I died last week. In Las Vegas everyone dies, at least a little. You can die multiple times, too, depending on how long you're in town. Three of us stayed for three nights, and we each died one of those nights. If we had stayed a week? I'm certain those numbers would've doubled. For one or more of us, it probably would’ve tripled.
Dupa. If you’re a loyal reader of this little piece of internet realty, you know him. And you probably love him. And that’s because you know what he’s capable of: sheer mayhem. So it’s damn near poetic that he would christen the start of his third decade on the planet with a guys’ trip to Sin City. Compared to Dupa, I’m a boy scout. …Okay, maybe a scout leader with questionable morals but a heart of gold under my hard-drinking, slut-loving outer shell. Like Billy Bob Thornton in a follow-up to “Bad Santa” called “Bad Scouts”. But I digress… The point is that I’m easily the tamer of the two of us. So when my 30th birthday turned into a huge production two and a half years ago, the gears in Dupa’s head began turning on how he would make his even grander. When he announced his Vegas plan to all of us earlier this year, well…no one was really shocked. And when he then used words like “hookers”, “cocaine”, and “not coming back” to describe his vision of how the trip would go, well…
In the end, only T.C. and I were able to join him in his quest to send his 20s out with a donkey punch. I was in Las Vegas last year for work, but hardly got to experience a true “Vegas trip”, mostly due to low finances. This time I was eager to at least taste some of the fun that I had watched from afar, like a pauper at the royal gates. T.C. had been in Vegas several years ago, but had been accompanied by Mrs. T.C. and family. The opportunity to breathe in some of the fumes of bachelorhood, while barfighting his Irish liver, was something he relished. Three very accomplished drinkers. Three days. Three nights. Las Vegas. God, it almost writes itself, doesn’t it?
[Part 1]
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