Inga’s Travelogue: Viva Las Cirrhosis

Can I take a second to talk about drinks in Las Vegas? I mean, I don’t mind an alcoholic beverage or seven, but I was floored by what passes for responsible service of alcohol in the City of Sin. In Australia, the bar tenders carefully measure out each 30mL shot, charge you ten bucks and send your drunk arse home if you get overly jolly.  In Vegas, they will pour alcohol down your throat until you’re a lifeless, nacho-crusted corpse lying on the floor of Margaritaville. I mean they will literally pour alcohol into you – random women will come up to you, put a tea towel under your chin and upend a bottle of syrupy, fluorescent liquor into your face. And this is at lunch time! A gin and tonic consists of half a litre of gin and a slice of lime. If you ask for a cocktail, they’ll pull out every bottle from behind the counter and pour it all into a cup, and then plant another concoction in front of you before you’re even halfway through the first one. And then the tea towel lady comes back for another round.

Allow me to illustrate this with a badly edited home video – I should point out that this event was completely unsolicited, and there was a large quantity of alcohol in that cup (along with a lethal quantity of hydrogenated palm oil):

I had to dub over the sound with fun music, because my on site narration was completely unladylike.

Note: While I’m being light hearted about the following anecdote, I’m well aware that the situation we found ourselves in could have ended quite differently. We’re not normally this stupid, I promise.

One Sunday, we went to see Steve Aoki perform at a pool party at MGM Wet Republic (incidentally, this is where we found all the Flo-Rida bikini models). This place is Snob Central. Nikki concluded they must pay everyone to be stuck up arseholes, and I had to agree. After paying $40 for a locker, we went to the bar and ordered two vodka oranges from an unsmiling barman for an extortionate SEVENTY ONE DOLLARS. I almost sprouted an aneurysm, especially considering all the freebies we were becoming accustomed to, but it turned out the price was entirely justified.

We bought three drinks for the entire day – one each at 12.04pm, 2.54pm and 4.50pm (I know this, because even drunk Inga keeps her receipts).  We didn’t consciously leave that long between bar trips, but it took us two hours to finish each drink because they emptied half a bottle of Skyy vodka into each of those bitches. By the time 6.00pm rolled around and they herded us all out of the pool, we were two bedraggled, sunburned, inebriated little women. In my entire drinking career, I have never had an alcohol blackout….until Vegas. Neither of us remember getting back to the hotel; one minute we were clambering out of the pool and Nikki was gathering up various pieces of leftover clothing she fancied, and the next thing we knew, forty-five minutes had passed and Nik was sprawled prostrate on the bed while I shovelled chips into her mouth like she was a baby bird. I do remember lurching downstairs to the food court to buy sandwiches, and handing my purse over to the shop assistant to take out the right amount of money because all the bills look the same* after a bottle and a half of vodka. Several days later we found a video in our camera that we’d filmed in the intervening period, which filled in seven blank minutes but not much else. We still wonder what kind of spectacle we made, staggering wet, barefoot, and wasted into the hotel foyer at 6.30pm on a Sunday evening.

Argh blarrghh fnaarr woooo!

Argh blarrghh fnaarr woooo!

What we do remember:

  • There were Aussies everywhere. Nik got motorboated by one and another tried to hump me like a dog. You can always spot the Aussies overseas, because they’re fucking idiots.
  • Nikki got asked to join in a threesome with an Italian guy and a French guy. Neither of them spoke English, so you can imagine how that conversation went.
  • I slipped on some cake on the concrete and busted open the sole of my foot. It only healed last week, after I went to the doctor to get it dressed properly.
  • The merchandise stand sold out of shirts, so Nikki bought one that a staff member was wearing for $45. Here is how the conversation went:

Nikki: YOU! Can I have your shirt?
Him: No.
Nikki: I’ll give you twenty bucks for it!
Him: No.
Nikki: I’ll give you….Inga, how much do we have?
Me: Forty five dollars.
Nikki: I’ll give you forty five bucks for it!
Him: Ok, sure. [takes off shirt]
Me: Oh wait, we have sixty dollars!
Nikki: We’ll give you SIXTY dollars!

Anyway, the point I was trying to bring home here was that VEGAS DRINKS BE CRAZY, but now I just look like an alcoholic.

Not tax deductible.

Not tax deductible.

PS. If you go here , you can see us very briefly at 1.10 at the bottom right. With the infamous vodka orange.

*This also became an issue a bit later, when I gave a taxi driver a $30 tip instead of $3. Why does all the money look the same?! The taxi driver gave me his number, though. Apparently big tippers get laid.

15 thoughts on “Inga’s Travelogue: Viva Las Cirrhosis

  1. I was nervous about playing the video here at work…luckily I’d reduced it to an inch square in preparation! 🙂

    I really do not like the all-the-same money. I quite often get fooled into thinking I have more money in my wallet than I do – oooh, look how thick my wallet is; oh, I have 20 bloody 1$ bills!

    • Oops, should’ve put a warning tag on it hey!

      The good thing about dollar bills is being able to exchange them when you get back home – other countries leave you with a bunch of coins you can’t do anything with.

  2. Wow, Wet Republic sounds crazy expensive even by Vegas standards. I bet it’s more fun at night.

    If you run for office someday, be assured someone will ferret out all the other blank spots from your blackout. With video.

    Yeah, we have the most boring currency in the world. There are purists who won’t have it any other way.

    • I don’t even know if it’s open at night! Actually that’s what I noticed, most of the pools closed around 6 – 8pm. I guess the last thing they need is having to fish out drunk, drowned idiots every morning.

      Judging by the idiot that is our new prime minister, ANYONE here can get into office :-/

        • I gather most of you feel the same about Obama these days??

          And congratulations, Australia! As far as I can gather from the plethora of comments on Aussie news sites, mostly in a similar vein to Inga’s above, you now have a PM as useless as mine.

          • I really have no particular beef with our Liberal party – but the guy is a repulsive, misogynistic lech. Why couldn’t they pick a more charismatic leader?

          • “Why couldn’t they pick a more charismatic leader? ”

            Inga, we’ve been putting palm to forehead and saying exactly the same thing since 2010 when we all sort of elected the current government*. Picture a wet lettuce leaf with a confidence trickster’s face. Et voila; the incumbent of No.10 Downing Street…

            * Does it work the same in Oz as here? – whereby you vote for your local MP and the party with the most MPs gets asked by HMQ to form a government, with the party leader as PM? Or do you directly elect your PM (and then HMQ invites her representative in Canberra to ask the chap if he wants to be PM)…?

            Weird system, innit? I mean if HMQ asked you if you wanted to run things would you really say, “Er, actually, Your Majesty, no; I really don’t want to be in charge, I don’t want the salary and, no, I really don’t want the gold-plated index-linked taxpayer-funded pension when the people see through the act and bury me at the ballot box in five years time, followed by a very lucrative turn on the lecture circuit but thanks for asking anyway…?!”

  3. I’m wondering if you could help me remember where I might have hidden the wooden spoon. I may well need to use it again before this series of yours is complete. 😉

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