Another one from the archives. This is an entirely fictional account of my experiences at CES in 2001, keep in mind that none of this really happened. Seriously, I made it all up.
I’ve been in Las Vegas a little more than 24 hours and I’ve already barricaded myself in my room. It’s not that I don’t like the people at the Stardust, but when you’re dealing with the side effects potent bathtub crank, it’s better to do so behind a locked door with every piece of furniture holding the monsters at bay.
How did this routine business trip suddenly turned into my own little version of Dante’s Inferno? I basically blame one person and that is my boss. He put us together, he knew our volatile natures, our combined appetites for mind-bending substances, yet teamed us together nonetheless. Unbeknown to me, my partner for this little trade show, my company’s operation manager, known as Beelzebub from here on out, is a serious deviant with large narcotic and alcohol abuse problems and a penchant for gambling. In other words, Beezey – as I now like to call him – is my perfect Vegas companion. I knew we were going to have a good time when I picked him up at 7am yesterday morning in the company Tahoe and he was already drunk. I was three hours late, but to be already drunk at such an early hour, that’s a man to be reckoned with, a man with the mark of the beast.
We arrived in Vegas both nicely buzzed and used our super powers to expedite the unloaded of our trade show booth as quickly as possible. Wham, bam, thank you Ma’am, I heard on of the union boys say as we left the exhibition hall. This is the point in the night were things started to get ugly. At our quaint hotel room in the historic section of the Stardust, we consumed several more beers and Beezey broke out to what he referred to as “nose candy,” “the white stuff,” “the wake-me-up-before-you-go-go powder.” All of these references, to my drug-addled brain this usually means South America’s gift to my dancing ability. But in Beezey’s twisted sense of perception, this is just not the case. Only after I quickly did two huge rails of this stuff, did realize that I was not dealing with your run of the mill Peruvian marching powder. No this stuff was highly toxic, extremely potent bath-tub derived crank. Actually when I jumped across the room and started choking Beezey to elevate a little of the pain in my nasal passages, he told me it was this new stuff called “glass” which was supposed to be pure Ephedrine. Oh joy I thought as I began to grind me teeth down to little pain-filled nubs.
The rest of the night involved some naked streaking down Las Vegas Blvd, followed by frozen skinny-dipping in Caesar’s Palace’s pool, lots of craps, high-stake black jack and a few rounds of strip poker with the first-shift cleaning ladies.
Now I’m sitting here behind the barricades wondering what I’ll do when Beezey returns from the tables… and to think I have to spend another 5 days here, and on Saturday there will be porn stars everywhere…
*the names, facts, and events of this post have all been changed to protect the guilty and incriminate the innocent.
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