“Vegas baby, Vegas!”
Translation: “I’m a fucking tourist.”
The first thing you’ll do to out yourself as one will be to pick up a yardstick of pina colada, walk down to the Bellagio in your snapback and Ultimate American tank and take photos in front of the fountain. All of which we did.
“There’s a $25 dollar a night room charge at check-in.”
Translation: “We love taking your money so much.”
You might as well just stay in that bent over position, this town won’t stop running train on you until you’ve lifted off from McCarran Monday afternoon. But you knew that already.
“The buffet is complimentary.”
Translation: “The diarrhea is complimentary.”
Three gigantic dudes just reeking of sweat and booze in a double queen at Treasure Island. It doesn’t get classier than that. A smoking room plus buffet farts is the equivalent to the tear gas they use overseas.
“The line starts back there.”
Translation: “Move out of the way fellas and let the ladies through.”
This pretty much applies to any nightclub or bar in the country, but in no place is it more apparent than Nevada. I’d be better off becoming a tranny hooker – at least there’d be no cover charge.
“Sir, are you betting?”
Translation: “Get your broke ass away from my table.”
Bros, know your casino etiquette before you show up to Caesars on Friday night piss drunk wanting “Someone to teach me how to play craps!” Remember: money on the table, no cell phones, when you lose you move.
“Here’s your drink.”
Translation: “Here’s your two parts Red Bull, no parts vodka.”
While it is true that you’re served free drinks while you gamble, the alcohol content in them is as suspect as it was at the campus bar that closed down freshman year due to them serving minors. You’re better off picking up a bottle of liquor at the airport or a case of beer at Walgreens and stuffing it into your mini fridge.
Translation: “I’m married.”
Or I’m a hooker. Either way, it’s Vegas!
“You guys want some cocaine?”
Translation: “You guys want to find out if I’m a cop?”
You didn’t plop down four hundred bucks (two if you flew Spirit airlines) to spend the weekend in a Vegas holding cell did you? You’re better off scoring illegal drugs off the French guy you meet in the men’s room at the Avicii concert. Unless he asks you to blow him. Unless that’s what you came to Vegas for – blowing French guys in mensrooms.
“Where are you from? I loovvvvee Chicago.”
Translation: “Prepare to be dry-humped for an hour while I take every dollar from your wallet.”
Spend an hour in any strip club off the Strip and you’ll hear these exact two sentences a hundred times. Does it need to be said that they hate your existence and will do everything in their power to empty your pockets? It does? Wait hold on you guys I’m still coming.
Translation: “I just woke up.”/“I just checked my account balance at the ATM.”/“That girl from last night was definitely not a girl.”
Unless you’re starring in a casino heist film or the son of an Armenian drug king, by day #3 the depression starts to kick in for everyone. At the beginning of the trip you’ll promise not to let it happen because by you’ll be “up so big.” In reality, you’re running on six hours of sleep, have eaten nothing but garbage and lost your student loan payment on the Pats game.