The 49er

In the spirit of New Years this hazy memory comes to mind...barely.


I'm not sure the Year, or some specific details, but I think what I left is worth it. We decided that year that we weren't going the strip...that much I remember. So instead we tried to have a party at a buddy's house. I guess it didn't work out because we ended up going to the strip, kinda. I think it was after midnight or something, but for some reason we just couldn't join the mob of drunken celebrators on Las Vegas Blvd. (I should also add that we had way too much coke...i didn't think it was possible either). After about an hour of driving around frustrated, underage, and intoxicated we had an epiphany. Our mission became clear, we had figured out the proverbial band-aid to fix our night...GET A HOTEL ROOM AND A STRIPPER.

There we were at 3am-ish on New Years day looking for an empty hotel room. That was probably one of the stupidest things I have ever done. We honestly thought that we would be able to get a room...We tried hard, real hard. My boy's SUV turned into a busy war room. All of us frantic and erratic on cell phones calling hotel after hotel, while simultaneously stopping at every hotel that we passed. This ridiculous mission led us to Boulder Highway...seriously. Like door to door salesmen we hit every single motel/hotel/shit house/rooms by the hour with no success. Defeated, fucked up, and feeling guilty about our decisions that night we tried one last place-THE 49ER. That's right the Forty Fucking Niner. Of course this peetri dish of disease had an open room. We took it. Phase 2 of the mission begins. STRIPPER.

In the room we begin to start calling services. If you're from vegas you understand what I mean, but if you're not what I mean is we begin flipping through the adult section of the Las Vegas yellow pages. After a few calls we found a place that was in our price range, sounded mildly legit, and would actually send a girl to the 49er. We begin the waiting game. Nervously we pace the room drugging and drinking exchanging ridiculous situations that may happen. After what seemed like a G-d damn eternity with no girl, we decided to call the service. They apologized and gave us some excuse, they said another girl was on her way and gave us half price coupon for next time. (Put that in your pipe and smoke it Domino's) Elated and erect our spirits were high again. So at this point we are at the 49er at like 5am on New Years Day, barely have any money, waiting for a stripper who is blatantly on the B team.

About a half hour later she arrives! Like little kids waiting for the ice cream truck we were all glued to the windows studying the parking lot. After about three or four "is that her"'s she finally arrives. We scatter about the room as if my mom just came home while we were smoking pot on my balcony, and try to look cool. She walks in, and instantly I hate myself. There was no pot of gold at the end of this rainbow. I understand that under the circumstances we shouldn't have expected much but jesus christ this stripper totally phoned it in. She had no makeup on, her hair was dirty and no done, and she was wearing pajamas, fucking pj's. Not sexy or even cute sleep wear, but sweat pants and an over sized sweatshirt. We start talking turkey...her prices were ridiculous-hundreds of dollars for this, a thousand dollars for that. we explain that we had already worked out the prices with guy on the phone. She doesn't care. The situation became mildly hostile. So she calls her "handler." At this point the only image in my head is of a large black guy with a leather coat bursting through the door and pistol whipping the shit out of me. She hangs up the phone says that she will dance for us for like a half and hour. Great, at least something is gonna happen. "Do you have a radio" "No, i thought that was your department" "I guess i can dance to the T.V." We turn the T.V. on and of course the only channels are fuzzy. She starts to kinda wiggle, in her fucking pj's. She flashes her garden, and the crack of her ass as she almost dances around the dingy room. After like two seconds we tell her to fuck off. She leaves, and all I want to do is call my mother. We make a few futile calls to the service, but apparently they didn't have a complaint department. Needless to say, we didn't redeem our coupon. With our tails between our legs we went home.

I thought that posting this story would make me feel better, like a release...

Unfortunately it just reminded of how much of a scum bag I was...Fucking Vegas