K. I’m working on two pieces for you. Actually if you’re interested in a progress report they’re half incomplete. (I’m a pessimist). Apparently playing Russian roulette with my creativity has its repercussions. I leave that statement open to your interpretation.
Here’s a little somethin somethin to hold you over; the crack baby of insomnia.
I touched on this initially in my first post in 09, but I realize most of you haven’t been with me that long. That being said, I never birthed credit to this story, and credit is past due.
I’m sitting on the Don Cuco patio.
Now while I rarely appreciate Mexican cuisine, other than the burrito which is fucking fantastic, I DO appreciate cheap cocktails.
Derek, Travis, Stone and myself are all here on the invite of Wagner and Trevor who for some reason absolutely refuse to join their friends, us, on the patio and instead claim manifest destiny on a 4 person booth that can’t fucking fit the amount of people they invited.
Great mathematics for the son of a rocket scientist.
Wagner’s dad is a legitimate rocket scientist.
The four of us are fucking pissed.
The only thing anchoring us to the Don Cuco patio are our mixed drinks and we dedicate the following drink finishing moment to find a new quest, because
I giggle. that’s right. A masculine figure as myself giggles and the seed of destruction leeks from my mouth.
I’m half joking.
Derek: fuck you.
Derek picks up his phone and books a non refundable room at The Tropicana.
Just like that.
Premature reluctance quashed.
Apparently we’re going to Vegas.
We ash our smokes and pound our drinks.
The four of us frantically try to fill the 5th seat in my car on the way home from Don Cuco.
Stone: Amantia? He just turned 21…
HAH! Good fucking luck.
That’s a real fucking shot in the dark.
Good fucking luck trying to get the guy who won’t even leave his house to come on a spur of the moment Vegas trip.
Ring, ring, ring.
Stone: Yo dude, you wanna come to Vegas with us?
Amantia: You guys serious?
Stone: Pack your shit and get to Ric’s as soon as fucking possible.
Know Amantia? No fucking way right?
Amantia is fucking IN.
To this day my brother Adam still laughs at this fucking moment.
The moment we arrive home from Don Cuco and everyone is running to their car.
Adam to Derek: Where are you guy’s going?!
Adam sensing the frantic state of panic.
Derek: There’s… THERE’S NO FUCKING TIME.
Derek jumps in his truck and peels out to go throw on a button up and fill his backpack with whatever the fuck.
I’m running up the stairs as quick as fucking possible.
Me: I NEED YOU TO IRON THIS FOR ME NOW!
I throw my mom my favorite Giorgio Armani shirt and continue packing a days worth of clothes, my hookah, and whatever miscellaneous left over booze I have.
Two things you should know about my friends:
1. We don’t go anywhere without the fucking hookah.
and 2. Between the five of us we always have left over booze, and we never have left over booze. Does that even make sense? You might have to be one of us to get that one.
Two hours into this road trip.
Blasting our favorite sing a long.
Stab at it.
(hint: I just wanna fuck bad bitches!)
If you guessed the Chronic 2001, you are correct.
Two hours into this road trip, hopping on the 15 freeway and…
Dead stop fucking traffic.
WHAT THE FUCK!
It’s already 11pm.
We missed the starting gun as is, and now we’re in dead stop fucking traffic?
Derek is having none of this and I throw him my iPhone.
Derek: (studying Google Maps) I can get us to Vegas from here. Get off at this exit.
And I exit accordingly.
Let me just stop right here and give you a little background information on Derek.
This fucker knows how to read a map.
He was a fucking eagle scout back in the day, which may not tell you much about the man, but sure as fuck should tell you he knows how to read a fucking map.
Not to mention you trust me right?
And I trust him.
Derek leads me up a curvy mountain road for 15 minutes. I just don’t see how this is going to work out, but as I said, I trust Derek with a map.
Or I should say, did trust Derek with a map, up until his last suggestion that my Lexus should continue on its current path which just turned into a dirt fucking road.
Nope sorry Derek, Lexie is going back to the freeway.
The traffic gods smile in our favor.
Upon return to the 15 the traffic has cleared and we’re back en route to Vegas, only 30 minutes behind schedule.
Now, as we pass Barstow and the infamous huge ass In-N-Out burger Tucker Max raves about, would be a good time to tell you Stone has been bitching of hunger pangs since we left.
We tell him we will eat when we get to Vegas. (This will become pertinent information later in this story.)
Check in at the Tropicana 1:45.
In the room by 2am.
Travis: Want to smoke a hookah bowl?
Me: Are you out of your fucking mind man? We need to pound as much booze in this room as possible within 30 minutes and get the fuck out there!
The whole fucking group agrees.
We’ve got a late start on this already, despite 2 am Vegas is really 10pm Los Angeles.
Commence shot taking.
And by shot taking I really mean take a shot worthy swig and pass to the next guy until the fucking bottle is done.
Now you’re probably expecting me to brush stroke a finely detailed painting of the events of that night, but I’m not.
I’m not because I don’t write about the ordinary.
If you don’t see an update on my blog for three months, it’s because I care about the quality of these write-ups. I don’t write about getting drunk if there is no climax.
There IS a fucking climax.
Derek is holding a 12 pack of Coronas recently acquired from the liquor store.
We’re heading up the MGM escalator towards Hooters for 25 cent wings and…
Someone throws a glass bottle in the street.
I turn around.
Me: TELL ME one of you fuckers didn’t throw that in the street.
Derek: NO MAN! YOU REALLY THINK I WOULD DO SOMETHING LIKE THAT?! IT WAS FUCKING HIM DUDE!
Him meaning Stone.
I look over to Stone.
He’s got that blank fucking stare in his eyes. That infamous Joe Stone blacked-the-fuck-out stare.
Remember he hasn’t eaten in a long fucking time. We never stopped to eat when we got here.
I turn back around and hear Derek behind me.
Derek: Here man… don’t throw this one in the street…
Stone throws ANOTHER fucking full glass beer bottle into the middle of fucking Las Vegas Boulevard, nearly hitting a moving cab.
This was supposed to be the formal cut off point for Joe Stone.
You’ll understand my usage of the words “supposed to” after the following.
All of us are down and fucking out.
I’ve got two 20s left in my pocket.
Why the fuck do you think we’re trying to eat 25 cent fucking wings?
I’m under the impression I’m going to spend under 5 dollars on this meal.
10 wings for $2.50 and a side of ranch for a buck.
That’s under 5 bucks.
Or it WAS under 5 bucks until Joe fucking Stone orders a round of “Shotguns” for everyone at the table.
(Shotgun is some 25 or so ounce mixed rum/vodka fruity drink: think rum punch)
The fuck we need more drinks for? All of our fucking eyes are bleeding. All we want to do is eat this shit and face plant.
Our drinks come.
Stone instantly grabs his Shotgun, puts the straw to the bottom, and sucks it till no more remains.
From this point forward, this action has been trademarked “Joe Stoning”
You gotta be fucking kidding me.
Can you believe that fucking shit?
I hope your answer is yes because you certainly won’t believe the following.
Me: I don’t want this.
Stone gives me his blank signature stare. Only now he also has a little you’re-a-fucking-idiot glimmer in his eye.
Stone grabs my shotgun. No chance for divine intervention as he puts the straw to the bottom and again, Joe Stone’s my fucking Shotgun.
And now the waitress comes around.
I order ten wings.
Derek orders ten wings.
Amantia orders ten wings.
Travis orders ten wings.
Stone: I want fifty wings.
Waitress: That’s a lot of wings hun…
Stone: FIFTY FUCKING WINGS!!!!!!
Each of our meals arrives on a normal sized circular plate.
Stone’s meal comes on not one, but two PLATTERS.
Joe Stone eats one wing.
Joe Stone face plants on the fucking table.
And I spend every remaining dollar in my pocket making up for all the drinks and his fifty fucking wings.
And that my friends, is the infamous night of 50 fucking wings. If you’ve made it this far, I do feel inclined to thank you. Like my page, and if you like this shit, repost it on your wall or copy and paste to your friend.
Until next time, much love.