When I travel on business, I either do my partying with my associates or I wait till long after they leave town. And on neither occasion do I act like a drunken fool.
On my last night in Vegas, I saw “Mamma Mia!” at the Mandalay Events Center and spent the remainder of the evening at the J-Pop Lounge (pictured) where the service is fantastic and the live music is nothing short of amazing.
I was sitting alone at a table when a gal came up and asked if she could pay me for a cigarette (as Vegas is the last town where smokers can take refuge, even though they removed the smoking lounges at the airport, YOU BASTARDS). I gave her one and she invited me to join her and her friend at a table by the stage. And what the hell, right? I took her up on her offer.
That was my first mistake.
So I sat with Ashley and her friend Ward/Wyatt/Weirdo/Whatever and she tried to help us bond over the fact that he and I both live/work in D.C. So he said to me, “What do you think of the new president?”
I wasn’t sure what kind of company I was in, so I said casually that I was really a Hillary supporter but I was still pleased with how the election turned out.
At which point they groaned and said, “You can leave the table now.”
And believe me, I wanted to but I was hoping I just didn’t know how to read them at that point.
So these two go into a full-scale attack on Obama and why he’s not qualified to run the country. They said how much they hate him and Biden and they just KNOW that someone’s going to take out Obama in the next two years and we’ll be stuck with Biden as our president. And they will be thrilled in 2012 when their party resumes office again.
My head was spinning. I’m getting tired of forgiving every sore-pawed Republican who feels the need to tell me how much they hate my candidate. They aren’t the first, they probably won’t be the last, but you’ve got to do what I did — quit whining and go support your party in the next election. Period.
And I don’t want to call them racist because that’s a powerful word and certainly not a nice one. But if the shoe fits, please to allow me to beat you with it.
So Ashley wanted another smoke (she couldn’t smoke in front of this guy who she swears was not her boyfriend), so I pretty much just slid her the pack under the table and decided to keep the idiot company. There were football highlights on the TV and we actually had a very pleasant discussion about the sport. But then Ashley returned to the table with some latent comment about Sarah Palin and I decided it was time to change the subject. Since Weirdo works at Andrews Air Force Base (locally), I asked if he were a Redskins fan.
His answer? “Redskins SUCK! Go Cowboys!”
At this point, I’m thinking great, here’s a redneck Republican who loves Dallas. Please to be shooting me soon, yes?
I opted to ignore them for the rest of the night in favor of watching all the crazy white people trying to dance. Which, I assure you, is always good for a laugh.
There was a guy who had tried to pick me up earlier in the night, whom I had pretty much run screaming from (pickup line: “Your first baby’s going to be black!”), and he was there with someone he had managed to pick up. Awww. Barf. Does that line actually work or was she even drunker than she looked?
I was laughing my ass off at them trying to dance — it’s a pop-music lounge, and he was making this poor girl slow-dance to Fergie and Gwen Stefani tunes. I mean, come on. I was glad I had passed on that sorry sap.
I did tell Ashley that he had tried to pick me up earlier. And since his hue was similar to Obama’s, she almost crapped in her seat. At this point the cogs in my head are starting to turn to figure out how I can offend them by trying instead of my mere presence making them sick.
And opportunity presented itself when the sorry sap came over and grabbed my wrists to pull me onto the dance floor.
I shot a terrified look toward at Ashley and Weirdo, and they said go have fun.
Yeah, not likely. You know WHY this idiot couldn’t pick up a girl and keep her? Because he’s an asshole. We were on the floor no less than 60 seconds when he starts trying to pinch my nipples.
Seriously? The hell?
I started slapping his hands and shouted, “This ain’t the hokey poke-me!” But I don’t think he was smart enough to get that.
I kept smiling because I wasn’t about to cry rape on the dance floor. But what the fuck is it about Vegas, or business trips in general, that makes people think they can act like total douchetards in public? Clearly he can’t get laid at home, wherever that is, but trying to molest classy ladies such as myself (shut up!) isn’t going to get you very far either, cowboy.
For the record, it’s cold in the casinos because they pump in fresh oxygen to keep the smoke at bay and to ensure everyone’s nice and awake to keep gambling all night. Ergo, I don’t wear anything but padded bras when I’m in Vegas. So nyah, no titty-twisters for you!
Meanwhile, I had given this guy all of two minutes on the dance floor, if that, and I decided to make my escape. I looked toward the table, only to find that Ashley and Weirdo had taken the fuck off.
Which, I was perfectly fine with — he’d bought me two drinks and it was definitely a great substitute for intelligent conversation — but to leave my pocketbook sitting there with my credit cards and room key? NOT COOL.
The idiot on the dance floor asked me to stay but I said I needed to find my friends. Fuck that, I grabbed my full glass of wine and went over to the next bar, where I moved on to tequila and lots of it. (Yay $20 half-yard mojito with extra shots!)
Luckily, I had kept one cigarette for myself and definitely celebrated being free again.
Anyway, I don’t really know what to make of that night. Clearly that alcohol plus destination city equals freedom to be an idiot. But what of Ashley and Weirdo? Maybe if what I saw of them was who they really were, maybe they could stand to act like different people when they’re on the road.
I had liked Ashley instantly because she, like me, is accustomed to traveling alone, and she said she knows how hard it is to go into a bar by yourself and she always wished someone would invite her to sit with their group. But that’s where my admiration began and ended.
I mean, you don’t ditch a fellow female, do you? I’m sure she was even more disgusted than I was by the idiot pawing me up, but I was the one getting molested, thanks much. If she’s so concerned about women having to fend for themselves at the bar, why did she think it was OK to run in the other direction?
Just goes to show why I’m mostly happy to hang out by myself when I travel. I can handle myself just fine, and I’m the same person you meet at the beginning of the night as you say goodbye to at the end. Just a little drunker, that’s all. 😉