Monday, April 16, 2007
Doubling-Down on Red (Bull)
By SG2.0
As painful and embarrassing as this is to admit, this past weekend was SG2.0's first trip to the wonderfully wild world of Las Vegas, Nevada.
Of course I have my excuses for not having gone before.
For one, I lived on the East Coast for the first 24 years of my life.
Secondly, my bank account rarely made it's way into the three digit range for the first 24 years of my life.
Thirdly, I knew that I would drink enough Red Bull and Vodka's over the course of one weekend to kill a baby cow.
(No word yet on how baby cows get access to Red Bull and/or Vodka)
Now, I've been known to place a wager or two, or three, in my lifetime. And I've lost some chump change here and there.
But after watching some of the glorious pieces of trash that nestle up to various black jack and roulette tables in the gambling capital of the world the past few days, I won't really feel so bad the next time I finish dead last in my fantasy baseball league after losing a measly $10.
Most of the guys I speak of straight up reek of near-dead hookers and feet.
They parade around in 25-year-old blue leisure suits and model their mustaches and hair as if they were trying to emulate what Sanjaya will look like in the year 2029.
And yet somehow these guys, that look one missed shower away from living out of a card-board box, can pony up three to four thousand dollars at the drop of a hat.
Where did I go wrong in life?!
Who knew the secret to becoming wealthy is looking somewhat like former WWF manager Harvey Whippleman?
But hey, I guess you already know that Vegas is filled to the brim with sleaze.
Instead I would like to officially announce that I can no longer drink alcohol.
My typical Saturday hangover used to be resolved simply by washing my mouth out with Listerine approximately10,000 times and fighting off the urge to gag while I stuffed my face with UConn’s finest clam chowder and attempted to forget about what the “slightly overweight” girl from the night before tasted like.
God I miss college.
Nonetheless headaches and lack of energy were not included in this deadly deal.
And now my typical Saturday hangover is not resolved whatsoever.
Instead it lasts all day and all night and I proceed to freak out everyone that I come in contact with.
Whenever my buddy “Spring Chicken” took one look at me he would simply repeat the infamous Family Guy line, “Men be acting all like Zombie’s at the mall.”
Did it make sense other than the zombie reference? No.
But it served it’s purpose. I WAS acting like a zombie and, quite frankly, I felt like one.
On Saturday night I was so fatigued that I couldn’t even appreciate the fact that I was standing just a block away from the site of the worst WrestleMania of all time.
(That would be WM IX at Caesar’s Palace for those of you that are interested. Any event that features Doink the Clown versus Kona Crush in a prominent match is one that I choose to forget, thank you very much).
My Vegas partners and I had arrived that Friday night (the 13th as luck would have it) at approximately 11 p.m. and didn’t go to bed until approximately 7:30 a.m. on Saturday morning.
It was obviously a good night, in which I drank enough Red Bull and Vodka’s to kill a baby sea lion and smoked more cigarettes than I had in the past decade.
(No word yet on how baby sea lions get access to Red Bull and/or Vodka).
But with that said, it was no excuse for my pathetic performance the next day.
And now’s about the time where Simmons would say something witty like, “Vegas baby, Vegas.”
For now I’ll refrain.
Got a question, comment or mailbag question for SG2.0? E-Mail him at: Sportsguy2.0@hotmail.com
By SG2.0
As painful and embarrassing as this is to admit, this past weekend was SG2.0's first trip to the wonderfully wild world of Las Vegas, Nevada.
Of course I have my excuses for not having gone before.
For one, I lived on the East Coast for the first 24 years of my life.
Secondly, my bank account rarely made it's way into the three digit range for the first 24 years of my life.
Thirdly, I knew that I would drink enough Red Bull and Vodka's over the course of one weekend to kill a baby cow.
(No word yet on how baby cows get access to Red Bull and/or Vodka)
Now, I've been known to place a wager or two, or three, in my lifetime. And I've lost some chump change here and there.
But after watching some of the glorious pieces of trash that nestle up to various black jack and roulette tables in the gambling capital of the world the past few days, I won't really feel so bad the next time I finish dead last in my fantasy baseball league after losing a measly $10.
Most of the guys I speak of straight up reek of near-dead hookers and feet.
They parade around in 25-year-old blue leisure suits and model their mustaches and hair as if they were trying to emulate what Sanjaya will look like in the year 2029.
And yet somehow these guys, that look one missed shower away from living out of a card-board box, can pony up three to four thousand dollars at the drop of a hat.
Where did I go wrong in life?!
Who knew the secret to becoming wealthy is looking somewhat like former WWF manager Harvey Whippleman?
But hey, I guess you already know that Vegas is filled to the brim with sleaze.
Instead I would like to officially announce that I can no longer drink alcohol.
My typical Saturday hangover used to be resolved simply by washing my mouth out with Listerine approximately10,000 times and fighting off the urge to gag while I stuffed my face with UConn’s finest clam chowder and attempted to forget about what the “slightly overweight” girl from the night before tasted like.
God I miss college.
Nonetheless headaches and lack of energy were not included in this deadly deal.
And now my typical Saturday hangover is not resolved whatsoever.
Instead it lasts all day and all night and I proceed to freak out everyone that I come in contact with.
Whenever my buddy “Spring Chicken” took one look at me he would simply repeat the infamous Family Guy line, “Men be acting all like Zombie’s at the mall.”
Did it make sense other than the zombie reference? No.
But it served it’s purpose. I WAS acting like a zombie and, quite frankly, I felt like one.
On Saturday night I was so fatigued that I couldn’t even appreciate the fact that I was standing just a block away from the site of the worst WrestleMania of all time.
(That would be WM IX at Caesar’s Palace for those of you that are interested. Any event that features Doink the Clown versus Kona Crush in a prominent match is one that I choose to forget, thank you very much).
My Vegas partners and I had arrived that Friday night (the 13th as luck would have it) at approximately 11 p.m. and didn’t go to bed until approximately 7:30 a.m. on Saturday morning.
It was obviously a good night, in which I drank enough Red Bull and Vodka’s to kill a baby sea lion and smoked more cigarettes than I had in the past decade.
(No word yet on how baby sea lions get access to Red Bull and/or Vodka).
But with that said, it was no excuse for my pathetic performance the next day.
And now’s about the time where Simmons would say something witty like, “Vegas baby, Vegas.”
For now I’ll refrain.
Got a question, comment or mailbag question for SG2.0? E-Mail him at: Sportsguy2.0@hotmail.com
Labels: SG2.0 in Vegas
