Vegas Madness

Vegas Madness
By William Beard

I woke up still drunk, but I’m one of the lucky ones, because I didn’t puke up blood.

You can watch all the movies, but nothing really prepares you for it. Casino, Swingers, Fear and Loathing. They don’t tell you how it’s gonna be.

It’s an annual weekend for my boys. They head out to Vegas every year for the first weekend of March Madness, to catch the games, give the casinos their hard earned cash when the spread kills them, and essentially, drink a hell of a lot.

I’ve never been able to go—jobs (the ones that actually pay) and lack of funds have kept me from making the journey. But this year, I was in, come hell or high water.

Financially, in retrospect, I probably should have stayed home. But then I would have missed all the fun—though I would have a healthier liver.

It’s hard to type right now. My head is pounding and I’m in that weird state between drunk and hungover.

I’m two for 12 on games (and I can’t even remember which teams I won on). I’ve yet to puke, unlike four of my 8 counterparts. I got drenched by some jackass who spilled his drink over the railing at the club last night, erasing any chances I had of getting laid. I can’t feel my hands. My hotel room smells like someone peed on rancid eggs. I haven’t had any “alone time” in four days. I haven’t talked to a woman who wasn’t dealing me cards all weekend. I waited in the longest line of my life trying to get a cab at the airport, a line so long that by the end of it I was fluent in Russian and chanting “Tear down the Wall!” I remember being sober—when I got on the plane.

In other words, I’m having the time of my life.

I’m such an idiot for not coming here sooner. I should have robbed a nunnery or something, stolen from the collection basket at church maybe. Though I don’t go to church, so that would have been difficult. But I should have come down here sooner.

There are so many stories from this weekend, I’m not even sure where to start.

There’s the unprecedented run by my Wenger, during which he cleaned up six hundred playing Blackjack Switch at Casino Royale. That wouldn’t be much to talk about, except that he was so drunk he couldn’t even stack his chips or form a coherent sentence. The dealer had to do it for him every time, because we were too busy laughing to help him out. He gave us the quote of the weekend, “Might as well crap in the toilet, that’s what I got.” Which was even funnier because he had no idea he was up six hundred. He thought he was losing.

There was the free bottle of Vodka I got us after bitching about getting soaked while in the V.I.P at Rain, which wouldn’t have been a big deal unless you consider how much the bottles cost:

$375. Seriously. For one bottle.

On second thought, it’s a good thing I did complain. Until I paid $60 for a limo because that was the only way I could get the unfinished bottle back to my hotel.

There was Bjorn walking through a golf course at 5 a.m. after getting the Heisman arm from some chick at her place. There was Dale asking everyone from the janitor at the Palms to the bouncer if they “want some Bourbon” that he was carrying around in a flask, which he had been sitting on. That made it toasty warm. We know, because we all drank it. That’s the way we roll in Vegas. Straight warm bourbon. Tasty.

There was the $1600 for a V.I.P. booth at Rain—the hottest club in town—which seems like a deal in a place like Vegas. In Boston, I’d punch your pregnant wife in the stomach for even suggesting it. But we forked it over, because there was another Russian Bread Line at the door.

There’s this column, which I’m writing amongst four passed out guys, including Wenger, who actually puked up blood last night. Let me say that again—he was so drunk, he puked up blood. Not kidding.

That’s what happens when you chug liter beers at the German beer hall, Hoftbrauhaus, and then mix that with $375 bottles of Tanqueray.

There’s the bartenders at Harrah’s outside bar, who make the drink tossing from Cocktail look like amateurs night. I’m talking bouncing full bottles on their elbows, juggling four bottles at once while mixing drinks, throwing ice cubes in a glass from across the bar. In a town where shows are the worldwide standard, that’s the best one I’ve seen, and all you pay is the cost of Jager shots.

There’s Travis, who couldn’t lose at the Blackjack tables, netting over a grand in two days. And what makes that funny is him bitching about an extra $5 tip at the Hoftbrauhaus. (We like him anyway.)

There’s the buffets in Vegas. If you’ve ever been, you know what I mean. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Vegas, is when you sit down to eat, you eat as much as you can, because you never know when you’ll eat again.

Then there were the games. The amazing, horrible games. Tennessee and Northwestern State each dropping a three to advance. Gonzaga and Georgetown getting garbage baskets as the clock ran out to make grown men cry in the sportsbook. UNC-Wilmington defecating on my dreams, crushing my three-team parlay by losing after being up 18 points in the second half. And I share sentiments with Wenger, who continued his streak of quotes by busting out “Dick Enberg needs to die.”

There was me, braking my cardinal rule (never bet on my favorite teams). After dropping all the early games, I put $55 on my Orange, who went from giving one point to getting one point, making it too juicy to resist. And we know how that went, which is why the rule is the rule, and I am an idiot.

And I know what you’re thinking while you read this (if you still are). You’re thinking, “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.” You’re thinking I shouldn’t be telling you all this. But that’s not how it really works. If you walk away from this town of stories with out any good ones of your own, ones you tell every chance you get, then you didn’t do it right.

But then again, maybe I’m not telling you everything.

And I still have two days left.