Tuesday, September 23, 2008

I’ll take my Vegas without a side of butt floss, thanks.

Although Vegas pretty much represents everything I think is wrong with the world… I. Love. It. (Just one example of the hypocrisy that permeates my existence.) When I go, I usually manage to empty everything from my brain except the pursuit of fun, and can even find the very best in things that would normally send me over the familiar edge: silicone (duck lips and underboob provide hours of entertainment), bachelor parties (shift the conversation from last night's strip club to the proposal story), seizure-inducing casino atmospheres (slot machine zombies make me feel more alive), etc.

But on the long weekend I just got back from, two idiots broke through my pleasant oblivion, sending me on more than one tirade that had no place in The Land of Fun. We first encountered them when we checked into the Hard Rock and went to the pool on Saturday. It wasn’t packed, as the big day to go to the Hard Rock pool is for Rehab on Sunday, but there were a decent amount of people nodding to music that was quiet enough that you could talk, rather than shout, when making conversation.

So my point here is that it wasn’t a crazy party; yet, as soon as we made our way to the main pool area, we couldn’t help but notice two men, sporting thongs, mullet wigs and 70s sunglasses, doing a ridiculous kind of monkey dance. They hopped and gyrated around the pool, back and forth, up and down different levels, grinding up against any group of women they crossed paths with, some of whom seemed amused, most of whom seemed annoyed and/or disgusted. And one of the mullet men had a dollar bill tucked into his butt floss. (Didn't his mother ever tell him how filthy money is?? Ew.)

It was like a never-ending train wreck—except I could definitely look away. One of my friends wondered aloud if the duo would be back for Rehab on Sunday, and you better believe they were. (Saturday was probably a dress rehearsal.) Even though their appearance the next day was a bit more understandable, as everyone puts on their Sunday best for Rehab (high heels and bikinis that look more like underwear than swimsuits, teeny tiny spandex swim trunks, etc.), I found them even more annoying the second time around—even before one of them rubbed his bare backside up against my leg while I was trying to order a drink.

It’s my belief that silly outfits are just plain lazy substitutes for personalities. Instead of learning how to strike up a conversation, these two thought all they needed to do was throw on a couple of thongs and mullets and dance around like buffoons. Nonstop. I can’t decide if they were trying too hard or not enough, but jeez—it’s Vegas, REHAB in Vegas—a place where this feminist makes BFFs with bachelor parties. Please, leave the costumes at home next time. We were all having enough fun, more, in fact, before your bouncing banana hammocks entered the picture.


Abby said...

Those pics belong next to the other male hotties on our 606 refrigerator.

Katie said...

Was one of them Ricky?

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