I write to you live from Las Vegas. Might sound nice but it actually sucks because it’s Sunday. Who the fuck wants to be in Vegas on Sunday? Nobody. I had a 6AM flight to Newark — missed it by 4 hours.
You might be thinking, “Riggs you dumbass why did you book a 6AM flight out of Vegas?” But the theory was simple: Party straight through Saturday, stay up late because that’s what everybody does in Vegas, then cab it right to the airport around 4AM. Easy schmeezy.
But basically none of that happened. We did the pool party thing all day starting at like 11AM. Come 7PM it felt like we had been up for a billion hours. But I battled, kindly donated hundreds and hundreds of dollars to the casino, snuck some drinks to a couple underage chicks (I don’t understand why but every time I come to Vegas I meet chicks that are under 21 which is maybe the sneaky craziest fact ever. Who the fuck meets sub-21-year-olds in Vegas?), then decided to shut things down around 2AM. I didn’t want to but I couldn’t stand up. “Hey I’ll lay down for a couple hours, go the airport, sleep on the plane home, next thing you know we’re in New York and everything’s fine.”
Nope. Woke up about 10AM. Not even close. I called United and was just like “yeah so my plane is about to land and I’m not on it what it do?” and they were like “hey Riggs no problem you’re on the next available plane which is 9PM.”
9PM! So the million dollar question is what do I do now? Got 9 hours to kill in Vegas. I could go try my luck on standby but that sounds like the worst option. I’m tempted to hit the tables but then we’re looking at a 4-hour mistake turning into a several thousand dollar mistake.
Stoolie wants me to darty. Do I darty?
Whole thing’s very embarrassing — most lame, stereotypical move in the world to miss your morning flight out of Vegas. Cue “some guys just can’t handle Vegas.”
Big Cat called it too. He told me to book the 10PM flight out Saturday night, go to the pool all day, go wild, disappear for the airport at 8PM, sleep the whole flight, you’re home before anybody knows what happened.
He was right. I was wrong. 9 hours alone in Vegas; let’s get weird.