Teardrops in the Toilet

Well, you shitbrickin' kids, if there is one thing you've learned from the violent back alley musings of a Berkeley Coke Sore its that The Spikester has no short term, no long term, and no not so distant future memory. You see, unlike STD's the narcissistic mind's misdeeds are quickly forgotten...just like last nights S&S. Thats Skag & Skank to you plebeian bible clutchers and it'll set you back a good $50 or a barter'd grab 'n go tugjob where Santa Fe meets Artesia. Which brings me to a town of five known as Jean, NV. You see, if you spend more than 12 hours in Jean, NV you are either the Gas Station hooker, cashier, meth chef, Rush Limbaugh, or all 5. Thats pretty much all I have to say about Jean, NV because I am going to move onto more important things....things that matter....like Hep C, a needle disease that slowly scars your liver and spits you out the entertainment circuit and onto the last act of the Flamingo Casino's second stage. But before I mislead you, this saga is not about Vinnie Favorito, the fifth best roast style comic at the Flamingo. I'll leave it to someone else to tell you about his one-joke guido/blowjob routine that begs hecklers to take a shot at him. Hey, easy pickin's if you're a man holding a giant glass of beer, born with nothing to lose and a firm desire to get kicked out of the side stage of the Stardust's roach-infested, piss-soaked Pensioner's Lounge. No, this post isn't about trying to get Vinnie Favorito to break down crying like a schoolgirl in the middle of his 3 AM set. Actually, I'm going to talk about Las Vegas.



That's Vinnie Favorito, kids--a man recently accepted into the Catholic sainthood as the Patron Saint of Failure and Disgrace. By the way, cut to 0:57 where Vinnie casually admits to drunk driving. You can tell that this man is destined to blow a .83 BAC sometime in the next month, and a different kind of show will begin: they'll slap the cuffs on him and send him on an ass-rapin' field trip to the county lockdown. A reputation as the 34th best roast comic in West Las Vegas won't do much to stop those 15 rednecks in the holding cell from playing whack-a-mole with your testes for kicks.

They cut this before the last part of his act where he runs out of racial groups to make one-shot comments about for cheap laughs. At the end? Nothing but Eskimo and Finnish jokes before the crowd storms the stage and caves his face in with their canes and walkers. Or maybe that was just a bad reaction to his remark referring to Eskimos as "snow mexicans." Hey, racism plays well to a room full of meth farmers who just came in from the dunes to looking for a trunk full of phenobarbital and ten pitchers of Keystone Light.

If you head down any of the major streets of Las Vegas, you'll hear bullhorns blasting Vinnie's challenge "You don't have the guts to come to my show." I see someone learned reverse psychology in their prison GED classes. I don't know, do I have the guts to watch a fat Italian guy stumble through 30 minutes of terrible b-material in front of a room full of indifferent drunks? Do I have the guts to waste minutes of my life when I could be banging a room full of hairy prostitutes? No. Absolutely not.

Here he is wearing a kevlar suit and pretending that he's in some kind of danger from the poisonous snakes he's surrounded himself with. I doubt these things could bite through a thick leather jacket, let alone something heavy enough to stop an Ingram Mac-10 at 50 feet. Not that this will stop Favorito from whining like a little bitch, though...


But this isn't about any of that, this saga is about the good life. How to live like a king...but not the "I'm a just King who shares my bread with the poor". I'm talking about the King who eats children and cornholes your beagle and nubile college age daughters, all the while nodding off through Guns N Roses covers at Oshea's. You see, most douchebags will go for the slots or the shows or the unforgettable case of herpes. But Spikester, why the fuck do you go to Vegas? Well the answer is simple and two-fold - alcohol and midgets.












Working an 18 hour shift wearing a velour Leprechaun hat that smells like Pabst barf and being forced to fight off rowdy drunks who want some impromptu dwarf tossing....Talk about the luck of the Irish!

Anyway...

You see, the prototypical trip to Vegas reads like a book. Granted, it's a relatively short book full of chlamydia and frustrating run-ins with undercover cops when you just want to pick up a tranny hooker at 4 AM outside the Sahara, damnit. The players here are interchangeable:

1. You leave the kids at home and take the wife to the Gold Strike Inn then lose a few bills however, you gain a blowjob.

2. You leave your parents at home and take the girlfriend to the State Line you'll lose a few bills, but you'll gain a blow job and "rear access!!11"

3. Go to the Hard Rock Casino and rent a hooker...yada yada.(Just don't rent any named "Krystal," you're gonna have to trust me on this one.)


I've tried to warn you but you fucks keep on going to Vegas even after I repeatedly tell you about the real treasures of the strip...the ankle biting irish car bomb giving midgets and the Spikester blitzkrieg of the quasi "open casino bars".
So fuck it, my buzz is fading quicker then a chinese hooker sprinting at 3 am to make last call...just don't say I didn't warn you.

You might bring your own drugs. You might bring said drugs in a briefcase, like you read in some book somewhere. You might bring several dozen of those briefcases. Don't forget to pack the briefcase port-a-meth lab. Hey, what the fuck were you gonna pack? Clothes!? Goddamnit, A man with a head full of acid and bad wiring needs no clothes. At least not for the 15 glorious minutes of sprinting nude through the lobby of Circus Circus before being hosed down with mace by security. It was worth it, I tell you. Minds were BLOWN that night.

Anyway, typical Las Vegas Vacation.
Pictorial for those who can't read (i.e. Vinnie Favorito, that blind hooker who tends bar down at Terrible's at the state line).