Through all the years of my life, I have come to the conclusion that I am good for two things: Getting myself into awful situations, and living to tell about it. Some of these involve alcohol, some involve medications, but ALL of them include my general dumbassery which, far outweighs the effects of anything else. These are the stories. Don’t judge me.
Not My Proudest Moment: Dog Penis Red
More than half a decade ago, a friend decided to ruin his life and marry a woman he was madly in love with. As his friend, and someone who was coming off of yet, another, failed relationship, I felt it was my duty to inform him of the colossal mistake he was about to make. But then he invited me to go to his bachelor party in Las Vegas, and all I could do was wish the happy couple all the best with their lovely nuptials and humbly accept this invitation to participate in what can only be described as, a lecherous shit show.
A few weeks prior to the actual party, the invitees that accepted, met up to discuss the logistics of the entire trip. You know, important stuff like:
Should we fly? Where should we stay? Would there be strippers? Would there be midgets? Would there be midget strippers? And if so, how come those are twice the price of regular strippers…and regular midgets, for that matter?
Decisions were made (terrible, regretful decisions), plans were finalized and within a short matter of time, we were driving two car loads of 20-something year olds through the Mojave Desert, ready to drink beer, smoke cigarettes and rage long and hard enough to hopefully never remember it. After a fairly uneventful car ride from Northern California to Vegas, the crew settled into their respective adjoining rooms, cracked open our first bottles of booze, lit some cigarettes and started our descent into a dark, hazy mess of a weekend.
Now, having been a seasoned veteran of Las Vegas, even at the ripe old age of 27, I had come to realize that there are many strategies while drinking in Vegas. It is very much like how one approaches a cold swimming pool on a hot day. You can ease your way into a drunken stupor, tip-toeing your way through it while your body acclimates to the surrounding conditions and ultimately floating around, carefree like a baby deer on ice.
Or you can run full force towards it, bellowing out a battle cry that would make William Wallace cower in the corner and jump right in, getting to your final destination as quickly as possible. Both are perfectly acceptable practices, and ones that we have all employed from time to time, in various situations.
The problem is, of course, is that when applying this to an environment of 12 young males, all with their own ideas and strategies, it quickly devolves into a war zone inside the hotel room. Within hours, half of the guys were passed out on couches, balconies and beds. Piles of empty beer cans, liquor bottles and random food garbage became more and more prominent.It had looked like we had been there for days, not hours. And the worst part about it, was that this was only half of us. The ones that stayed behind to “relax” in the room after a long desert drive.
The other half? They were in the casino, winning mini-fortunes and losing 401Ks. By the time they burned off their collective energies out on the strip and ready for a break, the aforementioned hotel dwellers were ready to saddle up and ride out. This pattern of behavior continued for about two more cycles of 12 hour shifts before the entire house of party cards came crashing down on all of us. Two days later, it was Friday morning, and everyone was unconscious.
Everyone, of course, except me.
Having strategically passed out on the balcony the night before, I was easily awakened by the clear stench of Vegas failure that permeates the pathetic day time atmosphere in Sin City. Having slept through a wine and vodka hangover, and feeling refreshed from my telephone book pillow, I went inside to survey the damage and check to make sure that everyone was accounted for, and more importantly…breathing.
With those responsibilities out of the way, I joyfully asked who wanted to go down to the MGM Grand’s pool with me to drink beer, look at girls and revel in our depravity. Once the cussing, and bottle throwing ended, I decided that I would just go by myself. After all, it was early, so I understood their drunken reluctance to join. And besides, if I got down there now, I could reserve a nice spot by the pool for when the rest decided to come down. It was a brilliant plan. A genius plan. A “nothing can go wrong with this” type of plan.
Except it went wrong. It went very, very wrong.
Having underestimated the tax I had levied on my own system from the two days prior, and combining that with an over estimation as to what I could realistically consume into my body going forward, I ended up with results more disastrous than Charlie Sheen’s latest blood work. I ordered a dozen beers (which I think equated to about $549 for the poor bastard whose room number I used), grabbed a towel and a beach chair and plopped my drunken, pasty self, smack dab in the middle of Satan’s asshole, also known as the Las Vegas sun.
I popped open my first beer, piggishly ogled women and thought to myself as I laid back in the chair, “this…is perfect.”
The next thing I remember was hearing my name over and over again and waking up and not being able to move. My friend Josh was hovering over me, genuine concern dripping off of his face.
“Sam, are you ok?”, he asked.
“I am fine, why?”, I replied
Josh continued, “You don’t look too good. How long have you been out here?”
“Not too long, Pool opened at 9 A.M. so maybe what…30 minutes? How come I can’t move?”, I asked.
Josh’s face contorted into a horrendous grimace as he got ready to break the news.
“Dude…it is two in the afternoon. You have been sitting in this spot, directly in the sun since nine? Your skin is TOAST”
Having started to come back to reality, I look around and see that there are now 10 closed beers, floating in boiling water that used to be ice, next to chair I was laying in and the reason I couldn’t move was due to my skin being baked like the top layer of cheese on a lasagna dish and stuck to the plastic of the chair.
I responded, “Two in the afternoon? Are you sure? Ouch, fuck…help me up.”
“Shit Sam, I think we have to take you to the hospital. I am serious.”
“Fuck you, Josh. No hospital. This is your fault. If you could handle your liquor better, you would have come down with me this morning instead of being passed out like a little girl and all of this would have been avoided.”
Josh immediately decides to open hand slap my chest and give his best Ric Flair impression by shouting “Woooooo!” while he does it.
Some douche bags at the pool respond back with the same chant (side note: fuck pro wrestling fans and their retarded chants that they insist on responding to at any and all venues and times), and I am officially alarmed for my health.
At this point, I can feel my skin cracking on my chest.I packed up my sweltering hot beer, gently placed a towel over my shoulders, and shamefully, and painfully, shuffled back to the room to try and salvaged whatever parts of my epidermis that I could.
Thankfully when I finally arrived back at the suite, most of the guys were out doing their thing, with only one person in the room.
“Holy shit!” James said, “I have never seen that color red before!”
“Shut up,” was all I could muster up in response.
“The only other time I have ever seen that color red was my dog’s penis. Dude, you are dog penis red!” exclaimed James.
“I am surprised you were able to see your dog’s penis color with it constantly in your mouth, you piece of shit. Now shut up and give me a cold beer. I refuse to be sober for the rest of this trip. I don;t want to feel any of this,” I replied.
“Whatever you say…dog penis red. Now smile for the camera.”
And thus…a picture was taken and a nickname was born.
/Dog Penis Red