Anyway, as it gets closer to picking which one of these mindless jackasses will lead our once great nation to a violent and painful death, the aforementioned mindless jackasses are picking their Vice Presidential nominations. Notice how I said Vice President instead of Veep. That is because I’m not a douche bag.

So Barrack Hussein Obama is going to announce his Vice Presidential candidate via text message. VIA TEXT MESSAGE. ?$?#@$? Are you fucking kidding me?

I swear to God, if there is another attempt by these political cocksuckers to appear hip, im going to coldcock Wolf Blitzer in his fucking face. This is a repeat of the YouTube debates. Get it? Debates on YouTube, cause we’re so hip, we use “The YouTube.” What a clearly-foreseeable disaster that on-air-abortion was.

What’s next, you elitist-while-trying-not-to-be-elitist motherfucker?

“Be on the look out guys, I’m gunna Twit my veep nomination from my Sony Ericcson”

I hate politicians so much. Spare me the patronizing “I like the things you like” routine, and just tell me your fucking policies. It will make me happy, AND save your puppet-masters the trouble of trying to make you seem as if you have the slightest fucking idea how the American people think or act.

So the fire we had going was blazing pretty big, but none of us were satisfied. We needed to find more fire wood. But it was dark and we didn’t have any flash lights, so we were stumbling around aimlessly looking for wood to burn. That’s when we came across some dead Christmas trees. All of a sudden anxiety hit a new high, and we  starting running back to the fire with the dead trees. It was a plus for me. I prefer to burn plants that are dead. It gets the fire back in action. The first tree went up, followed by the second. It was at this point when a truck approached us and shined its headlights right into our eyes.

Fuck I thought to myself. At 2 am the only people on the beach are drunks and cops. And since we hadn’t seen anyone in over an hour, we all knew who was behind the wheel. Sure enough this high and mighty cop gets out and tells us were doing the number one no no on the beach. His words not mine. Confused and drunk, we all looked at him like he was an idiot. It’s not illegal to set a fire on the beach, but that’s not what he was pissed about. It was the dead Christmas trees we were burning. None of us knew it, and we quickly replied back that we’d stop, but this cop was just asking for it when he mumbled his next statement.

"If the mayor was out here and saw this, he would take you all to jail."

Normally in situations like these, I would just take in what he said with no rebuttal. But this time I slipped, which happens from time to time. I looked at him and replied,

"If the mayor of your town is out on the beach at 2 am, where is he? Surely his incompetence will provide us with the much needed resources of the treasury. We just ran out of beer officer."

Naturally this cop was pissed. He started yelling at me, but I couldn’t make out a single word he was saying. I think it was somewhere down the lines of your a smart ass, and say one more thing and you’re going to jail. So I sat down and heard the rest of his lecture, and then he said he was going to give us a ticket for burning the trees. Thats about the time when my friends butted in. None of us knew burning these trees was illegal, and somehow they managed to keep me out of handcuffs. They also managed to get us out of the ticket. So the cop told us to put the tree out, and he was on his way.

We all learned a lesson that night. If you burn dead Christmas trees on the beach, you’re subject to a ticket. Meanwhile, I learned that mouthing off to a beach cop can have dire consequences. But the biggest lesson to be learned here is this. If you say something that makes no sense whatsoever, don’t be surprised if my mouth opens with a smart ass comment. I’m sorry, but I don’t have the patience to put up with stupidity. I’ll try my best in later altercations to keep my mouth shut, but that’s no guarantee. Even if the comment could land me behind bars.

So getting there wasn’t too bad, despite the 1990’s-Samalia-war-zone-like construction. Although we did have to park a ways away, but fuck it, I can walk. It took us a little bit to find out where the damned parade was. But, after a winding walk through some unkempt park, we found it.

The parade was fairly good, a bit better than expected. I expected a lot more half-assed, bumbling hippies with venereal diseases. One of the entries was what appeared to be a Latino car club’s lowriders. Which in itself was kinda funny to me. Hippies and vatos. I wonder who’s winning that fight.

I skipped a portion of the story. Intentionally, it’s not just because I’m a bad writer. Before the parade started, we went to get a nice space to sit on in the grass. So we find this hill. It’s not to steep, and it has some people sitting on it. There nicely spread out, so we have some room.

So we choose where we are going to sit, and sit down. There was this old, frail looking hippy a bit above us and to the right. See, it’s a fucking hill. The beauty of a hill for sitting like that, is I can sit in front of you, but your higher, so you can still see the fucking parade. Right? Is that not kind of common sense?

But this goofy fuck, wearing his dirty Grateful Dead t-shirt has a fucking attitude about it. Not openly of course, because that would take courage, and hippies are cowards. So he mutters under his breath “I’ll guess I’ll move.” I didn’t say shit, because we were trying to have a good time. So I just thought to myself “Good, I’m glad I inconvenienced you, you good for nothing hippy.” So I was pretty happy with myself.

I was assuming he was by himself. Again, he’s a hippy. But somehow, he has a family. Some how he convinced (possibly through use of LSD) a women to have sex with him, and even more shocking, his weak fucking sperm somehow succeeded in creating offspring. So when all of his wife, and his kids sit down, he bends over and “whispers” about how we just sat down in front of him. I say whispered, but it was more of a faint lisp.

It was pretty funny to me. I also made sure to walk by them while some hippy, free-love float came by and said something like “Wouldn’t it be funny if they died” or something horrible like that.

He gave me what he may have considered a “mean” look, but I considered it literally laughable. So all in all, it was a good day. I saw some cool automotive creations, and I ruined a Grateful Dead fan’s day. That makes me feel great.

(Oh yeah, and I took that picture of that guy on the old timey bike. There fucking hilarious. He’s was doing stunts to.)

2. Within 10 Minutes of meeting someone new, you mention the ivy league school you attended for a semester (or once passed in a car.) Make sure to throw in how much smarter you were than your professors. Your open-mind & creativity didn’t fit in. It wasn’t that your actually droolin’ stupid.

3. Your name is John Whatever "The Third", and you introduce yourself as such. No body gives a fuck how many John’s there were in your incest-filled upper class bloodline, fucko.

4. You insist on pronouncing certain words, "the proper way,"  opposed to the universally accepted pronociactions. Yes, we are very impressed that you took an college equivalency course at your local highschool, but the emphasis in advertisement is on the "tise", you prick. It’s not adVERtisment.

5. You declared war on Iraq, foolishly missed opportunities to kill Bin Laden, and tarnished our name in the World…..then your Bill Clinton. Ha. You were expecting a Bush joke. Sucker.

The Midgets for Slaves act doesn’t require any new taxes. In fact, it’s a non pork barrel spending bill. How’s that for making a change in Washington? Screw universal health care and the other typical political party talking points. We need midgets cleaning our toilets and sweeping our floors. Besides the obvious reason of not having to do anything, midgets are sure to provide us with extreme hilarity while they do the work we dread.

Some money will be needed for this project. I know, it’s supposed to be free right? Well try telling your new small servant that all of his/her work isn’t going to be compensated. I’m pretty sure without proper protection that these little, angry individuals will take a shot at your junk. So go out and by a cup. It’ll pay for itself after one day, and that’s a guarantee.

You’ll need a nice place for them to sleep. This problem comes with a cheap, if at no cost solution. If you have a sock drawer you’re already set. If not, visit a local thrift shop. This will also come in handy if you desire to buy clothes for your new little work bee. What better way to enjoy mass hilarity? A midget who cleans for free, while wearing old school concert tees that date back to the 70’s sounds great to me.

Be sure to feed your little fella. He/she isn’t going to be as productive without proper nutrition. Plus, you can probably just make a bigger ration of what you’re going to eat and break off the food you know you’re not going to finish. Keeping them healthy is essential to you living an apathetic lifestyle. As far as security is concerned, you’re on your own. Just be sure he/she has no access to the outside world. The last thing you need is a bunch of pissed off Gary Colemans revolting against the establishment.

My proposition is going to be met with some extreme dissent. Sure, it may not go along the guidelines of either political party, but nonetheless it’s a brilliant idea if you ask me. So if this goes through like I hope, use the following guidelines above. Your midget and you should be just fine.

Granted, it’s more my stupid fucking internet connection. Nevertheless, complain I shall!

You see I work with computers everyday. When I’m not wamboozlin’ people by equipping their websites with three-versions old wordpress codex [yeah that’s a website coding joke, fuck off] I’m wasting time tweaking this God forsaken site. Needless to say, I rely on the, I must repeat, stupid fucking internet to accomplish my job/jobs.

If this damned connection bleeps out again, I’m going to have to go Mike Tyson on my computer, meaning I will beat and rape it until my eventual arrest. Also kinda thinking about a sweet face tattoo. But that can wait, for now, I would just like my internet connection back.

On a side note, while typing this in Word, it prompts me to capitalize ‘internet.’ Why should I capitalize internet? Who is internet? It’s not a brand name or person, it’s a tool for committing credit card fraud and masturbation. You don’t deserve capitalization, internet.

Now I digress to my original gripe. Stupid fucking internet. I’m at a loss. What did people do before the internet? Nothing, that’s what. They rode on their old-timey bicycles to malt shops and shit. Drinking one drink with two straws, that kind of thing.

With that being said, my stupid fucking internet STILL is not up, and I think it’s about time to call these ISP chuckleheads. I’d sure be nice if they had not fucked up one connection while attempting, bassackwards, to set up another. But who am I to tell them how to be incompetent.

Now if my internet is back up, I will post this rambling rant. If it is not, you might catch me wild-eyed on a rooftop near you.

My state has good teams, mostly in sports I care about only if the team makes the playoffs, but that’s not my quarrel. What’s my dispute? Texas has better teams in not only performance, but also in name. We have representing teams of Texas like the Texas Rangers, Dallas Mavericks, Houston Texans, San Antonio Spurs, Dallas Cowboys, Houston Astros, Dallas Stars, Houston Rockets, and the Houston Aeros. Yes I had to name them all.

Every team I just named has something to do with our history. Look it up if you don’t believe me. Other states like California like to name their teams after Disney films. Teams like the Anaheim Mighty Ducks and the Anaheim Angels make me question the sexuality of their owners. What’s Disney’s deal here? Don’t they have enough money from making kids movies that have innuendoes in almost everyone of them? Stick to what your good at Disney, making countless amounts of parents suffer while their kids enjoy movies they’ll later regret liking.

States should really think about what they call their teams. Minnesota is a perfect example. Now I’ve never been to Minnesota, but I’m pretty sure the state isn’t wild, which their hockey team claims. Nor do I think of Vikings, which somehow Minnesota thought it would be a good name for their football team. All I can think when it comes to that state is the embarrassment of Jessie Ventura being governor at one point and how funny their accents are. Minn-ee-sotta!

As for the states that don’t have any professional teams, be glad you don’t. You wouldn’t want a team called the Idaho Potatoes or the Montana whatever it is your good at. So stop complaining and move to a state with a respectable name. Whatever you do, don’t move to California or Minnesota. You’ll be subject to mass ridicule even more than I already think of your place of origin.

Aside from the eight month summer I endure here, Texas has a lot of qualities besides my sports team’s names. The people down here are a coin flip when it comes to their attitude, our “authentic” Mexican food is awesome, and the pride in the state is beyond anything I’ve ever seen. I’ll say it once again, and this statement never grows old. Texas man, you gotta be here to understand it, and yes, King of the Hill does represent a certain part of the population. That’ll be the only plug I’ll ever give you other states.

The following message was approved by Geoff Jimminey. No funds were needed, just a vast space of free time. 

If you were to tell me this was a reality before I saw this video, I would have pointed and laughed at you until you cried or tried to hurt me. But it’s true, and the Chinese government is trying to fix it to “impress” us when we send our finest athletes over there to stomp them like a fortune cookie. Your clever insight won’t win you any gold medals China, just so you know.

I don’t want our men and women to be told to slip carefully, or be scared when they think an ATM is a robotic Jack Kevorkian. That’s not cool China. We here in America do our best to be sympathetic to all cultures, including yours. The least you could do is translate your language into proper English. That way we won’t have to worry about what we just ordered off your restaurants menus. If Kung Pow Chicken really translates into salted crap then I’m never eating Chinese food again.

Enough of the blatant signs China. If I want someone to tell me some demeaning shit I’ll ask for it. And let this be a notice. I’m going to be checking up on your little project from time to time. If I so as see one more thing that translates into something telling me to hurt myself, it’s on. And I don’t mean starting a fight with some random Chinese person in America. Most of them are really smart and know some form of martial art, or really dumb and handy with a firearm. I’m going to pick up the Chinese language and see what interesting shit I can come up with. Then again, probably not, I’ll resort back to my apathetic ways which I practice very well.

Yup, it’s definitely interesting to explore the concept of translation in other countries. I must admit it was extremely hilarious to see all those signs, but do your part and fix. Need I remind you folks that we here in America have explored the concept preemptive strike? For now it’s the signs, but later it will be your oil. We’ll see you at the Olympics. That is unless we boycott them.

It’s not a government conspiracy, as some lunatics who clearly are in a deep stage of syphilis claim. Nor is it Ted Turner or Rupert Murdoch, which, by the way, are more retarted from excessive power trips than I am from being on the clock. It’s the half bright, baby boomer producers who spend a majority of their time deciphering so-called legitimate news stories. You guys are the true heroes of misinformation. Case in point,  I read a story from Reuters about a 14 year old kid who’s suing 50 Cent for alleged assault.

That’s right people. The big story of today is 50 Cent’s litigation problems. We need not worry about the subversive Islamic rhetoric spewing out of every oraphus known to man. We need to make sure this kid gets the compensation he deserves. And I will be standing in front of the court house with a sign that reads, "If the glock didn’t hit, you must acquit." Are you news mongols fucking kidding me? This is news to you people? If all it takes to get 15 seconds of fame is getting beat up by a rapper, then I’m on my way to a ghetto to start shit with a group of black people. Surely one of them will become successful, and that’s when I’ll collect.

Fascination with celebrity stories is confusing to me at best. Why do people even care? Here’s an idea. Instead of following the every move of your favorite star and being envious, get a better job. If your happy with your jobs pay and still like to follow these stories, then you are either really stupid or wasting your time. I’m going to say stupid cause I feel like I’ve lost a significant amount of competence by even touching base on this issue. Not to mention the time I’ve wasted when I could have been looking for a better source of income.

You producers keep up the extraordinary work. As for me, I will continue to scour the web for real stories that you people deem unworthy. Now if you feel like tracking me down, go for it. The hunting season is on, and thats where the beef lies.

The thought, and sight of him being on the Colbert Report, you’d think, would be funny enough. But that was before he opened his mouth. First off, he sounds like the mom from “Bobby’s World” after being kicked in the throat. He sounds like what I would imagine a mentally-challenge black bear sounds like.

I pray to God he wrote his own “jokes,” either that or Jim Belushi’s writing his material. Not even the stoned-out-of-their-minds, double-digit IQ crowd found it funny. At one point, he names 3 things the government “lied” to us about, then says “Three strikes and your out!” Jesus, that was so terrible it was painful. And seriously, only three? He could only think of 3. The average politician lies to their wife 15 times before lunch, and he could only think of 3? Yeah Jesse, hop in the ‘08 race. Sounds like you got the brainpower to debate my toaster. Don’t get cocky though Jesse, my toaster is smart as shit.

On top of that, look at what this moron is wearing. He is considering running for PRESIDENT in 2008, and he’s wearing a suit jacket with a t-shirt & jeans. You think Obama is going to show up at a rally in a wife-beater and a do-rag? Maybe Jesse was just trying to “connect with the people.” That’s fine and all, expect, he looks like a balding hobo that found a suit jacket.

Great find Jesse, I hope there was a half eaten sandwich next to that suit jacket, cause I wouldn’t count on that presidential salary.

If you haven’t seen VH1’s Flava of Love, God bless you. You probably have "morals" or a "life" or wouldn’t even know how to go about trying to find "VH1." Either way, Flavor of Love is a reality show in which the irrelevant, not-even-famous-when-he-was-famous, 80’s Public Enemy hype man, Flava Flav is trying to find his "true love." First off, Flava Flav appears to be actually retarded. If I were to walk around, lets just say, in a purple velvet robe, wearing a viking helmet, yelling "Flava FLAV!!!!," what would YOU call that? Retarded. If you were to hear a grown man (not a 4 year old child, an adult) say, "My favorite book of all time is Cat in the Hat," what would you call that? Very fucking retarded.

So you have this astrophysicist Flava Flav, in this sprawling Hollywood mansion. Seriously? A mansion? He was semi-popular, to a small portion of people, in 1984, has done nothing since (and for some reason I don’t see "Diverse Portfolio" or "Smart Investments" when I see Flav) and your telling me he can afford that mansion? Get the fuck outta here. My theory is Flava Flav is doing this show for room and board. They came to him and said we’ll give you shelter and 3 meals a day, and he jumped on that shit. The girls “after his heart” were a bonus. He just wanted to not sleep on concrete for one night.

And ah yes, the girls. I’d call them women, but that would be insulting to women. I’d call them hoodrats, but that would be insulting to street-hookers. But boy are they entertaining! And Classy! When they’re not taking a shit on the floor, [yes, that is correct] they are fist-fighting each other over which bed they’ll get too dirty-up.

Then you’ve got the "challenges." This is where the whores have to complete certain tasks, and the winner or winners get a date with the charred 80’s relic. Keep in mind; this is a show claiming to be about finding true love. But really, is there a more sound and time tested way to prove ones love, then to see who can swim the fastest lap in a swimming pool? Or which group of whores can plan, design and open a restaurant better? These are all great methods to find that special someone. Personally, I hold math competitions, and grill my girlfriend on the inner workings of Burmese politics, but to each their own.

In short, VH1 will make you stupid if you watch it. You might as well hit yourself in the face with a hammer. With that, I’m off to the hardware store!

Every late night TV personality needs someone to pick on. Leno and Letterman use politicians as a means of funny, which is fine, but Jimmy Kimmel took another approach. He decided to play a joke on Matt Damon. By a joke, I mean a long running entourage of Kimmel being sorry for not having enough time for Damon. So when Kimmel finally made time for him, he had to make with the funny. And boy did he ever. After basically listing Matt’s resume, Jimmy welcomed Damon to the show, to much applause from the females I only wish I could give herpes. Regardless, after all the cheering for Damon, Kimmel told Matt that he was out of time and asked him if he could come back tomorrow, in which Damon firmly replied back "Go fuck yourself." Obviously the show went to commercial, as all of them do when their waste of a time slot is over. Now, everyone knows that most talk show hosts like to mingle with their interviewees after the interview, but this was way different.

Damon was pissed the fuck off and wanted to vent his anger at Kimmel, which he did. He was relentless in his choice of curse words. He tried to rip Jimmy a new one, which is probably not the best of ideas. Comedians can, and will use anything to their advantage, especially if it’s someones slander towards them. It would have been smart on Matt’s behalf to get up, and walk away from the set without saying a word. That’s not how it went down though, and now I’m hoping that comedy central will roast Matt Damon with Jimmy Kimmel as the host. Boy, I can’t wait.

Look. I have no beef with Matt Damon. I actually like most of his movies, but he should have known better to do what he did on Jimmy’s show. If your a wackjob celebrity, which I can only assume Matt is, due to his affiliation with that douche bag known as George Clooney, be on your toes at all times. If someone throws you an insult, throw one back. I seriously doubt that Jimmy Kimmel hates Matt Damon. Jimmy was probably sipping on scotch and decided that it would be funny to pick on a random celebrity. So he did. I have no idea whether this beef is over, and frankly I don’t care. I’m on Jimmy’s side here. Making with the funny at others expense is priceless. As far as Matt Damon goes, keep making good movies and shut the fuck up. I’m Certified Infidel, and I approve this message.

We came across what I was told, was Jay-Z’s nightclub. I am not sure what the building was. I thought it was a large building, which just housed the big-lipped over-rated rappers club, but I could be wrong. Regardless, I wondered in. To my surprise, there really weren’t all that many people. So I started to mill-about, trying to find something interesting, or some idiots to mock.

I found it weird that nobody tried to stop me. I mean really, I’m a clearly drunk, college-aged kid, who does not appear to have the kind of money to be spending $400 on a bottle of Courvoisier [and if I did, I wouldn’t buy a $50 bottle for $400, you idiots]. But no one said a thing. Some even welcomed me. Well, I figured, if they were welcoming me, I was supposed to be there. I got more talent in my left pinky than Jay-Z has in his over-sized head anyway. At least that’s what I like to tell myself.

As I mentioned, there were not all that many people. The club was spread out amongst several rooms, which were all ‘lounges.’ Might I add I find that highly pretentious? Throughout the club, there are several groups, filled of Long Island style, slicked-hair, douche-bag looking 20somethings, and skinnier-than-sin, clown make-up wearing, what appeared to be prostitutes. Tuition well wasted.

The funny thing was they were looking at me as if I did not belong. Yeah, like IM the weirdo. Stupid me, not buying $150 pre-ripped, “stone-washed” designer jeans, and $250 environment-friendly, organically made, super-tight trendy Armani shirts, which appear to be circa 1974. Forgive me for my high crimes of not joining in your pre-thirties yuppie-wannabe bullshit. Not my style.

The whole time I’m in this mubbly rappers club, I’m walking around ropes, opening private room doors, and all the types of things that you would expect would get you thrown out of a highfaluting club like the 40/40. I guess they were to busy mixing up $100 drinks for their sucker clientele.

I see a door labeled “Jay-Z’s Suite.” So naturally I barged in, saying “Jay-Z! Where are you!?” To my shock, and probably to the benefit of my face, which I’m sure the security guards would have broken, he was not there. Well damnit. I was really looking forward to telling him he sucks. I was going to ask him were he was going get his new lyrics, what with him having used all of Biggie’s already.

I stumbled around some more, and then ventured out onto the patio. There were a few people out there, and what appeared to be a bouncer. They all looked at me for a second, then went back to what I’m sure were very uninteresting, void of substance, conversations. They just kinda seemed like that kind of crowd. The type of idiot you could convince of just about anything if you said it enough times, and sounded sure enough. We all know these people. I call them ‘the overwhelming majority.’

Since there were no multi-millionaire rappers to harass, or free booze to drink, I decide to end my excursion. I could have waited, kind of like a bootleg stowaway, until Jay-Z, and his entourage, which I’m sure, is full of a bunch of real winners, showed up, but I decided against it. Mainly, because I didn’t think of it until the next day. Oh well, maybe next time I’ll get a chance to tell the mumbling mogul what I think. We can only hope.

So I’m leaving the final table at O’Sheas, the burger king casino, and I call my loser companions, which I just took out in the Poker Tournament thanks to my old friend, dumb luck. They tell me there havin a grand ole’ time at Bill’s casino. Another powerhouse on par with the MGM Grand, and Waffle House.

I walk in and find my group of equally as drunk friends blowing what little money they have on $5 blackjack. Great, I’ll join in on the retirement-ruining. So I sit my happy ass down and get a hold of some chips.

From the beginning, I attempt to befriend this Serb. I don’t know why, I hate everyone always. This turned out to be no exception. So he describes the stupid little blackjack protocol, and I get on my way to bankruptcy.

Now, to be fair, you might say I’m a little loud and obnoxious when I’m drunk. Just a tiny bit. Maybe Ted Kennedy has told me to take it down a notch, and maybe he hasn’t. That is not important. What is important, and hilarious, is, I ruined this guy’s day.

So after the first 15 reprimands for improperly asking for a hit he starts to get irritated. God forbid I say ‘hit’ apposed to swiping my card toward me to SIGNAL I want a hit. As we all know, the Western world would collapse, and parents would start eating their young. I honestly tried to remember. The problem was, I was drunk, and didn’t give a shit to begin with.

So then I take out my phone to text message and the surely Serb yells at me some more. It’s not as if I’m Bill Clinton text messaging nuclear secrets to the Chinese, I’m text messaging mean-spirited personal attacks to my friends. Gimme a break. But I get it, so I put the phone away. You’d think that make this very un-Serbian looking Serb happy. Not the case.

Apparently you can’t yell obscenities at the table either. Who knew. I thought I was in Vegas, not Putin’s Russia. Well this was the one that did it for me. Fuck this prick I thought. But being the clever, sarcastic asshole that I am, I thought of a better way to annoy this foreigner.

So instead of saying ‘fuck’ I said ‘f’in’. That doesn’t sound like it would be that irritating, but when you have a loud obnoxious liquor-drunk Italian from out of town on your hands, literally saying it every other word, it might get annoying. ‘Im gunna f’in hit” “Are you f’in playin this hand?” “What are we gunna f’in do after this f’in game?”

I thought it was funny. He did not. He really did not. He brushed his weak Serbian tears aside and told me “You think your funny, but I could get you kicked out right now.” “Are you f’in serious” was my reply. Oh no $5 blackjack dealer, don’t make me walk literally 10 feet to another table. What ever will I do?

Just about the time he was attempting to threaten me, the floor manager came over and handed me my players card, and thanked me for playing. I said “f’in thanks”, shot a big smile at my Serbian friend, and continued on my drunk, merry, unhindered way. Gotta love Vegas.

After spilling multiple drinks all over our blackjack table, and winning $90 out of complete dumb luck, we thought about calling it a night. Plus, I think the blackjack dealer would have stabbed me if I were not a paying customer. Regardless, I left Circus Circus $90 richer, with no knife wounds that I was aware of. So far, so good.

So we take our drunk asses, those of us that still have the superhuman ability to stand upright, to the cab area to make our way back to the New York New York. After a relatively short cab ride, and a almost vomit-inducing ride on the super-fast elevator, we were back at the rooms.

Two of my degenerate friends decide to go back out. Because apparently 15 hours of straight boozin’ and gambling is not enough. Hooray gluttony! Me personally, I figured I’d nurse my wounds, go to sleep, and start again tomorrow. So I went to sleep. It was pretty easy to fall asleep, what with me having been drunk since over 14 hours ago. Lets just say I was in need of a rest.

So there I am, in a near flat lining state of sleep, and I hear a loud knock at the door. Considering it was 4:30am, I assumed it wasn’t the illegal aliens attempting to clean my room. So I stumble out of my warm bed to see who was at the door. I half expected the police, or a group of people my irate, dumbass friends had enraged. Luckily, it was neither.

I opened the door to find a half-stupid, all-the-way-drunk, douche bag-looking frat guy with mardi-gras beads. He says “What’s up” and trys to walk in. I was half asleep so it through me off for a second, but then I asked him who the fuck he was.

He looked at me confused, as if it’s odd that I asked. After all, he was just trying to barge into my room. I said “Buddy, you have the wrong room.” He assured me he didn’t. By that I mean he mumbled something about he supposing to be there. “This is 1923 right?” Yes dummy, but this isn’t your room. “No, but im with Scotty…” “Well im with Ronald McDonald & Mary Poppins, but this isn’t your room.”

After about 5 minutes of him putting in more effort than he does at Hoboken Community College in order to convince me that this was his room, he came around to my way of thinking. With that, tweedle dumb went off, to what I can only assume was disturbing more rooms of strangers, and I went back to my jet lag-induced and liquor-aided sleep. God Bless America.