Now I'm back home and back at work. On the bright side, I'm somewhat less likely to catch on fire, although the odds I'll want to set myself purposefully on fire have risen significantly.
Let me just say, Las Vegas is a beautifully ill-advised sparkling shitshow of a train wreck. In other words, it is awesome.
Much has been written about the city, by people more entertaining and informed than me. The city is just decadent enough to warrant an entire show dedicated to people being murdered there, so there's not much more I can say about it.
However, I noticed a few things about the Vegas experience that nobody seems to ever talk about - and that seems worth sharing. Without further hoo-ha and in no particular order...
Sometimes Vegas smells really bad.
Seriously. You're walking along without a care in the world, except for how on earth you're ever going to pay off the Visa bill you wracked up and why they couldn't just put the strawberry and lime margaritas you ordered at the same time together in one big cup so you don't have to double-fist and have everybody thinking you're a raging drunk when all of a sudden...it hits you.
The stench.
An invisible and nauseating mixture of open sewer, rotting garbage, more sewer, the desperate sweat of gambling addicts and underwear not changed for days. There's no explanation or visible source, apart from the potentially hundreds of decomposing bodies left in the desert by the Mafia, and so far undiscovered by the non-fictional Las Vegas CSI team.
No matter how hot you look, you look comparatively terrible.
Anna Wintour and Karl Lagerfield made sweet love, and then gave birth to your dress. The joyful tears of angels fill your breast implants and your face just triggered the Trojan War, one more time. At best, you're maybe a 3 in Vegas. There are women in Las Vegas so staggeringly beautiful, you will question exactly how many steps below the evolutionary ladder you managed to land, and how many times you somehow smacked your face on the way down. Best to keep drinking.
It will take you 45 minutes to cross a street.
The city planning genius who designed the Vegas Strip deserves some kind of major award. The hotel/casino/buffet/strip joint/shopping mecca you want to go to might be directly across the street from your own hotel. It's like, right there. As the crow flies, or as any normal damned person might function, it should take you 30 seconds to walk across the street to your destination.
Crossing a street however, is impossible. There are giant man-made barriers or sudden drops involved in getting to the street, on which there are no crosswalks. To make it to the other side of the street and to your destination, you have to go sideways first. Up an escalator. Across a promenade. Past the bar selling margaritas for $1. Stop at the bar selling margaritas for $1. Down an escalator. Onto a moving sidewalk. Through a casino. Pose for a picture with Elvis. Pay $10. Up an escalator. Over an overpass. Down an escalator. Photo bomb three separate Japanese family pictures by cutting in front of a fountain. Climb a flight of stairs, and 45 minutes later you are now directly in front of the place you came from, and have spent $100 along the way. Genius.
At some point during your holiday, you will fist pump.
You may not be the type of person who fist pumps for anything. You may not even have hands. It doesn't matter, because at some point you will be so excited by something that you'll inexplicably channel the entire cast of Jersey Shore and be fist pumping with wild abandon. It happened to me in the middle of the dance floor at Tao, a spectacle of a night club that can only exist in Vegas. It will happen to you too.
Armpits burn in 30 seconds.
Should you raise your arms above your head one single time in order to shield your eyes while checking out the handsome young members of a stag party newly arriving poolside, your armpits will flash fry. You'll spend the remaining days of your holiday walking around with your arms held away from your body like a gunslinger ready for showdown at the OK Corral, and annoying everybody within earshot by complaining how nobody has invented deodorant that doubles as sunscreen.
The lack of pants crisis is global.
Girls from all over the world now feel it's acceptable to be in public wearing what constitutes a shirt to most people, hooker heels and nothing else. I had prayed it was only in my town, but the problem is now clearly international. I used to dream of world peace, but now I have another message on behalf of our planet.
Women of planet Earth. For the love of God and everything that has or will ever be holy. A Brazilian wax - not pants. Thong underwear - not pants. Spray tanned ass - not pants. Dress so short your Brazilian wax, thong underwear and spray tanned ass are clearly visible - also not pants. Choose another skirt, or wear some goddamned pants.
That is all.
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