The Greatest Fart Ever Laid

Open Bar's recent post reminded me of a story.

My first job out of college was in the claims department at a big insurance company.

It was a terribly boring job that basically consisted of walking around and having VPs sign off on things. There was also this one guy who was a real dick to me on the staff.

Anyway, the job sucked and I lasted about three months before I quit but when I quit, I gave two weeks notice - which, by the way, were not the most productive two weeks of my life.

Toward the end of those two weeks, I was coming into work on a Friday after much beer drinking and winging out so I truly had a full tank of gas in me. I walked into the building and soon made my way to the elevator and was the last one to get in before the doors closed.

Now, I worked on something like the nineteenth floor and at about the tenth floor I could feel some percolation, by fifteen, I knew a fart was there and by seventeen I knew it was going to be silent but violent.

I held it just long enough.

Upon the hearing of the 'ding' of my arrival and the doors cracking open - I let it fly - a stealth, putrid stinging mix of beer, chicken wings and hot sauce. I stepped out of the elevator, took about two steps and turned around just in time to see that this elevator full of people had just been hit my noxious scent.

I smiled as I watched the pain and revulsion on their faces coupled with pure disdain in my direction.

The doors closed.

Happiness.

A quickie

This isn't really important, so don't feel the need to continue reading.

I'm at work, and I just ripped a tremendously loud, long fart at my desk. There's no way any of the seven women who sit nearby me could mistake that sound for anything but the non-SBD that it was.

Wow. Smelly, too.

The Six Best Albums You've Never Heard

I'm assuming you haven't heard these albums, but I may be wrong. Well, one of them i know Open Bar has heard and liked at one point, but the rest I'm assuming none of you have really ever listened to.

Digable Planets - Reachin' (A New Refutation Of Time And Space)

This is the one I know Open Bar at least has heard before. This is a groundbreaking rap album, in my opinion. It's an album I can listen to to this day over and over again. All the songs are good. It's rap music on top of jazz riffs, for the most part. It's the album that gave us this band's one hit that you know, "I'm cool like that, I'm cool like that, I'm cool like that, I'm cool like that." But that's not even the best song on the album. Fantasticosity abounding.

John Mayer - Room For Squares

Every single song on this album is great. Introspective singer/songwriter-ing at its best. The songs are about everything that's relevant to people around my age, including having a girlfriend in the city, discovering that "there's no such thing as a real world", having a "quarter life crisis", how life was better in 1983. The lyrics are great. And most of the songs are on the acoustic guitar, rather than the electric featured in his later albums. I listened once as Side Bar told me that John Mayer was wack, but he was wrong, and based on his argument he had clearly never listened to the album. This album is great. And when you listen to it, make sure you listen to the lyrics.

M.I.A. - Arular

I have talked about this album in the past. It is unlike anything you've ever heard before. I bought the album on the strength of one song, "Galang". While I was thinking about getting it I was reading the reviews and they said things like, "it will change the way you listen to music" and also like "it is definitely weird, but on the 5th time you listen to it, you will see the light." I thought, what the hell?, that one song is pretty good, I might as well try the album.

The first time I listened to it I just thought, "gee this is kinda weird". And then the second time you start to notice patterns and interesting phrasings in the basslines. On the third listen, my brain just about oozed out of my ears. Mind = blown. Please, do yourself a favor and get this album. And you have to listen to it at least 5 times before you give up on it.

Tracy Chapman - Tracy Chapman

Again, you gotta listen to the lyrics on this one. "Fast Car" is obviously great, but the whole album is really beautiful. Another great example of singer/songwriter-ing. Including one of the best love songs ever, "Baby Can I Hold You". It's slightly militant, but not overly so.

Amazingly, Tracy Chapman never really rocked the music world the way everyone thought she would when this album dropped (can an album of acoustic guitar songs by a lesbian singer/songwriter really "drop"?). Her and Fiona Apple should start a group called Potential Unrealized and go on tour. Alanis Morissette can open for them, but I don't know if she would meet the criteria for membership.

The Beach Boys - Pet Sounds

Around 1999, this was voted by some magazine who's name I forget but that was very well respected as the greatest rock album of all time. I don't think it is, but mainly because it's not really rock music. This album is fucking great. Brian Wilson is one of those tortured geniuses, and this album was completed essentially right before he snapped, which was clearly at the height of his genius. And for those Beatle fans out there, this album was one of the major influences on both Sgt. Peppers and The White Album.

Brian Wilson was essentially trying to get the sounds out of his head on onto tape, and he used anything that made noise in order to do it. Listen to the album and you'll hear harpsichords, that thing that makes those spooly ghost noises that I think is called a feremin, and even bike horns and things like that. And it goes without saying that "God Only Knows" is one of the greatest songs in the history of music, if not the best.

Claude Debussy - Debussy For Daydreaming

Claude Debussy was the first, and possibly only depending on who you talk to, impressionist composer (even though there's guys like Ravel who were disciples of his and use the odd chord combinations and things that he did, but weren't necessarily in the impressionist group). Think Monet writing a symphony. What he was trying to do was match his impressions of stuff in the world with his music. He's got a whole series of pieces like "Clouds" and "The Sea" and "Light of the Moon" that try to evoke the feeling of those particular things.

This particular album is of his more thoughtful, introspective, quiet type of works. If you need to get some work done, or if you just want to relax, throw this joint on and cool out. And "Claire de Lune", which you'll recognize from the end of Ocean's Eleven is one of the best pieces on there, but the others are great, too. I must admit I'm really a fan of Debussy and have a few albums of his music.

Shut Up, Shula

Is Don Shula kidding?

From espn.com, on the potential for the Patriots to 16-0, the first perfect season for an NFL team since the 1972 Dolphins, whom Shula coached:

"The Spygate thing has diminished what they've accomplished," Shula said in an interview with the New York Daily News. "You would hate to have that attached to your accomplishments. They've got it."

On the cash and draft pick penalty assessed against the Patriots as a result of the videotaping scandal:

"That tells you the seriousness or significance of what they found," Shula said, according to the Daily News. "I guess you got the same thing as putting an asterisk by Barry Bonds' home run record.

"I guess it will be noted that the Patriots were fined and a No. 1 draft choice was taken away during that year of accomplishment. The sad thing is Tom Brady looks so good, it doesn't look like he needs any help.

Barry Bonds? Come on. What a dick. First of all, let's all settle down about the undefeated thing. The Pats are 9-0 and look unstoppable, but other teams have looked good and not gone all the way. The Pats have the Steelers and (ahem) the G-Men ahead of them, both good teams that could pull off an upset (side note: if the Pats are 15-0 going into the last game of the season at the Medowlands, and the Giants need a win to get in the playoffs or to get a home game, Strahan and Umenyiora will be at 110%. What do you do if you are the Patriots? Start Brady and risk injury, or sit Brady and risk losing the shot at the perfect season? Using the "do whatever your opponent would be least happy with" theory, I think they would start Brady. But still).

TB: "How bad is it doc?" Dr.:"You'll be on crutches for 6-8 weeks, Mr. Brady, and rehab will be 3-4 months, but as long as Giselle is on top, you're fine in, er, that other department."

Beyond that, though, anyone who thinks the Patriots wouldn't have beaten the Jets without the videotaping isn't watching the NFL this year. Marko Jokic, Nikki Lamparelli and Ethan Pavone could beat the Jets even if they were playing Andy rules and you weren't allowed to tackle any of the Jets. But stealing signs in week 1 has tainted the Patriots' season. Come on.

Finally, the last time I checked, the 1972 Dolphins went 14-0, because the schedule had to expand to its present 16 games. If we really want to talk about asterisks, let's throw that in to the mix. Would the Dolphins have been able to keep it together for two more weeks? Beats me, but which is more unrealistic: the 2007 Patriots lose to the god-awful 2007 Jets in week 1 when everyone is fresh and no one is dealing with injuries, or the fish lose one of two games at the end of a season when everyone is tired and banged up (side note: I wasn't sure where to put this, but I just wanted to point out that the 2007 Patriots, through nine wins, have scored 355 points, only 30 points shy of the 385 points scored by the 1972 Dolphins in all 14 of their games combined. Also their team logo is super gay).

For my part, I like the way Patriots' OLB Mike Vrabel responded:

I think that we try to go out there and play hard every week. And I don't think that guys are going to draw on an old retired coach and old washed up players to pump us up. We play hard. We try to go out there and play hard. That's our job every week is to go out there and play hard. To play for our team, my teammates, my coaches, the respect factor, that's what I try to go out and play for, and I think everybody else on our team does the same thing.

In sum, Don Shula is whiny little bitch with a small penis whose sole remaining claim to fame is in jeopardy, and he can't handle it.

Side Bar: Pay Attention

Here's something you could've used a few months ago. Remember? After you falsely claimed that I put my "testicles" on your "shoulder," (which is codswallop [that's British for "horseshit!"], I would never!), you retaliated with your classic move -- attacking another man's balls. Which is SO against The Rules of Men. It's ridiculous no one has murdered you yet. But anyway, after you did that, remember what I did to you? LJT does -- he was there at the planning.



Okay, so if the other kids in these two pussies' school can't figure out what to do in the case of a foiled wedgie, then I must conclude it's one of those "special" schools. What about punching some tie-wearing 8-year-old in the face? What about shoving him into a locker, then closing it? What about pantsing the kid?

And you've gotta love the anchors' clear love of being able to discuss the underwear of 8-year-olds on live TV without that guy from NBC Dateline showing up at his house.

I'm already tired of this, and it's only gonna get worse

Have you heard? Joe Girardi chose the number 27 for his new job as manager of the yanks. He did this as a reminder that it's his job to win the franchise's 27th championship.

Ugh.

I'm absolutely positive this will be the most annoying thing I have to listen to over and over and over again for the next three years at least. Anytime I check the game on YES, I'm sure Michael Kay will mention it, no matter how infrequently I happen to click over during between-innings breaks on Mets games. If I happen to listen to 880 AM, John Sterling and Suzyn Waldman will argue over who mentions it more each game. And during any of the 37 times the yanks have the game of the week on Fox, Tim McCarver and Joe Buck will shove it down my throat as though someone just spotted a real, live unicorn each time they bring it up.

God, I already hate this. Can you think of anything else that will be repeated more than this piece of meaningless drivel? Should Willie Randolph change his number to 3? Better yet, I'd love if Terry Francona changed his number to 2, as in "The number of championships won by the Red Sox since the yanks last won one." Now that would be something bearable.

In conclusion, Let's Go Mets!

Things That Are Overrated: Saturday Night Live

I know, you're thinking, "Wait, Saturday Night Live has sucked since 1994. It's definitely not overrated. It just sucks." And that's true, but what I mean is that SNL is overrated by the people who work on it, especially Lorne Michaels, but also everyone else.

There was a time when SNL was the arbiter of comedy in America. There was a time when SNL was avant garde and walked the edge of right and wrong, truth and falsehood, and hysterical and vulgar. That time was 1979. Since about 1995 the show has sucked (with the Ferrell exception, of course), and I'll tell you why. First of all, the staff takes themselves way too seriously. If you've seen the like 60 minutes "a week in the life of SNL" piece, or the Iconoclasts show with Lorne Michaels and Paul Simon, or even if you've ever seen an episode of Studio 60, then you know what I mean. They still think that the shit they do is cutting edge. The last cutting edge skit they did was in 1970 something when Richard Pryor and Chevy Chase called each other racial slurs.

They think that the political skit they do at the front of the show is somehow changing the way Americans see the country. It's not. In fact most of the time there's about one laugh per 3 minutes in that opening sketch. If we're lucky, the first sketch of every show will be funny. If we're not, then the whole show sucks. I gotta give it up to my boy, Andy Samberg, who has been the funniest guy on the show for the last couple years. Those Digital Shorts are where their best material has come from over the past couple seasons. But if that doesn't hit, then you know the whole show is going down quickly.

Here's what I don't get. They take all week writing this show. They have a full staff or writers, a whole cast of performers, prodcuers and what not, and by and large the show sucks every week. I mean, these guys' job is to sit around and think of funny shit. Your whole job is to write a funny skit and, by and large, the majority of skits absolutely suck. How is this possible? You seriously can't just sit down and write a funny skit? If every writer wrote one actually funny skit per week, then the show would be hysterical. Instead, they churn out garbage. The show is nearly unwatchable after Weekend Update.

By the way, there is a separate writing staff for Update. As if Update is what's making people tune in to the show. As if Update is somehow the most important pice of the program. Guess what, Update sucks. Again in about 20 Update jokes, perhaps 3 are funny. That's a poor percentage. You're batting .150. And why do we have to watch those endless "opinion pieces" by the non-anchors. Only 1 in 10 of those is funny.

And you have to see the behind the scenes shit. They're standing there in front of the board with all the possible skits and what not deciding what should go where as if the fate of the world was resting on their shoulders and they're really just standing there trading garbage for garbage.

Those motherfuckers need far more structure. They need to work during the fucking daytime during the week. They need to submit a funny sketch per week, and they need to put on a show that will be entertaining for its entire run tme. If they can't write 90 minutes of funny shit, why don't they just cut the show down to an hour? At this point there's about 5 minutes of funny and 85 minutes of filler. They need to get rid of the guys who aren't funny right away. Perfect example, Horatio Sanz. That motherfucker was on the show for like 7 years. In those seven years he was never ever once funny. Not a single time. How is that possible?

The best episode of the last 10 seasons was last year's Christmas episode, with Justin Timberlake as host. They had funny skits all throughout that show. The Target lady was funny, the Cup O' Soup guy, the Barry Gibb Talk Show, the kids who danced in the cave ("You just got served, cave creature" and "Keep on dancin', Jo Jessica"), and who can forget Dick In A Box. It is beyond me why every episode can't be that funny.

And the bitch of it is that their cast right now is actually really good. Maya Rudolph, Amy Poehler, Andy Samberg, Fred Armisen, Kenan Thompson, Bill Hader, Jason Sudeikis, Kristen Wiig, all those guys are really funny. But they just don't make it work moset of the time. Watching SNL is like watching the Mets during September most of the time. You know that it should be funny, and you watch every time hoping that this time they'll realize their potential, but alas, they are mired in the muck, and there's just no hope.

I am confident that the reason this show sucks is because of Lorne Michaels. The way he runs the show is not conducive for bringing out the funny shit in people. The list of people who were on that show and did nothing and then left and blew the fuck up is astounding. Julia Louis Dreyfus sucked in her time there. Larry David, Larry fucking David, was a staff writer and never got a single skit on the air. Jay Mohr was in the cast for a season or two and sucked (yes Jay Mohr is goddamned hysterical otherwise, lest you were wondering). Chris Rock was never, ever funny on that show. Damon Wayans was in the cast for a season or two (did you even know that? Probably not.), and then he went on to do shit that was way funnier than SNL at the time on In Living Color. Sara Silverman was on the cast for a while (maybe she's an acquired taste, but I find her hilarious), did nothing. These people are funny. It's not a coincidence that the show kept them from being funny.

Their problem is that they're lazy. They put on one funny skit, and then they kill it with repeated skits in later shows. Or they'll put on a skit with a good premise that isn't completely written yet. Then what you get is about 20 seconds of funny and 3 minutes of "when is this going to end?". Let's take the two A-Holes as an example. The first time that skit was on, Christmas 2005, Jack Black hosting, it was hi-sterical. Since then it's been on like 4 or 5 more times. It's one premise that made one good skit, and then they brought them back again and again. The whole thing is really one joke. Once they did it once they had to bastardize it in order to get anything out of it. The whole, "you look like a rabbit" thing is funny, but then in order to make it work on the 4th time you actually have to have a picture of a rabbit hanging on the wall and Kristen Wiig saying that the picture of a rabbit looked like a rabbit. Not funny. Write a new sketch.

And stop taking yourselves so goddamned seriously. And be more funny.

A Cup of Joe

I really thought the Yankees were bitches about the Joe Torre situation.

Joe Torre managed the Yankees for twelve seasons, did one heck of a job, by all accounts. In twelve years, he made the playoffs twelve times, won four World Series, made the playoffs twelve times and his team finished first ten times. Of course he did have great players, but that's a pretty amazing run.

In George Steinbrenner's universe and in Yankee culture, though, the only way a team has a successful year, is to actually win the World Series. I mean, everyone says their goal is to win the Fall Classic in April, but most don't really believe they can. The Yankees mean it, that's the only thing that is acceptable and that's an amazingly high bar to set.

Torre hadn't made it over that bar in this century (2000 is still the 20th Century, dumbass) - unacceptable for his organization.

Now, the expectations are absurd, and it sounds like a really hard organization to work in, but it also has produced 26 World Series championships.

Anyway, that's the culture and I thought it was OK for them to fire him, but they didn't do it in the 'right' way - first Steinbrenner said he'd be fired if they lost during the playoffs, then they let him hang out there for a week, and then they gave him an offer he would refuse. (Yes, a lot of money, but the one-year thing isn't good. The bonuses for rounds won in the playoffs seems insulting, like the guy needed motivation or something).

I'm not sure if it was that they didn't have the nerve/heart to do it outright or they were trying to do some public relations posturing, but it would have been much better to say, "Joe, thanks, but we're going to make a change because we feel we need to shake things up."

After millions of dollars and twelve years and all those wins, you don't owe him a job, but you do owe him a bit of respect, and their lack of it was poor form.

Sixty-Niiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnne!

This costume rules. I especially love how many times it got Favorite-d.


You've really gotta hand it to college kids. They're able to capture so much of the public imagination. I'm surprised there isn't a hole cut out by his unit saying "Breathalyzer" or something. But seriously, I hope this guy got laid, because it's the best Halloween costume I saw this year. And that "69" joke -- priceless, ageless, timeless. I particularly love the bottom comment, which is hard to read here (but easier at this much more high-quality pic), which is your classic web-cam slut promoting her shit via spam. God bless Web 2.0!!!

You know what's fuckin' awesome? America. Part III.b

Before you read, please be sure to check out the first part. Cheers!

(So where were we? Oh yeah, that dumbass bitch who had been flirting with me for a few hours was just about to kiss me when she decided to say she was married. Argh. And women wonder why men are assholes.)

So I get back to the bar where H-Squared is chatting it up with that Elisa chick and (fucking married) Amanda. I’m a bit miffed at what just transpired outside the bathroom, but I’m a gentleman, so I’m sure to do nothing but be polite and what have you. Because “being a gentleman” in this case means “being a pussy.”

Before long, the two young ladies head upstairs to retire (without fucking us) for the evening. And by evening, I mean it’s about 9:30 a.m. Vegas, baby. (And fuck anyone who actually uses the phrase “Vegas, baby” in Vegas. Dude, lame.) (Parentheses!)

H-Squared and I finish both our beers and the girls’, who didn’t even have the courtesy to finish theirs. Sluts. We are forced to decide to head up to bed.

When we get to the room, we do that thing where you fall asleep before you hit the pillow. Yeah, we’re tired an’ shit. But in the midst of my slumber, I’m awoken quite brutally by H-Squared screaming, “WE GOTTA GET UP!”

I struggle to gather my thoughts (I was having a wet dream!). “Angelina….?” I ask.

“Dude, we’re in Vegas, let’s go. Buffet time. Then we’re going to the Stratosphere.”

Those are three excellent points, so I get up. We are, in fact, in Las Vegas, where I have never been before. The casino has a breakfast buffet that ends at 11:30 a.m. (I look at the clock—11:12.). And the Stratosphere, from what I’ve heard, is supposed to be this awesome ride where you go to the top floor of some casino, and there’s a ride on the roof that brings you way up really friggin’ high at some kinda super-fast speed, then drops you back down just as fast.

In any event, it’s time to get up.

"I just want to make sure that we can hit the Strip today," I say as I brush my teeth. "I wanna walk it at some point, I've never done that." I don't think H-Squared even hears me.

"Fine, whatever," I hear him say. He's been to Vegas before, he doesn't need to walk that walk again.

Though we both look worse than a Hunter S. Thompson hangover, we throw on some clothes and head downstairs to the $8.95 breakfast buffet. Which is awesome. First of all, the girl who seats us looks like Angelina Jolie. And by that I mean her lips look like Angelina Jolie’s lips. The rest of her…eh? But those lips!

I get my plate and fill up on some sausage, bacon, eggs, and toast. But I am totally outclassed by H-Squared, who has gotten all that and more: a three-egg omelette, hash browns, a bagel, and some kind of cake-type thing. He finishes all of it before I’ve even touched my toast. Anyway, all this food talk isn’t very interesting.

But what is interesting is that the Palms has this pretty amazing pool setup. Though H-Squared and I have no desire whatsoever to go swimming, we head over toward the pool. We have been indoors now for the last however-many hours, and I’m quite used to the dark-casino lighting. But when we take our first step outside in the noon-time sun, HOLYFUCKINGSHIT is it bright. The kind of bright that literally stings to the point that your eyes tear up like you’re cutting an onion that should’ve been in the X-Men. Fortunately, I’m wearing sunglasses. Because I’m cool, baby.

After collecting myself, I begin to take in what is around me: This is your classic Las Vegas pool scene, full of incredibly hot chicks in bikinis tanning as three or four roid-raging orange-tanned guys in big-ass sunglasses glower over them. It’s not even like anyone’s putting any moves on the girls; rather, the guys seem more intent on intimidating the poor cabana boys who bring them their dumbass drinks—Coors Lights all.

Aside from that bullshit, man oh man, is it cool. Coming out of the dark, dank casino, it’s a huge exhale to be outside and in natural light again. But fuck, I don’t really want a drink, do I? I still feel like a rhino raped me, then shit in my mouth. But yes, I do want a drink. That will make it all go away. I go to the bar and ask for the drink that just rings right in this pseudo-beach circumstance—a margarita.

H-Squared gets one as well, and we lean up against a fake palm tree. For the first time since we exited the casino, we can relax. Our stomachs are full, we’re sipping margaritas, farting a lot (but it’s outdoors), and looking at all the scantily clad ladies doing their scantily-clad-lady thing. All is well. Ahhh…

And who’s that? Goliath and our buddies are over at the other bar! Boss! We amble on down the walkway, passing by Jessica Alba making out with Beyonce.

I'm totally lying about that!

And before we know it, we’re all hanging out together outside some sort of grilling setup (mmm…hamburgers…) recapping the previous night. Blah blah blah, then H-Squared and I leave.

It’s time for the Stratosphere. I’m pretty psyched about this thing, so we hop in a cab. (Which takes way longer to get there than I’m used to. It’s like 4 miles away. I might as well be going to Brooklyn or some other God-forsaken borough.)

When we finally get there, delirium is definitely sinking in. This is a good thing. We had been drinking all night, barely slept, then started drinking again. Excellent. (If you’ve done this, then you know how it feels.)

When the cabbie tells us we’re at the right place (I hope he’s an honest man), we struggle for a few minutes as we try to figure out where the hell to go. Oh, the casino! Let’s go inside of it! We walk around awhile cluelessly, but somehow luckily find ourselves in the line to purchase tickets to the Stratosphere. When we get to the booth, my deliriousness is in high gear. As I purchase the tickets, I start flirting with the lady. “Fifteen bucks? But don’t I get the good-looking discount?” I smile at her. She smiles back and says no. It’s almost as if she’s heard something like that before. Weird. “But I am pretty handsome, right?” Smile. Smile. Wink.

She chuckles a little to herself as she hands me our tickets. I chuckle back at her, and she points toward where we’re supposed to go. I know it sounds like I’m being an asshole, but really, it’s charming. I’m not normally like this. For some reason—the delirium, I’ll bet—I’m on. Whatever I say right now, works. That woman in the ticket booth? She loved me. I can bang any chick in this whole city if I want.

So rather than do that, we head over toward the escalator that takes us up to an elevator, which we then ride up about a million floors before we can get off. (Seriously, no pun intended whatsoever.) Upon exiting, there is a gift shop to the right and a “scenic view” type thing to the left. We go into the gift shop, since apparently that’s where you have to go to get to the ride. (Shocking, in Las Vegas, they would make you walk through a gift shop just to get to the place you already paid to go, huh?)

So then we have to take another elevator up to the ride, which we do. Then, after the doors open, it’s another floor with a gift shop and scenic view. Where the hell is this friggin’ ride already? We walk around the floor, which, of course, has no signs directing us to the ride. I don’t even bother looking at the (amazing) view out the windows. (Keep in mind, we’re on the top floor of some casino, with a 360-degree view of the city.) We eventually find an official-looking person. “Where do we go?” I ask.

“Oh, take that elevator there,” he says.

“We just took that elevator, and it brought us here.”

“No, you took that elevator,” he says. The two elevators are adjacent. Prick.

We take the newly-recommended elevator (which has an attendant) and finally find ourselves on top of the building. I can tell because it’s outdoors now and therefore feels different from indoors. Finally, I can see a sign that says “Stratosphere,” so we head in that direction.

Some guy checks our tickets and directs us to the ride. He straps us in, just like a roller-coaster, except it doesn’t look like any roller-coaster I’ve ever been on. I look up, hoping that this thing is gonna shoot me up some 100 feet or something, but that isn’t the case. It’s only about 25 feet or so. But still, there’s another factor.

I look around and, yes, I can see all of Las Vegas before me. We are very high up on top of a building, and this machine is going to take us up even farther. That much is undeniable, and very cool.

We’re strapped in, sitting side-by-side in a semicircle around this machine which sits on the top floor of a building that is very tall. Not New York-skyscraper tall, but then, there aren’t any other skyscrapers around, are there—

WHOOOOOOOOOSH!!!!!!!

We shoot straight up and suddenly I can see something blurry, then the city, then the whole fucking desert. We pause there, suspended for a moment as I look out upon the gorgeous view of everything around, then come down. Then, WHOOSH back up again, then back down.

After a few up-and-downs, we get back to where we started. I take off my restraints and walk away from the ride.

“What’d you think?” asks H-Squared

“Eh, can we go walk the Strip now?” I’m a little disappointed. I had heard some great things about this ride. I was hoping for some proper exhilaration. I can tell H-Squared is a bit disappointed too. He and I are big roller-coaster aficionados, after all. (Little did we know that we would soon encounter the greatest roller-coaster ever made soon after.)

We head downstairs, and try to leave, but goddammit, this place is still a fucking maze that won’t let you leave. We go from elevator to gift shop to elevator to scenic view to gift shop to elevator about 73 times before we finally find the right combination. It’s like that board in Legend of Zelda (the Lost Woods) where if you don’t go North-West-South-West, you just keep seeing the same shit over and over again.

Finally, we find the down elevator, get off, and take another escalator. At this point, I’m telling all the people heading up on the other side to NOT GO BY ANY MEANS, IT SUCKS. I don’t think the casino people like me very much.

So we go to the bar. Thankfully, it seems like a regular bar. A regular Vegas bar, meaning there are touch-screen video-gambling machines embedded in the bar, but whatever. There’s liquor on the shelf, and that’s all that matters, right?

“What do you want?” I ask H-Squared. He hesitates, and a plan forms in my mind. (Something you must know about H-Squared and me is that we used to watch this show called Ed, and on that show if one of the two main guys bet the other 10 bucks to do something, he had to do it. No excuses. H-Squared and I do this to each other, and we take it very seriously.) “Maybe a beer,” he says.

“I’ll have a Dewar’s on the rocks,” I say.

H-Squared approaches the bar, and just before the bartender comes over, I say, “10 bucks if you order yourself a Harvey Wallbanger.”

I don’t know about you, but I have absolutely no idea what goes in a Harvey Wallbanger. I can barely remember where I’ve even heard the term. But I’ve worked the bar in New York and other places, and I’ve never heard anyone order one. The bartender comes over.

“Oh, hey, I’ll have a Dewar’s rocks and a Harvey Wallbanger,” H-Squared says, keeping a straight face.

The bartender doesn’t even fuckin' flinch. He pours the Dewar’s and hands it to me. He grabs a highball glass, fills it with ice, pours some house vodka and O.J. into it, then walks away. He walks down and grabs the bottle of Galliano, comes back, and tops it off. He pours the drink into a shaker, shakes it, then pours it back into the glass, and hands it to H-Squared.

Galliano. That long-ass bottle of yellowish shit you see from time to time in bars that never, EVER gets used.

“Thirteen-fifty,” he says, and H-Squared pays him.

We both turn and head to a table, where I hand H-Squared a ten-dollar bill. I’m still in shock that the bartender wasn’t in shock hearing such a shocking request. Fucking Vegas, I guess. They’ve heard it all.

As I drink my Scotch and H-Squared discovers his love for a new drink (okay, me too, I was taking swigs), we discuss a few things.

1. The Stratosphere is a fucking rip-off.
2. How cool is the Mayweather-De La Hoya fight gonna be tomorrow night?
3. The Kentucky Derby is tomorrow, we need to get me a fucking Fedora somewhere.
4. Remember those chicks from last night? That was cool. Up until I found out that whore was married. Who does that? Fuck her.
   
5. Tonight, we're going to Pure, the most exclusive club in Vegas. That should be fun.
6. Wait, we're going to Pure?
   
7. But before then, there's something I want to do.
   

And we leave. As we exit, I ask where the hell we are. "We're on the Strip, but we're pretty fuckin' far away from The Palms," H-Squared says.

"Well, we could just just walk down the Strip, right?" I suggest.

"Absolutely."

After all, who knows what kind of trouble we might get into?

(To be continued...)