Dirty Vegas

This weekend past is swiftly fading into a hazy blur of tinted sunglasses at all times of the night, gratuitous bluetooths (blueteeth?), and urban lifestyle streetwear like Ecko, Sean John, and Phat Farm, and neon green, leopard, or hot pink lycra (lots of it) for the ladies.

I was in Vegas. At All-Star. Cursing my very being for submitting myself to this sort of desert venue of urban punishment just because I really had nothing else to do. Also, so I could write this blog, pretty much.

In the past 3 years, I've attended All-Stars in Denver, Houston, and now, the crowning jewel of Las Vegas. Some stuff pretty much stayed the same:

* The event is still a perfectly pH balance of the Essence Music Festival, the now defunct Freaknic, the Superbowl, and the Slauson Swap Meet all fucked up on blunts and, of course, Lil' Jon's Crunk Juice.

* The event still draws the likes of white girl groupies (with whom I had much one-on-one interaction), super tall black guy basketball player poseurs, aspiring baby mamas, and . . . Miss Hershey McJones (for some terrible, wholly incomprehensive sadistic reason.)

* And Las Vegas, true to form, still is the undisputed title holder of "City Where You Will Undoubted Spend Hours On End Wandering Around Aimlessly in Heels For Some Fucking Dumbass Reason."

And I, true to form, will set forth to mercilessly document the countless demerits and merit (notice how there is only ONE SINGLE MERIT) of the past 36 hours. Cause, basically it's what I fucking do:

A. All Star Casualities: These are the unfortunate souls that, like the Donner Party, didn't quite reach The Promised Land. This is the quartet of gentlemen who made sure that the candy paint on their Chevy Impala gleamed in the sunlight, made sure that their white tees remained crisp and fresh and that the spinners on the ride were well-oiled and shiny.However, they failed to ensure that there was enough oil in the engine resulting in a breakdown on the I-15.
And let's not forget the Persian Mafia, cuffed and detained on the side of the road after caught in some illicit desert drug trafficking. Or the motherfuckers in the Uhaul that ran out of gas.

B. Borrowed luxury - Mercedes coupes. Hummers. Bentleys and Roll Royces dotted the Interstate . . . in all of their rented glory. I completely understand that impressing the "quality" ladies that All-Star attracts is key. But I don't understand the unnecessary worry a rented vehicle, that costs more than a house, can bring.

Am I returning the car with more than 3/4 gas in the tank? Should I have purchased the renters' insurance? Will they notice the holes punctured in the roof from the clear heels that ho Tamika was wearing as a result of an All-Star gang bang in the parking structure at the Wynn?

C. Inappropriate attire and accessories - I saw gratuitious ass. I saw gratuitous tittes. I think I even saw uterus.

Ladies, the is not okay. And really, you're hurting my feelings . . .and my eyes.

. . . But really, not everything in the weekend sucked all that much, I did get a contact high walking through the casino, I did have fun with Brianne, I did walk directly into Diddy's party at JET without passing go or collecting $200 . . .

But then . . . I walked directly out. Leading me to this -

D. Insane club access - Word to the motherfucking wise, DO NOT EVER LEAVE A LAS VEGAS NIGHTCLUB UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES BECAUSE YOU WILL NEVER, EVER, EVER GET BACK IN. EVER.

Making this grave mistake will inevitably lead you learning exactly why Vegas holds the CWYWUSHOEWAAIHFSFDR* title. This place is bananas.

E. REMOVED FOR EDITS. I'd really like to tell everyone this part but my lawyers advise that it would be unwise.

F. I. SAW. MICHAEL. JACKSON. - When celebrity spotting people, especially Black dudes, adopt the whole "I'm too cool to look and shit" and will catch quick glimpses out of their perifery. This happened in Vegas when Queen Latifah, Dre Bly, Allen Iverson, and Jadakiss were all in close proximity.

Michael Jackson is an entirely different story. His quick sprint from his black SUV to the Wynne caused a small riot in which dudes wearing sunglasses and bluetooths screamed "Hey it's MICHAEL JACKSON!!!" waving their arms and looking close to fainting dead away like white surburban chicks did when they saw the Beatles back in the day.

Michael also made passed out drunks, namely me, spring to attention and become enraptured in his majestic majesticness and tight black pants. It was like the Jackson Five video (only the were now referred to as The Jacksons because of some vicious legal battle with Motown) "Can You Feel It" when the guys were like happy giants sprinkling fairy dust on everyone to joyous song.
Yeah, it was kinda like that.

G. All Star vs. Chinese New Year - I'm all for the racial diversity of blacks and asians all descending on Sin City to simulataneously celebrate basketball and a New Year. However, I'm a bit wary about exposing small Asian children to contact highs, acrylic pedicures, Louis Vuitton Air Force Ones and parking lot pimping. That can't be good, right?

H. Fearing for my safety and virtue certainly wasn't pleasant. As an incredibly attractive female walking to and fro, I made sure to keep my head down and walk fast to avoid any inadvertent eye contact with the riff-raff.

However, trapped in a crowded elevator I was forced to engage in "conversation" about the pluses of traveling to Vegas by plane with a man named Pootie from Houston.

Pootie. From Houston. I had to TALK to him. Or he would have raped or shivved me, I'm sure.

Footnotes:
- City Where You Will Undoubted Spend Hours On End Wandering Around Aimlessly in Heels For Some Fucking Dumbass Reason.