I was privileged this year to have my brothers take me to Las Vegas for the grand Consumer Electronics Show and, more importantly, the Adult Video Network convention as a going-away gift, since I now live far away in another country. The first night was the traditionally unbelievable wild night for yours truly, starting with limo rides to the liquor store and then to our suites, then off to the clubs for VIP bottle service with various porn stars at the Rio, then sneaking into party buses only to be taken to unknown gentlemen's clubs by complete strangers (I got separated from my brothers early on in the night), randomly winning $500 by pure drunken luck, trying to walk through the nefarious east side of Vegas while searching for The Strip alone in a suit at five AM, hitching a ride with gangsters offering guns and bombs for a price that felt like something straight outta GTA, being abducted by horny drug-addled strippers/hookers at eight AM, and finally collapsing in my suite.
Suffice to say I was practically traumatized after that. I can't make this shit up -- I still have the number for the guys wanting to sell me guns! So the next day I took it easy and stayed with my brothers.
They had the desire to go to the "Old Strip" to get some "jimmy buffet" before a light night of gambling at the Golden Nugget. Which is where my poop story begins. And it sure wasn't a golden nugget.
My brothers kept referring to the Vegas all-you-can-eat buffets as "jimmy buffets", saying they were a great way to recharge before another night in Vegas. I think they meant "discharge." We got there and the smell was delectable! Monstrously fat gamblers lined the eating area, gluttonously slurping up hot wings and mashed potatoes. The spread covered almost any food types you could desire. I stocked up on the seafood and the make-you-own-taco section.
As I dined on crab legs, sushi, soft tacos with beans and cheese and carne, gravy fries, and washed it down with juice and chocolate milk, I had a quick thought: "Wait. We are in a desert. This buffet is eight bucks. How fresh can this seafood be?"
At that moment, the Trident of Poseidon stabbed me in my colon with a violent thrust and twist. I had only been eating this cursed food for all of twenty-five minutes, while my brothers happily munched on their fourth helping of the fried chicken and pizza that was made hot and fresh. Suddenly the message was sent to Fort Ass: General Shit is on his way! The message was sent via express delivery and there was cash due upon delivery!
I lamented my foolhardy love for seafood and Mexican and bolted up faster than a NASCAR pit crew putting on a fresh tire. I visualized my starfish puckering and knew this deuce ain't got a snowball's chance in the desert of being solid. I hadn't eaten anything in a day-and-a-half since my flight in, so the only content of my digestive tract was last nights bottle service vokda, 151 rum, cocktails, and this dreaded "jimmy buffet," which had somehow managed to circumvent the small and large intestines completely and arrive at the back door about as fast as if I had shoved the cheap, questionably-originated, iodide-riddled delicacies up my chocolate highway.
My brothers chuckled it up as they watched their little bro meander swiftly to the restrooms. I wasn't alone in the toilet-paper-riddled shit sanctuary -- all of the stalls were occupado, except for the Cadillac handicapped crappy. I'm a very tall guy and prefer the extra space of the handicapped stalls, so this was a lucky break, until I gazed upon the disaster that was left in this stall before my arrival. Someone did not care to flush their Picaasso in the bowl.
I woulda rather shit in the garbage can by the exit! The toilet seat was piss-ridden and pock-marked with cigarette burns; the wall were stained with various colors that must not have washed off after the first attempt of whoever cleaned this stall last. I can just imagine them saying, "Fuck it!"
Worst of all, I didn't have time to care.
I did a quick wipe and flush and plopped on down about a millisecond before the ass vomit puked forth. Now, I'm no Shameful Shitter, and neither were the men in this bathroom. I guess I wasn't the only guy to try the seafood/Mexi combo. The symphony farts, groan, splashes, and squirts was almost musical. My own struggle was trying to not let the stream of butt puke shoot so fast as to splash up all over my ass and give me a new reason to avoid the craps tables tonight, so I attempted to squirt in bursts, which just made it more painful. This poop juice was like carbonic acid -- it burned as it exited my poor ass worse than the time I stepped on a hot coal around the campfire.
This squirt tirade went on for about ten minutes before ceasing abruptly. I began to gently wipe the scorched earth that was my asshole with the single-ply buttwipe. As I was about to flush and exit, my cell phone dinged: a text message from my brothers, asking "What are you doing?" I replied with a just a picture of the bowl contents and a smiley face.
As I located my brothers at the exit, their faces told me the lessons they have both learned from Las Vegas visits of the past: don't eat the seafood in the desert.
