My First Trip To Vegas
by Michele Christopher

Hi, my name is Travis and I’m a filthy – lying – whore of a man. In this first article I posted on here I told you I was not going to crossbreed articles from my site to this one but here I am doing exactly that. You can direct your hatemail here . The reason I am doing this is because some of you may be trepidacious about going to my website because if the IT folks at your work see How To Kill People (dot) Com in your usage history they might become suspect. But you also might get a raise…fear can be a great motivator. This was my first two part article and is actually one of my favorites. I also think this gives a better introduction to my character and state of mind than that first intro I ran.

My First Trip To Vegas: Part One.

The are many moments in a young man's life that become etched in stone as an indelible memory: First time sneaking out of the house, first beer, first time you drive a car, first blow job, first paying job (which for some of you man-whores may be the same day as your first blow job you filthy prostitutes) and the penultimate memory…the first time you go to Las Vegas. My first trip was nothing short of a drunken, hedonistic, self-serving sojourn through the highs, and lows, of Sin City.

In 2002 I was working at Banking Center in a very low level loan processing position. The mortgage business was booming because interest rates were extremely low and the bank had just hired a handful of young, inexperienced, twenty-somethings to spend hours a day pushing paper work. Being the youngest, and rowdiest, group in an office environment replete with aging women with Secretary Ass-Syndrome we bonded together and became very fast friends, mainly because most of the people in the loan center were scared of us.

Now when I say “scared” I don’t mean intimidated, I mean FEAR. Fear as in, “It’s always the quiet ones.” Fear as in, “Don’t say the wrong thing to him, he might try to tear your soul out through your ass.” For example I was almost fired because people thought I was going to get pissed off and come into the building with a gun and start laying the place to waste, probably with good reason.

At that time in my life I was in an industrial band, my wardrobe consisted of almost entirely black clothing, I had seven piercings above my neck, and was ghostly white. Yeah I wanted attention, but I was young and confused. It wasn’t until years later that I learned goths sucked.

Imagine working with that lunatic every day. Top it off with the fact that I drove a mini-van covered in band logo shit, and some stickers a friend made for me. The stickers weren’t that offensive, to me, but the uptight 9-5 crowd at the banking center didn’t think they were exactly, welcoming.

Here's what the van looked like.

On the back windows it had these stickers:


Mr. Fucking Minivan

No Satan, No Fun. Know Satan, Know Fun.

Yeah, every part of that screamed “PAY ATTENTION TO ME,” but that’s because I had yet to find my place in the world. Every part of me still screams pay attention to me, but I’m a bit more subtle about it now.

One of the people I quickly became friends with was a guy a named Bryan. His parents had worked at the bank for years and he and I quickly learned the ins and outs of getting away with any, and every, thing we could. For Bryan’s 21st birthday he wanted to go to Vegas and I was the only friend he had that was legal. He had an extremely hot girlfriend, who looked exactly like Claire Forlanie, but she had just turned 19 so she couldn’t go. By default, I was going to be the wingman on this adventure, which was made even better by the fact that Bryan’s parents had agreed to pay for our plane tickets and hotel room. Free trip to Vegas? Don’t mind if I do.

I was almost 22, single, having ended my year long rebound relationship, and in the prime of my drinking and doing dumb-shit days. I was kind of dating a girl at the time, but I called her, literally, an hour before I left on the trip and ended things. But to be honest, and actually kind of crass and mean, I was only “dating” her because I needed to get laid and I knew she put out. Yeah, back then I was a dickhead as well.

The day of the trip finally arrived, I left work, bought some beer, and drank my way through packing. Which if you’ve read my other vacation stories on here, you know that never bodes well. By the time Bryan and his chick showed up to take us to the airport, I was pretty buzzed. Not drunk, mind you, but intoxicated enough to be under the impression that I could do no wrong and the world revolved around me. The ride to the airport consisted of me talking an amazing amount of shit about how drunk I was going to get and how rich I would be after our adventure. Bryan thought it was funny, his girlfriend…not so much. Also, apparently not funny, is being visibly intoxicated in front of the ticketing agent.

“Sir, I suggest you calm down before you get to the gate.”

“But I’m going to Vegas!”

“Sir since the terrorists we have to make sure of the safety of other passengers.”


“Not unless you calm down, you’re not.”

“Looks like you win this round plane wench.”

We have Bryan’ girlfriend take a picture of us before we get on the plane, say our goodbyes, and off we go to the debaucherous land of Las Vegas. Cue the Elvis music.

Having never been outside of California since reaching legal drinking age I didn’t know a very basic fact: not every state has the same drinking rules as California. Sure, it’s a naïve statement, but I was naïve. We arrive in McCairen airport and hop a cab to our hotel. Since Bryan wasn’t “technically” turning 21 until midnight that night, I asked our cab driver to swing by a liquor store so I could pick up some booze. After checking into our hotel, and a few cocktails, we went downstairs at about 12:05 am. Bryan is now legal and it’s time for the fun to begin. I pay for the first round of drinks and ask the bar tender what time the bars in the hotel closed.

“Sweety, this is Vegas, we never close.”


The first night, while uneventful, was fun in an innocent, get your bearings and ogle women sort of way. For some reason we developed some sort of over-blown Asian dialect and kept saying that we were going to, “Go get rucky with shrots and shruts.” Why? I have no fucking idea, but it became our saying.

Before I go any further: We got into town on a Monday night, we were leaving on Friday, and Bryan’ dad was going to deposit our paychecks Wednesday night meaning we would have access to our cash Thursday morning. Collectively we had about $800 between us, which is a pittance in the grand scheme of Las Vegas. Facts clear enough? Good. On with our idiocy.

Our first day was an eye opener. We wandered from casino to casino, drinking and playing nickel shrots, always managing to win enough to buy the next round of drinks and a little extra. This kept us both with a reserve of cash we hoped would help us stretch our dollars until Thursday. After hitting a dinner buffet we decided that with our first real night in Vegas we were going to try to have a drink at every casino on the strip.

Now at the height of my rock-star era, when I drank I did it to get as drunk as possible, as quick as possible so the burgeoning idea played right into my strengths. But allow me to repeat the plan, with a few facts, for those not paying attention. There are 28 casinos on the Las Vegas strip. The goal was to have an extremely strong drink at each one. We decided on long island iced teas because they packed the most liquor into one frosted glass of happiness, or so I thought. So by the end of the night we were planning on consuming 28 long island iced teas.

Let’s base the following assumption on the fact that most bars, MOST bars, put strong mixed drinks like that in twelve ounce glasses. Here is the formula for a long island:

1 part vodka
1 part tequila
1 part rum
1 part gin
1 part triple sec
1 1/2 parts sweet and sour mix
1 splash Coca-Cola®

so by the end of the night the goal was to drink, basically, my weight in hard liquor. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, call your mothers and explain to them that I am a genius and that you wish to birth all of my unholy offspring.
On the way out of the hotel I bought a disposable camera at the gift shop which cost about $4,000 dollars. It seemed outrageous at the time, seeing as how we had an entire day and a half before money magically appeared in our accounts, but this would prove to be an investment well worth the cost. I took two pictures, out of 36, before we left, one of Bryan and I and one of an Elvis impersonator after that it was off to the New-York New-York.

Other than being the closest casino in proximity to ours it had something that I thought only existed in a shitty movie and pornos that are bad rip-offs of shitty movies: Coyote Ugly. Where else would be a better place to start our evening than at a bar that advertised its hot, shrutty, bar tenders? That is where I made yet another discovery.

My typical hangover snack is a coca-cola slurpee. The caffeine helps the body wake up and the ice kind of, sort of, helps to hydrate the system. I love slurpees. Love them more than air. Slurpees are fantastic and if you don’t like slurpees then I have no choice but to hate you and hope that your children are born with clubbed feet. The reason I explain this to you is A.) to drive away the anti-slurpee crowd and B.) to help you understand my fascination with what I found at the Coyote Ugly bar.

The Coyote Ugly inside the casino was a dance club, but they also had a small bar outside the club in order to attract attention. This small bar outside is also, apparently, where they put the B-squad coyote girls. They weren’t really hot, but they were overly flirtatious and dressed shrutty. I think they use this to entice men into the club. Click the picture to see the large version of this interaction.

And off wanders drunky. A fool and his money are soon parted. Fortunately Bryan and I were smarter than that. We leaned against the bar and explained to the semi-hot chick that it was his birthday and we were out to get drunk. She told Bryan to lean back against the bar and proceeded to dump cheap tequila down his throat as she straddled his head. I took a picture. Brian took a picture of me and the Coyote ugly whore as she pitied me. That’s four pictures out of a roll of 36. Keep count, it will be important.

I ask her if she would believe me if I told her it was my birthday too. She said no. Bitch. But she told us she had the perfect drink to help us in our quest for drunken buffoonery: Coyote Octane. She proceeded to explain that there is not a stronger drink, served in any bar, that won’t double as jet fuel. We’re instantly sold. The Coyote Octane is orange juice and ever-clear served out of a slurpee machine. If there is a better way to serve alcoholic drinks than to disguise them as a slurpee, I don’t want to know about it.

We take our concoctions to go, and head out on our adventure. 1 casino, 1 drink, the idea is so far working. We stop and take another picture in front of the Excalibur, that makes five, and down the rest of our drinks. We get a Long Island at the Excalibur but it pales in comparison to the slurpee and I want another one. So back to coyote ugly we go. Another glass of the orange nectar of the gods procured and we realize that we didn’t get a drink at our hotel before we left, this must be remedied. (aint drunk logic grand?) Even though we had just purchased drink number three, we were off in search of drink number four.

Slurpee 2 slammed.

Drink number four achieved. However, after two Coyote Octanes everything tasted like water and didn’t have enough punch for my taste. Sooooo back to the slurpee wench we went. And so it went. Buy strong drink from chick who gets more attractive each time, guzzle it as fast as possible, wander – but not too far, then back for another. All in all I had six slurpees and about five regular, non-slurpee – and thus inadequate, drinks. It was on octane #6 that Bryan demanded we go to the Luxor. And that is where my night ended.

I lost complete cognative control on Octane six. Which was roughly around one in the morning. I woke up, still dressed, in my bed at about noon. I had remembered taking four pictures with my shitty camera and as I blindly groped for the lump in my pocket I was reminded of how drunk I got: I didn’t remember anything and the camera was used up. Hopefully I got pictures of the stupid shit I did.

Did I puke? Not according to Bryan.

Did I pass out? Not according to Bryan.

Did I do anything stupid – for me? Not according to Bryan.

He was a bit fuzzy on all of the details. He remembered the tram ride to the Luxor where I told jokes to anyone within ear shot and demanded that the two attractive* girls on the tram take a picture with me. His brain shut off in the Luxor.

The first full day in Vegas was, in our opinion, a success. We gambled enough to pay our bar tabs until the evening, we got blitzkrieg style hammered, and we both drank enough that we didn’t have a good recollection of the night’s events. It looked like we were off to a good start. The next night, however, we decided to go balls out. Literally.

*please note that “attractive” is a subjective term, because after that many drinks I’m pretty sure I would think that Jon Lovitz is an attractive woman.

Travis never believed that what happened in Vegas stayed in Vegas



Yeah, every part of that screamed “PAY ATTENTION TO ME,” but that’s because I had yet to find my place in the world. Every part of me still screams pay attention to me, but I’m a bit more subtle about it now.

subtle screaming -- the best kind.


The Coyote Octane is orange juice and ever-clear served out of a slurpee machine.

That sounds like a damn good time...


The Coyote Octane is orange juice and ever-clear served out of a slurpee machine.

Jesus H. One of those and I'd be on the floor.

/cheap date


Coyote octane is the nectre of the gods...

angry drunk irish gods, but gods none the less.


angry drunk irish gods

I wouldn't have my gods any other way... I mean, they did create me in their image , right ?


I'm not Irish but if there's is a god that thinks pro-wrestling rules, drinking whiskey kicks ass, and boobies are the bestest thing on the face of the earth. That's my god.


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