The things is, Birds, when life gives you flamingos, you feed them shrimp . . .
And when life serves you a healthy helping of young people, both foreign and domestic- and you happen to live in Southern California, you head to Vegas for New Year’s Eve and promptly get them drunk.
Because just as the all-shrimp-diet keeps our fellow avian friends pink, alcohol generally propels the best parts of us- the youthful, merry-happy shit-shows we aspire to be- to the surface.
And merry-happy shit-shows we were. For a weekend, at least. (Perhaps emphasis on shit-show?)
Tina, my dear friend from Bensheim, Germany happens to be living in San Clemente, California for a year. Seeing as I hadn’t been down to see her yet since her October arrival upon the fake-breasted shores of Orange County, I invited her to come with me to Las Vegas for New Year’s Eve.
As you’ll all recall, my bestfrannnnn Nohea moved to Vegas in October. Naturally, us three little birdies, plus the addition of my cousin, Jordan, went out on New Years . . .
Naturally, because Vegas experiences are always rife with cliches and debauchery, the first night- the night before New Years- we don’t remember much and the second night, three out of four little birdies drank too much while engaging in duplicitous activities.
When the countdown rang out and the fireworks began spouting from the tops of hotels across the strip, Nohea was vomiting her brains out in the Bellagio; a completely hammered Jordan and Tina were backstage at the Guns N’ Roses concert.
Eventually, Nohea and I made it outside, into the throngs of drunks, to take a picture with the fireworks in the background.
(We’re wearing hats some nice man gave us. And no, it wasn’t the guy with the pancake-shaped head who gave them to us. More on friends’ beer goggles later. LOL.)
Then we, as all drunks do, sought food and heated shelter. Chili Cheese Fries? Yesssss please.
Somehow, through massive communication failures (i.e. dead cell batteries), I wound up at the GNR after party without Tina and Jordan. Nohea was bitterly not-sleeping in the car while waiting for four hours for me to return. (So she could take a shit, of course.)
Eventually, at around 7 AM, after dropping Nohea off at home, I finally found Tina and Jordan inside the Flamingo, on the strip, far, far from the Hard Rock, near the ever-elusive Fire Pit. (Don’t ask about the Fire Pit. Trust me, even if we told you, you’d never be able to find it. LOL.)
On the way home, we drove past a cool dude in an ugly plaid hat while getting on the freeway. He was holding a piece of cardboard that read “San Diego.”
Naturally, due to one of the few un-crappy Will Ferrell movies in existence, “Anchor Man,” I immediately thought of whale vagina.
That was enough, I guess.
I turned to Tina while merging on to the freeway and asked, “Should we pick that guy up? San Diego isn’t really that much farther than San Clemente?”
Tina, worn out and exhausted, hastily replied: “I think I’ve had enough adventure for the weekend.”
So I got off the freeway, and we scooped up Vuk, our hitchhiker from Croatia . . . Duh.
Away we went. (Insert Vrrrrrrooooom, vroooooom noises, please.)
There was a brief interlude, because I felt it necessary to introduce both Vuk and Tina to In N Out for the first time. (Yesssss!) I’m proud to say that Tina’s first burger there was a double-double animal style!
We dropped off Tina in San Clemente, with her very nice, very conservative, very Christian roommates.
We drove the extra 60 miles to drop off Vuk, who turned out to be a legit dude who loves his politics and his pot. (Yay for good karma and new friends in the New Year.)
Then I dropped Jordan off.
And finally, I made it home.
A-fucking-men, right Birds? A-fucking-men. First thing I did was hit the shower. (Because we got home after 7 o’clock in the morning, I only had time to sleep, not shower.) Ewwwwwww, the filth that ran off my skin turned the water black for a solid 30 seconds. Not joking.
Now here’s a slideshow, so you can laugh a bit more at our expense.
And so you can see, Pretty Birds, for a little while there, we really were “filthy little biscuits” in Vegas.
