 10 Natty Lights, so god bless and go Rams.