Here's to Jennifer, the best Maid of Honor a girl could ask for
In order to preserve the, perhaps, most important saying on earth ("What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas) I won't go telling all the tales to you, oh readers, who no doubt view me as very angelic and very pure, but I shall tell you a few things.
If a man is going to shave his body hair, he should give it a touch up before he, oh, say, asks someone to rub his chest. With ice.
The Venetian hotel does indeed look just like Venice, complete with Gondolas, fat Americans, and tourists taking pictures of absolute crap like pastries through the counter glass. "Here's us gambling! Here's a picture with an Elvis impersonator. Here's a raspberry pastry that I didn't buy but I'll be damned if I wasn't gonna keep it in my memory somehow!"
When you are in a hip club, one that your friends paid tons of money to get you into, and you have a table with nice liquor, and you've even been escorted down a special elevator by the VIP contacts and there's candlelight and a kickass waterfall outside, a couple excellent things to do are 1) place "worst pickup line" and "best biceps" stickers on strange men and also ask them if you can have their underwear, please, "I need it..." and 2) have one of the party attempt standing on the table covered in expensive glassware to send it all crashing to the floor, then apologize for like four hours to some European dude who doesn't work there, but hey, we were drunk, we didn't know.
Sitting in a spa (after a morning at the pool where everyone is drinking margaritas and bloody marys and is just so, so happy) in nice white robes after getting rubbed down in papaya scrub, lounging in the whirlpool with cucumbers over your eyes, and detoxing (before retoxing) in the steam room, coupled with memories of a night riding around in a limo drinking champagne with ten of your best friends is the greatest way to spend an afternoon ever.
Yesterday I awoke to dim light creeping through the drawn curtains of our suite in the Mirage next to my sleeping friend Abby, rolled over, felt something odd crinkling down in the nether regions, and pulled a crumpled dollar bill out of my underwear.
GUESS WHO'S READY TO GET MARRIED???
If a man is going to shave his body hair, he should give it a touch up before he, oh, say, asks someone to rub his chest. With ice.
The Venetian hotel does indeed look just like Venice, complete with Gondolas, fat Americans, and tourists taking pictures of absolute crap like pastries through the counter glass. "Here's us gambling! Here's a picture with an Elvis impersonator. Here's a raspberry pastry that I didn't buy but I'll be damned if I wasn't gonna keep it in my memory somehow!"
When you are in a hip club, one that your friends paid tons of money to get you into, and you have a table with nice liquor, and you've even been escorted down a special elevator by the VIP contacts and there's candlelight and a kickass waterfall outside, a couple excellent things to do are 1) place "worst pickup line" and "best biceps" stickers on strange men and also ask them if you can have their underwear, please, "I need it..." and 2) have one of the party attempt standing on the table covered in expensive glassware to send it all crashing to the floor, then apologize for like four hours to some European dude who doesn't work there, but hey, we were drunk, we didn't know.
Sitting in a spa (after a morning at the pool where everyone is drinking margaritas and bloody marys and is just so, so happy) in nice white robes after getting rubbed down in papaya scrub, lounging in the whirlpool with cucumbers over your eyes, and detoxing (before retoxing) in the steam room, coupled with memories of a night riding around in a limo drinking champagne with ten of your best friends is the greatest way to spend an afternoon ever.
Yesterday I awoke to dim light creeping through the drawn curtains of our suite in the Mirage next to my sleeping friend Abby, rolled over, felt something odd crinkling down in the nether regions, and pulled a crumpled dollar bill out of my underwear.
GUESS WHO'S READY TO GET MARRIED???
posted by Cara Maria McDonough at 7:37 AM
2 Comments:
Cara - You are not supposed to know what the inside of the Venetian looks like you darn non-union visiting skank! Love, Ann
OK, that was funny.
Glad you had a good time. I don't go there nearly as much as I should.
e
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