Drunken Adventures from Maren and Katie

I started off the New Year with the intention of saving money, keeping busy, and focusing on school. Part of this entailed getting yet another job, bringing the total current amount to four. If you know me, this makes sense, because clearly an idle hand is the devil’s playground when it comes to my life.

So, I spent this past week training at my new job. Another bartending gig. This bar is located in a little more touristy side of town, which looks like it will be supplying me and S with an endless supply of foreign pretty. Be happy, as long as I work here there should be blog fodder.

On Wednesday night I worked my second training shift. Two brothers came in and sat down at the bar. They were cute, in their twenties, and from Ireland.

Attention, ladies and gentleman. We have a winner.

They sat down by the service well, which was fortunate because that’s where I was training for the evening. I began to shamelessly flirt with them and they proceeded to down beers and shots and toss compliments my way. So far a good night.

The older brother was a Web designer, the younger a merchant marine. They were in America for a wedding in Athens, GA, (where the younger brother broke his third metacarpal in a scuffle) but were passing through Orlando on their way to South Florida.

I asked the younger brother what the merchant marines were like, and he told me that his ship was made up of a bunch of Russian guys who spend all day drinking beer. I’m in. I jokingly ask where I need to send my application, and he gravely replies that no girls are allowed on his ship? Why, you may ask? Apparently when hundreds of men are left alone on a boat for four months at a time, they have certain urges that need to be fulfilled. To introduce a girl into that mix would lead to lots of rape, or “surprise sex”, as he called it. Point taken.

As the night progressed, the brothers became more than a little tipsy. The other bartender and I chatted with them about their homeland. The younger brother casually mentioned his disdain for the English and desire for a completely independent Ireland. I’d be lying if I said that I paid a lot of attention to foreign affairs, so I nodded my head and went with it.

The older brother called it quits early and went back to his hotel room, leaving his younger brother behind.

Drunk and on his own, younger brother (from here on out called Irishman) became a little more bold. With a lecherous gleam in his eye, he began to shamelessly flirt back, culminating in him saying (verbatim), “Katie, from the bottom of an Irishman’s heart, I would drink a gallon of your piss just to see where it came from.”

Hello, new soul mate.

At the end of the night, he asked what I would be doing the following day and I let him know that I would be bartending at my other job. We exchanged numbers and he stumbled out the door with a mystery Swedish man.

The next day I sent him a text before work letting him know what time I was working and where the bar was located. To my surprise, he hopped in a cab and arrived at my bar around 12:30.

My friends, it was as if I delivered a party favor to my bar guests. They marvel at his accent, each person attesting that they, too, were Irish, even if only a miniscule amount. Our new guest helped me sell an unusually high number of Irish Car Bombs. Irishman notes that his people are the creators of that, but at that point it really didn’t mean anything to me.

The big ha-ha of the night was when they made him attempt to speak with an American accent. As the center of attention, he was more than happy to oblige.

“Well hi-dee-ho! I like me some beer, some Nas-car, and some fried opossum!”

If this is how we sound to foreigners, shoot me now.

Guests started to feed him shots, and he took the opportunity to make a toast. He raised his glass and toasted five of his buddies who have been captured by Somali pirates and are currently prisoners.

Awkward glances are exchanged. Typically, we toast to how shitty our jobs are or how messed up the opposite sex is. You could tell that everyone felt a little shallow.

At one point he leaned over the bar in front of a couple of guests and asked if I’d like to hang out with him after work. I had no intentions of sleeping with him, but the international diplomat in me says that it’s only fair to at least make out with him. After all, he was leaving the next day on a boat for four months and he tipped 30 percent! Assured that my guests, who probably will never understand my reasoning process, thought I was a whore, I accepted his invitation, but walked away quickly before my face turned beet red.

We kicked everyone out of the bar as we closed down. Irishman hung outside on the patio, talking to a couple of regulars. I stopped by to pick up empty glasses and he grabbed my ass as I walked by. I am way too sober for this.

After we turned in our cash drop and finished cleaning the bar, I let Irishman back inside. The first thing he did was hug me from behind and kiss my neck. I am way too sober for this.

Mark, my fellow bartender, snickered and walks away. Two minutes later I have a text on my phone.

Mark: That was so awesome!
KFD: So much awkward. Murder me now.

I played it off by pretending it never happened, which worked until he kissed me in front of both bartenders. Fucking great.

I hurried out of the bar, foreign pretty in tow. As we hopped into my car, I received a text from Guy, the other bartender on duty.

Guy: We have the Irish molestation on camera if you go missing!

I love how supportive my coworkers are.

Jon Bon Jovi was playing on the radio as we pulled out of the parking lot. Have you ever been (poorly) serenaded to a Bon Jovi song by a drunken Irishman? Sadly, I can now say that I have. Pardon the redundancy, but I am way too sober for this.

On the ride home we talked about foreign affairs and he trashed England again. Because of England, he is unable to attain full Irish citizenship unless he renounces Catholicism and pledges his allegiance to the Queen. Ireland is looking like a more undesirable place to visit by the minute.

KFD: So…you seem to have very strong political ideals. You’re not an activist, are you? Are you in the IRA?
Irishman: Well…yes. Kind of. I’m a Quarter Master.
KFD: Which means?
Irishman: I donate guns to the Irish Republican Army, because I want them to kill as many Englishmen as possible.
KFD: Is that why you’re in the merchant marines?
Irishman: Well, it does make shipping the weapons easier. I also have stock in Israeli arms, so I profit when they go to war, allowing me to provide my countrymen with more guns.

What.

So here I was, driving through downtown Orlando with a member of the IRA. Quickly, I ruled out all of the questions that I wanted to ask. It’s probably better not to know all of his motivations or past activities.

Lucky me, he volunteered some information. About five years ago, his mom was gang raped by British soldiers. Since that day he swore he would do whatever it took to help take down England.

Right about then we pulled into my driveway. I am way too sober for this.

We went upstairs and I gave him a brief tour, which ended in the kitchen. I poured myself the stiffest drink I could stomach and we went out on the patio to talk.

On the patio I found out more about my new friend. When he was younger he was kicked out of high school. Why, you ask? Well, three reasons, really.

A)     He tried to burn down the school. One day, he noticed that a couple of teachers were trying to break into his buddy’s locker. Said locker contained three ounces of marijuana. One of those ounces belonged to him and he wasn’t about to see his friend get in trouble or lose his stash. In an effort to distract them, he made a Molotov cocktail and threw it at the building next door. In broad daylight.

B)      He was a prick to his German teacher. Irishman is apparently fluent in several languages and kept correcting his teacher. The teacher didn’t appreciate the douchebaggery and instead kicked him out of class.

C)      He punched a teacher. His shop teacher was unhappy with his work and hit him over the head with a piece of wood. He sustained a black eye and broken nose. Naturally, he retaliated, punching the teacher in the face and putting her in a coma.

He explained to me what it was like to grow up in Belfast, which is the Parramore of Ireland. His neighborhood was so shitty that even the armored police cars refused to control it. However, he assured me that instances of burglary were very low. The main worry was being hit by a mortar shell. Wonderful.

Somehow this conversation lead to more kissing, and we went back inside. I left him to entertain our house cat and I secretly pounded back a couple shots of vodka in the kitchen. Finally a little drunk, I am no longer too sober for this.

We made out a little bit more, went to sleep, and in the morning I returned him to his hotel. On the drive over, Irishman half-jokingly mentioned that he really wants American citizenship. He told me to let him know if I’d be interested in entering into a scam marriage with him.

I doubt that anyone who knows me would be surprised if that’s how my first marriage came about. It worked for Ryan Reynolds and Sandra Bullock, right?

-KFD

S: Dying
KFD: Really? Cuz I’m living the dream right now. I want a plaque to commemorate this.

It’s 8 a.m. and this is the text conversation I have with S. There is a naked Aussie snoring next to me. Every time he makes a sound I poke him. This is annoying. In the next bed there is a hungover Indian. At some point after her World Whore Tour last night she got hungry. In lieu of silverware she broke off a wedge of Styrofoam to help shovel pasta down her gullet. There is photographic evidence of this.

My eyes are a little red, but other than that I feel amazing. This is a testament to the amount of alcohol I can consume on a normal basis.

I turn on my side and can see the Aussie’s back. He has a tattoo written in gothic-style font. It’s in Latin. “Sic Vita Est.”

Whatever can this mean? Being the creepiest person alive, I grab my iPhone and enter the text into Google. It translates into “such is life”. I silently shake my head and suddenly remember noticing the tattoo the night before. When I asked him what his tattoo meant he said “It means ‘don’t get a tattoo when you’re drunk’.” At least he knows it’s stupid, too.

Marcus sends me a text and invites us to breakfast. S sends me a text before getting out of bed to get cleaned up.

S: Occupy yourself. I’m not wearing pants.

Almost on cue, Steven turns over and begins cuddling me like a koala. I try to sit up, but the little bugger has me held down. I guess there can be too much of a good thing. Still clothed, I lay there, forced to listen to his snoring. Dammit, he’s so lucky he’s pretty and has that irresistible accent.

After 20 minutes I finally succeed in waking him up.

KFD: Hey…uh…we’re going to grab breakfast with Marcus at 9:15. You should come with.
Steven: Who is that? Why are we up so early?
KFD: Marcus is the guy we were hanging out with at the bar last night.
Steven: Really? You’re going to eat breakfast with someone you talked to for 15 minutes last night?

Steven obviously does not see the humor and hypocrisy in what he’s just said. He gets up to leave, either unaware or not bothered by his nudity. S, on the other hand, is now very aware and turns to face the other way.

We kiss, he walks toward the door, blows one more kiss and disappears from sight. Bye bye, Aussie.

I change shirts, push my inexplicably greasy hair behind my ears, and S and I go downstairs to meet with Marcus. At breakfast, the three of us fill each other in on the missing details of our nights while we closely examine pictures of the Aussies. Sigh. So much pretty. The conversation runs the gamut from gingers, tranny porn, California and stalker cops. Of course I’m the only one drinking.

Marcus, we are coming to party with you. Eventually.

S and I go back upstairs and start doing some damage to our bottle of Smirnoff. We check out of the room at noon, accidentally forgetting our precious bottle. In hindsight, that was probably for the best.

Still giddy from the night before, we declare that the theme of the day is WWII, or World Whore II. We are going to dominate the foreigners on the strip with our drunken ways. The only obstacle is determining where the foreigners can be found…

Being that I’m culturally ignorant and drunk, I decide that they’ll probably be at the tackiest hotels on the strip.

To the Excalibur!

We take our to-go vodka sprites and head toward one of the fugliest hotels in existence. There is a beverage cart near the front of the casino that has a special on jello shots. Three for $5. I believe you have made yourself a sale, good sir.

We take our (nasty) jello shots to commemorate our faux-marriage and decide to make up for lost time by taking an unnecessary amount of drunken pictures. It’s 12:30, by the way. No one else is as drunk or jovial as us.

We begin to take pictures of everything when a pretty passes by. He’s wearing a green shirt and we decide he is worthy of being immortalized on camera. The psycho hosebeast (his one-night stand?) behind him decides otherwise.

Unfazed, we move on. We walk down the strip, drinking and leering at could-be foreigners along the way. We stop at a pub, deciding to, I quote, “pub it the fuck up”. Too bad there were three people in the joint.

It’s close to 2 p.m. and my tongue has yet to make international relations.

We walk down the strip and walk into a giant crazy in the loudest orange shirt I have ever seen. We tell him the good news of our marriage and he doles out some noteworthy advice.

Crazy: Hey. Hey…Make sure, no matter what; you take her out on a date once a week. Keep it special.
KFD: Yes, sir.

Our marriage stronger than ever, S and I continue down the strip until I notice a familiar whole-in-the-wall Irish pub.

In August of 2008 I sat on the curb of this establishment (O’Sheas) at 5 a.m. while I tried to rearrange my flight back to Orlando. Oh Vegas, I adore you.

Surely there will be foreigners here! I spot a poofy-haired pretty sitting at the bar. Seems like a foreigner, so we walk in.

Not five steps in and the poofy-haired pretty greets us. Score! Unfortunately he is domestic, but hey, pretty is pretty.

Poofy-haired pretty is Kevin, a Mormon missionary. In Vegas. Yeah. He’s sitting at the bar with his Mormon buddy, Christian.

Christian: Look at the rack on her!

I know how to make an impression.

The boys invite us to sit with them and they immediately order four Miller Lites and four shots of tequila. Really?! More tequila? Where’s the creativity?

Mere moments into our conversation and Christian asks when we’re going to do it. Classy. I focus on my beer.

Poofy-haired Mormon, also known as Kevin, spots an Asian man working in the casino and proceeds to speak to him in Tagalog. Kevin is about as white-bred as they come, by the way. The Asian man responds back in a low whisper and tells us that he’ll get in big trouble if he’s caught speaking Tagalog in the casino. He never elaborates why…

“Excuse me!!”

S and I look over and see an ample-chested woman with severe eyebrows glaring at us.

S: You’re excused.

Her glare turns into a smile and she tells us that poofy-haired Mormon put her up to it. S and I declare her to be our mother. Yes, that is how drunk we are by 3 p.m. Oddly enough, the Mormons seem to be on the same level as us and they go with it.

Mom isn’t happy about her new status and protests that she’s only 46. We’re 22. She’s still Mom.

Mom comes over and compliments our cleavage. Just like a good Mom, feeding our egos. Our new brothers agree. This family clearly belongs in West Virginia.

An older Irishman walks over and begins chatting with mom. Dad!!

Dad is awesome. He picks up the tab for the beers and shots and pulls S aside to tell her to be careful. We love our new family. So much, in fact, that we decide to take a picture. As we hover at the corner of the bar another Irishman comes up. Uncle Frank!

After we’re done taking pictures a man in a green shirt approaches. It’s the walk of shame guy from the morning! It turns out heis the third member of the Mormon entourage. What are the odds?

We continue talking with the Mormons and I (per usual) dole out some nicknames. Christian is now B-Even, as in not a B plus or a B minus. For some reason this upsets him and I’m left with a sulky Mormon who won’t speak to me. Oh well.

S and I also mention the fictitious book deal. Kevin is unnaturally excited about it. Not only does he decide to contribute chapter names, he wants to be one of our book tour groupies. Yes, when Maren and I publish our brilliance, we will have groupies. And an open bar.

Over the course of the night, Kevin, B-Even and Mark (walk of shame guy) come up with several chapter titles, including:

Ch 7 – I’m DTF
Ch 1 – C in my M
Ch 3 – Monday Night Football
Ch 4 – Base pay is 50
Ch 12- Arizona is giving Tucson back to Mexico
Ch 5 – I want to F my chick raw dog
Ch 6 – Snort it off her cooch
Ch 8 – It’s not the walk of shame if it’s from your own bedroom
Mystery Chapters – Cs get degrees, put that in your pipe and smoke it, and Why is he so into anal?

After an hour at what turned out to be the most insane hole-in-the-wall casino on the strip, S and I take our leave. As we walk out Mom looks at us and says “Good luck in your loooooooove connection.”

Oh, Mom. You so crazy.

It’s clear that after the mass amounts of alcohol we have consumed we need to put some food in our systems. We stop at Serendipity, a new restaurant outside of Caesar’s Palace. I vaguely remember the food being good. That’s about it.

During our meal, S receives a text from Kevin. The guys are at the Wynn watching a game that they bet on. Yes, these were the gambling, drinking, smoking, and groping kind of Mormons. And I thought the ones in Orlando were bad…

S and I stumble toward the Wynn and meet up with them. There are no available seats (and I don’t want to sit on B-Even’s lap) so I have a seat on the floor. Try and tell me I don’t exude class.

“Oh Shannon!” This is B-Even’s quote of the night. He says it’s from a porno involving two ladies (one named Shannon, and one who is very concerned about Shannon’s well-being) and two plumbers. If anyone has a copy I am dying to better understand this.

B-Even starts telling me jokes. I unleash my cackle, much to the room’s dismay. There is no denying my intoxication.

Later, Mark and B-Even begin discussing erections. They want to know why ladies can walk around with their boobs hanging out but guys can’t show off a boner through their shorts. Not thinking anything of it, S and I agree. Hey, we’re progressive ladies, right?

We meet up with a girl from UCF (let’s call her ‘N’) and leave the casino. Our flight is about three hours away and we should consider sobering up.

B-Even stays behind, but Kevin and Mark walk us out. As I exit, Mark grabs me and kisses me. Huh? I bring up the fact that we haven’t really spoken, but this seems like a trivial comment to him.

As we walk he walks up behind me and puts his arms around me. Something is poking me in my lower back.

KFD: Do you have an erection?
Mark: Just go with it.

Apparently I was lying earlier. I definitely have a problem with guys walking around with erections. Especially if they’re Mormon strangers who like giving hugs.

S and I tell the guys we’ll meet up with them before we leave (because we’re realistic like that) and N, being the doll that she is, graciously drives us back to the New York New York. We stop and grab an appetizer at America. This is the 5^th time I’ve been there in 24 hours and now I feel creepy.

Joe, our bartender from the previous night, recognizes us at our booth and stops by to chat. Did I mention how amazing S and I are?

S is on top of her game today and is still drinking with me. She is also texting Kevin, who has joined the masses and is in stage 1 of getting his life wrecked by her.  We interrogate N on what it’s like to live in Vegas, which is becoming a more attractive option every day.

We leave America and the guys are waiting for us in the casino. We have an hour and a half until our flight. This isn’t looking good. The guys walk us to N’s car and Kevin pleads with S not to leave. Jesus, does the woman lactate beer?! They embrace and I awkwardly say bye to Mark and B-Even.

N gives us a lift to the airport and we hurry to check our bags in. The lady at the front desk is horrifying! Her mouth is painted red and permanently sneering and her eyes blink independently of one another. I am paralyzed. If I should speak I know I’ll end up doing some combination of laughing and crying. I let S do the talking while I try (and fail) not to stare.

Obviously I couldn’t get a picture, but she looked something like this.

As soon as we walked away I began to furiously text Maren.

KFD: Omg. Flight attendant has a crazy winky eye twitch. Why aren’t you here? Oh my good god. And a crazy sneer. Note to self – don’t pound drinks 11 hours straight before a flight. At least I’ll sleep?

Maren: More like you’ll coma
KFD: Even better

As I text Maren I accidentally walk into a turnstile. Right in front of TSA.

TSA: Had a little fun on this trip?
S: :::shrugs:::

As it turns out, getting coma-drunk on a plane is a terrible idea. Especially if you pass out while they take beverage orders. I woke up during the middle of the flight, sweaty and dehydrated. Bad times.

By the time our plane lands, S and I are cranky and our tongues and eyes are swollen. Pleasantries cannot be communicated. We have been reduced to zombies. It is 6 a.m. EST and we are hateful. The only joy comes in knowing that Vanesa will soon be here to pick us up.

Except she doesn’t.

We wait. Then we wait some more. We begin to get frantic and try to text and call the few people our age who may actually be up at 6:30 a.m. Guess how well that goes?

At 7:15, we end up settling on a $60 cab ride back to the UCF area. It feels like even when we’re thousands of miles away, Vegas is still able to take our money. This is made apparent by the gambling voucher for $3.81 that I find in my wallet.

Dammit, Vegas! I love you.

P.S. Alphabet game was a bust. I made out with a Mark, Mark, Marcus, Steve and Steve. S fared better and was able to snag a Shane, Kevin/Cameron, Tom, and Jim. You win this round.

Our fourth day in Vegas will be the day that all future Vegas journeys will be compared to.

We woke up early, around 9 a.m., bright-eyed and fresh-faced. Three days in Vegas and we feel like seasoned drinkers, ready to take the world on.

S and I are no longer able to be influenced by vodka or beer. We are looking for that next high.

Once again, we had no major plans for the day. All we knew is that we were stopping by the tattoo show to see an old bartender friend of mine (and dodge the hottie cops) and we wanted to see Thunder From Down Under, a show about half-naked Australians. After all, who doesn’t like a barely-clothed Aussie?

S, if you’re reading this you can stop your laughing.

As happy as I was for another day in Vegas, I was a little concerned that I had reached a drinking plateau. Would I ever know the difference between drunk and sober again? That question would plague my day.

Determined to get drunk, S and I start off with in-room vodka sprites and head out to the casino floor. After throwing more money away on those godforsaken penny slots we walk to the Miracle Mile Shops in search of breakfast.

Las Vegas is surprisingly dead at 10:30 a.m. on a Sunday. Where are the veteran partiers? It probably didn’t help that it was 65 degrees and windy outside. When Floridians travel to the desert, we typically don’t pack a sweatshirt.

We arrive at the shops and, overwhelmed by hunger, find the nearest place that serves food and alcohol. That place turned out to be Blondie’s Sports Bar, home of the most deep-fried food I have ever seen in my life. And I live in the freakin’ south.

Eating on this trip was done more out of necessity than anything else, so we chose a sampler platter to share. The sampler consisted of jalapeno poppers, corn dogs, boneless wings, chicken strips, and onion rings. My friend, you could not differentiate one item from another. They were all dark brown, crispy and amorphous.

S and I had low expectations to begin with, so we shoveled down what we could and finished our beers, excited to get back to the strip and hoping it would warm up.

Nope. Still cold. And we’re still sober enough to feel. Since S and I didn’t want to shell out money on a sweatshirt, we did the next best thing – 18-inch margaritas from Salsa Cantina. What we didn’t realize is that they’d be frozen. S ordered a raspberry margarita and I chose mango.

After taking a long sip I paused, turned to S and said, “I’m pretty sure I’ll be vomiting up mango tonight.”

I was only half right.

Cold, but determined to get drunk and get inside, we began our trek. Another day in Vegas has made us wiser and we easily find the tram that goes from the Excalibur to Mandalay Bay.

I fear that running into my friend while holding a giant margarita will earn his disapproval and make me feel like a tourist, so we hang back in the casino for a bit while we nurse our cocktails. We also – surprise – spend more on the slot machines.

We finish all we can and go in search of Shaun, my buddy who is showcasing his clothing line at the tattoo show. We follow him into the building and immediately realize that we do not fit in. At all.

The first exhibit is a platform where giant Samoans are holding a lady down and hammering tattoos into her thigh. What have we gotten ourselves into? Being that we have one tiny tattoo between the two of us, we walk quickly and avoid making eye contact with the convention-goers. I feel uncomfortable and out-of-place.

After 45 minutes we find Shaun, thank him and go back to our hotel. It’s 3 p.m. and we’re already tired. We try to take a nap, but have trouble falling asleep. S suggests that we rent The Hangover so I can finally join society and catch all the jokes that have been going over my head this week.

While watching the movie I consult a co-worker from back home about my concerns.

KFD: I drank myself sober. Think my liver is broke
Laurel: Wtf? I didn’t think that was possible
KFD: Me either! I feel like I’ve malfunctioned or transcended into another realm of alcoholism
Laurel: Im pretty sure it’s a temporary malfunction. Drink more. It will hit you.
KFD: Best advice ever!
Laurel: Lol i am a pretty wise lady. My advice to everyone is keep drinking.

I take her advice to heart, pull myself up by my boot straps, and make a strong vodka sprite. I make one for S too, but she isn’t as determined. It’s okay though, she makes up for it in spades later on.

The movie is great and now I understand the “Dr. Faggot” text from the morning before. Still in our beds, we try to sleep, but to no avail.

Determined to break through this sobriety issue we go down to America, a cute little restaurant in the hotel’s lobby.

We take our seats and receive wonderful service. I love this hotel. Vodka doesn’t seem to be doing the trick so we make the brave switch to Pinot Grigio.

Then it happens. For the first time in a day I can feel the alcohol coursing through my body. S and I have made a wonderful decision. I send a celebratory text to Laurel.

KFD: Thanks for your amazing advice! Worked like a charm
Laurel: Perfect! So your liver is properly not processing alcohol so you can get drunk? That’s awesome!
KFD: Wine was the answer. It always is
Laurel: Wine fucks everyone I know. It’s always a good choice.
KFD: It’s such a slut
Laurel: It sure is. That’s why I like it.

S has chicken alfredo and I order the white pizza. Everything is delicious and we are back on top of the world.

We thank our server and walk out of the restaurant when we see four men walking by in kilts. I must be their friends. I try to chase them, but S restrains me. I am not happy.

We put our leftovers in the room and make our way back down. Foreigners are now on the menu for tonight.

S and I frantically search for our kilted pals, but we can’t find them anywhere. Inconsolable, we return to America and have a seat at the bar.

Meet our second favorite bartender, Joe.

Joe is a stone cold fox who truly understands his guests. I asked for a shot of something vodka-based and not sweet and he returned with a shot of warm vodka. This guy gets it. After S and I told him about our trip (and the book deal) he looked at us and, awestruck, said “I want to party with you girls.”

This is our life.

At some point during our time at the bar, S and I seriously contemplate getting married. Unfortunately the annulment fee serves as a detractor. We compromise and settle for an FBO (Facebook official) marriage.

Sufficiently drunk and back in the warm embrace of vodka, we go back into the main hotel in search of foreigners.

We select the Bar at Times Square as the most likely location to find these elusive creatures. We pay cover, get our hands stamped, and enter the bar. Five steps into the packed bar and some guy bumps into me and does that “sorry-i-bumped-into-you” yelp.

KFD: Gee, thanks. People yelling because I touched them make me feel just great.
Mystery Guy: Oh, I’m sorry love!
KFD: Hey…Where are you from?
Mystery Guy: Australia.

With that, I turn and look at S. She can’t help but laugh. This is what we call fate. Thank you, excessive amounts of alcohol, for helping me be drunk enough to flirt!

KFD: Oh wow! How’s your trip so far?
Hot Aussie: Great! What are you two up to tonight?
KFD: It’s our last night here!
Hot Aussie: Ours too! Wow, we have so much in common!
KFD: I know! We should hang out!
Hot Aussie: Come meet us on that side of the bar! We’re shooting tequila!

Music to my ears.

We mosey over to the bar and wait for his return. Pleased with myself, I send a text to Maren to let her know my good fortune.

KFD: God has smiled upon me with a mystery Australian.

Hot Aussie has returned and we find out his name is Steven. So much for making progress on the Alphabet game. Steven is at the bar with Ginger Australian (who will come to be known as Kevin/Cameron) and two randoms. The randoms are Marcus and Trish. Clearly this will be a battle over who gets the Aussies.

The four of them do a shot and Steven invites us to join in. For the first time in a long time, I feel a little queasy from drinking, and I suggest that maybe a vodka shot would be best. S, who feels like pulling a bitch move, declares that she can handle tequila.

The vomit she left in my living room a month ago begs to differ.

I refuse to look like an asshole, so I jump on the tequila bandwagon. The Aussies quickly return with shots of Sauza. I’m having serious misgivings.

I shoot the tequila and my stomach hates me. Marcus, thinking he’s being helpful, offers me a sip of his drink as a chaser.

He’s drinking jagermeister and cranberry juice.

I vomit immediately. My first reaction is to catch it in my hands. It is not mango flavored and there is an excessive amount of cheese. The expulsion of my stomach contents brings a strange clarity to my thoughts. There is no way in Hell I’m letting a little bit of vomit come in the way between me and my life goals.

I make sure that the Aussie didn’t notice the incident and I find a bathroom. A stack of napkins, a sip of water, and six breathmints later and I’m back in the game. I find out the next day that while I was gone he vomited all over the bar. See? Soul mates.

Vomiting did the trick and I’ve never felt better. Now I can chat up Steven. I find out that him and Kevin/Cameron have been on vacation for a month and a half, visiting Miami, Cancun, and now Vegas. His Vegas claim to fame is jumping in the main Bellagio fountain. Naked. I look at the picture and declare him my hero.

I also find out that he’s in the Australian Air Force.

KFD: The Air Force? Who do you guys fight?
Steven: No one. We just fly around.

In between my pathetic and over-the-top attempts at flirting, Marcus tries to court Steven. And by court I mean rape. He’s lifting up his shirt, offering up blow jobs and simulating analingus, but Steven doesn’t understand.

Hey, the pretty ones aren’t always smart.

Somehow, Marcus convinces Steven to kiss him on camera. They lock lips and Marcus goes in for the kill, shoving his tongue down the unsuspecting Aussie’s throat.

Steven looks perplexed and I ask him what’s wrong.

Steven: I didn’t know he was gay.
KFD: …What?

Rather than explain the obvious signs, I focus on the foreign pretty that is before me.

Kevin/Cameron: Well, Steven needs to kiss a girl now so he can feel better.

I am more than happy to oblige. The Aussie Adonis grabs me with both arms and we kiss. I am over-the-moon happy. I mentally pat myself on the back for completing a life goal.

Kevin/Cameron sees this as an opportunity to keep up with the Joneses and grabs S and kisses her. I don’t have the heart to tell her that he’s a ginger.

Steven and I are completely trashed, standing chest to chest and staring into each other’s eyes. Marcus leans in close and whispers in my ear “His eyes say ‘I’m in love’ and yours say ‘bullshit’.”

Marcus is fantastic.

Steven expresses his desire to keep kissing.

KFD: S. Room key. Now.

S looks at me and I continue to implore her to give me the damn room key. Marcus, Trish, Kevin/Cameron, and S look on in disbelief as Steven and I make a hasty exit. This is why I love S. She may have indirectly contributed to my vomit, but she makes up for it by being a self-sufficient drunk. Well, 85 percent of the time.

Steven and I get back to the room when suddenly he has a crisis of conscience.

Steven: I can’t do anything. I’m a good boy! I just want to cuddle.

What?! This weird role reversal makes me feel icky. I’m not about to let this kid keep me from my life goals. Fortunately, I’m able to make a very persuasive argument and we hit the sheets.

That’s when he slaps me across the face. I’m a little taken aback and I have no idea what else to do besides go with it. After all, my International Communication class taught me about cultural sensitivity…

Things are progressing nicely when I hear a knock at the door.

KFD and Steven: Ten more minutes!

No dice. The knock persists. I grab my phone to text S and take multitasking to a new level. It’s just my luck that I have no signal.

I run to the door to give her a guilt trip about interrupting. I open the door to find her sitting Indian style (ha-ha) on the ground and looking up at me.

S: People are following me!
KFD: What?
S: The Aussie was skeezy and now more guys are trying to find me!

While I was entertaining Steven, S was down at the bar going on a World Whore Tour. She managed to make out with Aussie, a Brit, and an Irishman. Things were going just dandy until all of the men ended up approaching her at the same time. Terrified by the impending altercation, S hightailed it out of the bar and back up to the hotel room at the most inopportune time.

I plead with her to find another bar, but she’s drunk and hungry, so I’m forced to let her in. Amazingly, she still wants to drink, so Steven and I go back down to America and wait for her at the bar.

At this point in the evening “bar” shouldn’t even be in our vocabulary. I am too drunk to feign cutesy-niceness and my inner-bitch is beginning to bubble toward the surface. We get to the bar and Steven orders two vodka sprites and two shots of Patron. Just what we need, more tequila.

Joe is long gone and Daniel is now the bartender on duty. Daniel and I educate Steven about the American tipping system. Steven is a stubborn learner and naïve to boot. He is appalled when I tell him that my first salaried position only paid $27,000 a year. He deems America an unfit place to live and begins to tell me about the glorious continent of Australia.

The vodka in my bloodstream is making me say horrifically stupid things.

KFD: I know! I have been obsessed with Australia since I was five. Mostly because a lot of their animals’ names start with a ‘K’. Like the koala, kookaburra, and kangaroo.

I proceed to sing a line of a song I learned about kookaburras. I’m so lucky that I have boobs sometimes. Steven smiles, looks at me sympathetically and pats my leg. I’m assuming each of us secretly thinks that the other is an idiot.

Steven: Katie, I don’t want to drink anymore. I just want to cuddle. Is it gay that I just want to take you upstairs and cuddle you?

To my credit, I stifle my giggle and don’t bring up his homoerotic male kiss just hours before. Now that could be filed under ‘gay’.

S is a no show, so we tab out and make our way back upstairs. I decide that to be more culturally sensitive I should try to communicate with him in his native language – stereotypical Australian. We begin talking about Aussie culture when the topic of actors comes up.

Steven: Hands down, Hugh Jackman is the greatest actor in Hollywood.
KFD: Oh really? No Tom Cruise? I bet you think Paul Hogan is a national treasure, too.
Steven: We have amazing actors! Hugh Jackman, Heath Ledger…
KFD: Nicole Kidman? Russel Crowe?
Steven: Russel Crowe is a great actor!
KFD: Better than Tom Hanks? Denzel Washington?
Steven: I can name several movies where Russel Crowe out-acted Denzel Washington.
KFD:  Russel Crowe is out-of-work, fat, and has a shitty band.
At this point I believe I start quoting Crocodile Dundee and telling him that New Zealand is better than Australia. Why? I don’t know. Guess I’m just an antagonistic drunk.
This escalates into – I shit you not – a shoving match. But a sexy shoving match? I’m too drunk to look at this as anything more than flirting.

We get to the door of the room and find out that I have managed to demagnetize yet another room key. That makes number four for this trip. We knock loudly, but S is in a coma. I try to call and leave a voicemail.

KFD: Hey…S…This…is…Katie…I demagnetized ANOTHER card and I can’t get in the room…Hopefully you come to the door in two minutes or else…I’m going to the…Monte Carlo…Talk to you soon!

S, my savior, wakes up and lets us in. I go to the restroom.  When I come out Steven is already nestled in my bed.

KFD: Are you naked?
Steven: Yeah, so?
KFD: Uh…S is right there.
Steven: Geez, you Americans are so uptight! Why can’t people just hang out naked around each other? It’s not like we’re having sex. In my country we do this all the time.

You can’t argue with logic like that.

I crawl into bed, completely clothed, and fall asleep in the arms of the drunkest Aussie I will ever meet.

Drunken awkward morning in 3…2…1…

Walk of shame #1 is complete and Dr. Steve is gone.

S and I share a giggle, get cleaned up and get back to what we do best – guzzle vodka.

Earlier, we promised to meet the hottie cops at the world’s largest tattoo convention, which was being held at Mandalay Bay. We figure we’d grab a drink, do some gambling, and make our way over there. Shouldn’t take long since it’s only four hotels down, right?

We’ll get to that…

Before we do anything, we stop back at Nine Fine Irishmen to grab a drink from Lucas. He sees us take our seats and smiles.

“A Stoli Razz and sprite and a vodka tonic?”

Best. Bartender. Ever.

It’s a little bit slower in the pub (Why don’t more people start drinking at 10 a.m.?) so we have an opportunity to talk with Lucas. We learn that he’s a Cali native, a shitty gambler, and a real estate expert. He tells us that we should consider moving to Vegas and we wholeheartedly agree.

After one (strong) drink we consider moving on, but before we can tab out Lucas returns with two more drinks. Same thing happens after drink #2.

This is not the first time I’ve been extremely drunk before noon.

Glassy eyed and smiling, we finally tab out and see that we’ve only been charged for two drinks. I want this man’s babies. We tip generously, say our goodbyes and go in search of the nearest restroom.

I wish out loud that the bathroom stalls have drink holders.

Ladies and gentlemen, dreams do come true. I love this town.

When we get off the escalator we are manhandled by Mexicans who, for some reason, are super excited to see us. I’m drunk, but not drunk enough to unlock the Tower of Babel in my head and understand them, so I just go with it (not the first time that will be said this trip). We brandish our drinks, do our best sorority skinny arm and take pictures.

We exit the hotel and are greeted by Vegas’ beautiful weather. We cross the bridge and begin our way down the twist and turns of the MGM Grand to hop aboard the monorail. We get there in 20 minutes, only to find out that the monorail doesn’t go to Mandalay Bay. Fuck.

Thus begins the most annoying journey of our lives.

Somehow we get from the MGM to the Tropicana, then a clear stretch of open road. It’s hot, alcohol is emanating from our pores and Mandalay Bay isn’t getting any closer. We’re finally able to cross the street near the Luxor and S decides it’s picture time. She poses in the middle of the street, near an Egyptian statue, then in the lap of the Egyptian statue. This is the last time her knees will feel great on this trip.

It takes about an hour and a half to get from the New York New York to Mandalay Bay. As soon as we get on the property, S slips on some water and busts her ass. Hard.

The tension from the walk is broken and I am happy to laugh at her pain.

We meet up with hottie cops at Eye Candy. Awkwardness ensues. Shane, her cop, is talkative. Mark, my cop, is reserved. Mystery friend Mike, no one’s cop/boy (ever), is unkempt and weird. Luckily, we only have to spend 20 minutes before Mark enters his retarded tattoos in a competition.

After they depart we continue to drink and pour money into the penny slots. I somehow turn $5 into $50 on the nickel slots, only to lose it all ten minutes later. I am an idiot. Fortunately the vodka keeps flowing and I’m too tipsy to care.

S and I get hungry and we head over to a Chinese restaurant and enjoy some delicious pad thai noodles and roasted duck. The boys get out early (Mark’s homage to Batman didn’t win – shocker) so we pop some gum and meet back up.

I send a quick text to Maren.

KFD: Making out with cop round 2: electric boogaloo

Even drunk, talking to Mark is awkward. Good thing I have S and Shane sucking face as a distraction. S shows off her wounded knee and gives Shane more reason to fawn over her. I get to hear about Sylvester Stallone’s pill problem and the winning tattoo, a leg piece dedicated to news clippings of Hiroshima. What?!

Fortunately for us, Shane’s “Most Retarded Back Tat” (edit: may not be what it was actually called) competition was set to begin, so we leave and make plans to meet up with them later. Joy.

S and I get home in time for our daily nap. Scotty comes in and wakes us up to get ready for Zumanity, Cirque Du Soleil’s sexy acrobatics show. This is a must-see if you go to Vegas. The perfect combination of humor, athleticism and eroticism.

Once again, S and Scotty have tapped out. Amateurs. I have achieved the impossible and drank myself sober. This pisses me off to no end. Like the determined drunk I am, I chug a margarita with marginal success.

We leave the show and go our separate ways. Scotty to his blackjack tables and S and I to Gonzalez Y Gonzalez. We steel our stomachs with quesadillas to get us through the rest of the night. The extra-large margaritas we drank were just for funsies.

During dinner, S gets a text from Shane. The guys are ready to meet up again. Oh, and Shane was eliminated before the competition. Too bad. We finish our drinks and head over to the MGM Grand to meet up with them. It’s only 10 p.m., but S and I are exhausted and less than enthusiastic about meeting up. We suck it up and do it in the name of pretty.

We get to the MGM Grand and pass our good friend, the lion cage cleaning lady. It takes them what feels like forever to get to the hotel, so we waste time (and precious pennies) on the slot machines. They finally meet up and Mr. Assertive Cop can’t think of a place to go. S mans up and makes the decision to go to the West Wing Bar, a super posh, dimly lit lounge. Good decision, S.

We grab a round of drinks and entertain our respective boys. I can hear S and Shane chattering about all sorts of stuff (I will find out later that he’s interrogating her about all things relationship-oriented). Ya know why I can hear that? Because Mark is saying a whole lot of nothing. The things he does say make me sad for Georgia’s public school system.

I dropped my beverage napkin and he got me a new one.
Mark: See? Monogamy isn’t dead!
KFD: You mean chivalry?
Mark: …

He did, however, get points for making a Romy and Michelle reference when we were talking about high school reunions.

It’s getting late and the boys walk with us back to our hotel. We get one more round of drinks at the Bar at Times Square. This is when Shane carves out a prominent place on my shit list.

Shane: You’re only 22?
KFD: Yep.
Shane: Wow, I would have guessed that you were older than us. I mean, the way you present yourself…
KFD: I know. I get that a lot.
Shane: I mean, geez, by 30 you’re really going to be a hard core bitch.

I clench my jaw and smile, but more in the way that a wolf bares its teeth. I pride myself on not being a cockblock, so I bite my tongue and let it slide. Plus, he has a concealed weapons permit and is on the SWAT team. I’m not dumb.

Soon he goes back to being entranced by S and her feminine wiles. Let’s talk about S for a second. I don’t fucking understand. She takes normal guys and ruins their shit, turning them into groveling pools of jelly and possessiveness. She is to flirting what I am to insults (probably not an SAT-caliber analogy).

Shane is trying his hardest to get an invite to the room, but S isn’t having it. She asks emphatically if I’m tired and I tell her that I would love to catch some shut-eye. We leave the guys for the very last time and go to bed, still sober and at a normal hour.

Easily our tamest day in Vegas.

Damn you jet lag!

We find ourselves waking up at 8 a.m. on day two. Extremely red-eyed with blistered feet but, overall, not too bad.

This is my sign from the above that I haven’t drank enough.

Not so for S and Scotty. They complain that they’re hungover, so they are less than enthusiastic when I suggest that we find a bar. It’s Vegas, bitches! Sobriety is the only real sin in this town.

We all agree to explore the strip a little bit more. It’s ten times more enjoyable when you’re wearing flip flops, by the way. (Although those will also find a way to betray me.) We stop at a couple of the resorts before ending up at the Bellagio.

It’s 10:30 a.m., we’re not drinking, and I begin to get annoyed, so I text my spiritual (alcohol is a spirit, right?) advisor, Maren.

KFD: No one else is drinking?! Where the F are you?
Maren: No one else is drinking? Who the F did you go with?
KFD: They stopped drinking after 12 hours. Wusses.
Maren: Blowhards. Don’t they know they’re in the holy land?
KFD: I’m gonna drink one for the both of us. Out of vengeance.
Maren: Yes! Carry on! I’ll do some remote drinking from here.

We arrive at the Bellagio and I have reached my breaking point. Just give me a damn mimosa! Before we can belly up to the bar, Scotty and S want to tour the botanical gardens.

The gardens are themed to the season and are a combination of beautiful and frightening. Obviously it’s an autumn theme right now. But the Bellagio can’t just do traditional decorations. Instead, they have 650-pound pumpkins, their ever-present creepy talking tree and a sinister, pedophile troll tree sitting with his legs spread over a pumpkin patch. If that doesn’t induce nightmares, I don’t know what does!

Finally, three hours after waking up we make it to a bar. They’re lucky I didn’t have the shakes. I jubilantly order my much-desired mimosa. S and Scotty order…(suspenseful pause)…water.

Twenty minutes later, they realize we’re in Las Vegas and order drinks as we settle in to the penny slots.

I don’t consider myself a gambler, but toss in free drinks and the added bonus of only spending 30 cents at a time and I can get used to the idea.

This is the beginning of the end for my wallet.

S and I are on a roll. We are chugging vodka and raping those penny slots. My $10 win makes me feel like a white trash queen. Scotty ventures forth and finds a home at the blackjack table.

Penny slots become tiresome and we begin feeling a bit peckish, so we head further down the strip until we get to the Venetian. The beauty of the Venetian makes S and I realize we need to marry rich and become kept women. A pretty noble goal, in my opinion.

We grab lunch at an Italian restaurant (home of the douchiest, most condescending server known to man) and head back to our hotel to continue drinking and gambling.

As we walk, my phone signals that I have an e-mail. It’s a message from Loopt. Some guy in Vegas wanted me to join AA. I’m not sure if I should be honored or disheartened.

Once we get back, S and I go to our land of cheap slots and Scotty hits up the blackjack tables again. While at the penny slots we find ourselves striking up a conversation with two young men.

Meet Manny, the Mexican French-Canadian. First of all, that is a mindfuck of a heritage. Have you ever heard a Mexi/Canuck accent? Odd. Very odd. But that isn’t what makes Manny special. Manny will always be remembered for proudly showing us that he is down one digit. He lost half of his pointer finger in a tragic sheet metal accident.

Note to the male species – some chicks may dig scars, but no one digs stumps.

Through Manny’s harrowing tale, we learned that the Canadian health care system sucks. Apparently the hospital “misplaced” him and he was found at another hospital down the road. I suppose I no longer have to be jealous of our neighbor to the north.

Bless his heart, he was a really good sport about his condition. While he can no longer effectively display the peace sign (because it gets confused for flipping the bird), he can now tell time on his left hand in half-hours. Genius!

We excuse ourselves from our new friends and make our way back to the room. But first we hit up the bill breaker to collect our winnings. That’s when we hear a familiar voice.

“Hey ladies, I saw you in my bar today but you didn’t sit down.”

It was our dear friend Lucas from Nine Fine Irishmen. We got recognized from a distance by a bartender we had just met? That, my friends, is how you do Vegas.

The reason we hadn’t sat down was because a) it was packed and b) we were distracted by a drunken bachelor party making Chewbacca noises. Duh.

S and I promised we’d see him again before we leave and head up to the room for a mid-afternoon nap.

Side Note- On our first day we decided to play the alphabet game, thought up by a girl from my job and her roommate. The point of this game is to make out with 26 people whose names begin with a different letter from the alphabet by the end of 2009. S and I are cheater so we counted everyone from the beginning of the year. This put us up at about five or six people apiece. This ends up influencing decisions later on.

An hour later we feel refreshed and ready to drink. But where to go? This is where “fate” and “no expectations” come into play.

We casually notice on a sheet of paper that Rok Vegas has happy hour from 6 to 8 p.m. on its patio. They have a special on vodka and Red Bull. Sold!

We gussy up and make our way down, expecting there to be a crowd.

Ha.

Aside from some wildebeests, a small group of guys, and two guys with a girl, it is slim pickings. We grab a drink and sit down in the corner. Prime people watching area.

Side Note #2 – Ever heard of the game Gay, Straight, or British? Of course you haven’t. I pioneered it during my days hostessing near Disney. Basically, if you see a man approach you wearing, for example, khaki manpris, a pink polo and perfectly-coiffed hair (maybe in a faux-hawk?), you have to make a judgment call. Gay, straight, or British? Nine times out of 10 the answer is straight British, but there are the rare combinations of gay American, gay Brit, and poorly-styled straight southerner.

We looked at the two guys with the girl and played a quick game of GSoB. British, like always.

We then notice that the small group of guys is made up of a couple of pretties. And that it’s a bachelor party. We must tread carefully and figure out who is the groom before we can call dibs.

S, once again, sees our in. One guy is wearing a UF shirt and another is wearing a UF hat. Could it be that they, too, are from Florida?

As we slink back to the bar to grab round two, S approaches and engages the men in conversation. They are actually from Arizona. All but one are med school students and the groom is not any of the ones we were interested in.

Ding Ding Ding! We have a winner!

S and I split up and go after our respective targets. The guys never knew what hit them.

Turns out they’re all pretty cool guys. Well, except for my guy. First he scoffed at my bartending gig, then he scoffed at the blog. Maren and I are fiercely protective over our little alcohol-soaked blog.

A little tipsy and a little annoyed, I rename him Dr. Douche and invent the biggest lie of the trip.

I have a book deal.

Now, I thought nothing of it at the time, but this lie ended up growing legs and help guide the remainder of our trip. Thanks to my hypewoman, S, word of the book grew and everyone we met wanted to be included.

Bored with Dr. Douche, I move back to the bar and chat with Dr. Mystery and Dr. I’m Gonna Buy You Girls Drinks Because You’re Cool. Never caught their real names…

While Dr. IGBYGDBYC is living up to his name, S is at the other end of the bar throwing back shots with Dr. Hispanic. Aw, my wifey makes me so proud!

I mingle with the group and end up talking to guy she originally claimed, Dr. Steve.

Dr. Steve had the following gem to share:

Dr. Steve: Ya know what I’ve learned through working in a hospital? People love things shoved up their ass?

We exchanged numbers when he tried to send me an X-ray of a lady with a 10-inch dildo shoved up her ass. Wow.

He also confided in me and let me know that they stocked up on IV bags and anti-nausea medication for the room. This is when I decide that they are my favorite people ever.

Drunk, I tell him that we are going to get married. But it’s cool, because we can have a prenup that protects him. As long as he’s down with us both banging 20-year-olds and dying by 50.

I can be quite the honest drunk.

Dr. Steve, surprisingly, agrees and lets me know that he plans on dying by age 50 by injecting potassium. I choose orgy or exploding implant. Aw, Vegas soul mate, you will be missed!

The guys buy us one more round before heading off to continue their bachelor party. S and I meet back up with Scotty to grab a bite to eat.

We end back up at the MGM Grand. Still no lions, just that infernal cleaning lady.

Dr. Steve texts us, letting us know that they had to IV the groom but they’ll be heading over to Carnaval Court. S, who loves to inject a little bit of drama, invites the pretties from the night before along.

Walking all the way down the strip is not an option, so someone suggests that we take the monorail. I hate the monorail, by the way. The MGM entrance to it is on the bottom floor of a labyrinth. I’m shocked that we didn’t run into David Bowie or the Minotaur.

It takes longer than expected, but we finally meet up with the medical bachelor party. We’re drunk, but they’re trashed. Surprisingly, the IV worked like a charm and the groom is remarkably fresh-faced. I notice that a couple of them have yard-sized drinks hanging from their necks.

I quickly make my way to the bar to realize my dream.

For the low, low price of $36, I get a 36-inch vodka sprite made with approximately half of a Smirnoff bottle. This is my Disney World.

What I didn’t anticipate was the agonizing rope burn it would cause on the back of my neck. But hey, a dedicated individual is willing to suffer for their craft.

The medical bachelor party drags us out to the dance floor. About 10 minutes later, the pretties show up. This is going to be awkward.

We say hi to Shane and Mark and we begin to get a feel for their personalities. Shane is a tad bit assertive to make up for Mark’s obvious shyness. I’m all for wingmen, but Shane was extreme.

Shane: Hey Katie, why don’t you dance with Mark? ::douchey wink::
KFD: Uh…I have a 10-pound pendulum dangling from my neck…

S and Shane hit it off and the pretty couple dance and make googly eyes at each other. Mark and I stand there awkwardly as I suck down my 36-inch drink in an effort to stop feeling.

This is not sitting well with the medical bachelor party.

Dr. Douche bounces around like a 6’5” rubber ball while Dr. Hispanic and Dr. Steve try to lure us away. I hate confrontations, so I play nice and try to oscillate between groups.

S is so into Shane that she doesn’t notice much of anything. You saw the picture, can you blame her?

The medical bachelor party retires and I tell Dr. Steve that we’ll catch up later.

Now it’s just us and hottie cops. I put down my drink and notice something funny. My shoes seem to be stuck to the ground. Damn you, Target flip flops, why have you betrayed me?! My shoes literally fall apart and I have realized my nightmare of being barefoot on the Las Vegas strip.

I take a minute, get over the embarrassment of putting my shoes together in public, and I’m back in the game.

The world’s largest vodka sprite has done its job and I am no longer opposed to the idea of dancing. Or making out with the pretties, who are cops in Georgia. S is already way ahead of me and her and Shane are off in their own world.

I have already planted the idea in my head of making out with a cop and a doctor in the same night, so I text Maren to let her know my plan. I send her a picture of Mark.

KFD: I win?
Maren: Yes. And now I have a “last picture” of you.
KFD: For the milk carton, I assume. Also, Dr. Steve is just as hot. Decisions, decisions…
Maren: You’re in Vegas…both.
KFD: Fact. Gonna make out with cop and doctor. Supreme.

Around this time I start receiving texts from Dr. Steve.

Dr. Steve: Ditch the tools at Carnaval. We’re going to have some crazy fun in the room.
KFD: See you around 1 a.m.?
Dr. Steve: Meet me at the Il Fornaio for wine and food. My treat. No expectations.

A real date in Vegas? Does it count as a date if you’re already drunk enough to kill a small animal?

We finish making out with the cops and they walk us to the monorail. That’s when they reveal that they’re in town for the world’s largest tattoo convention and they’re competing.

So, if they’re competing they should have some pretty cool tats, right? Maybe not. Shane has a full back tattoo with a giant clock tower and the Statue of Liberty on a cross.

S: Uh…Is that Big Ben?
Shane: Yep!
S: ::::Blank Stare::::

Mark has two arm pieces. One tattoo is a giant Batman reference and the other is a giant pirate ship. Words cannot describe how dumb these tattoos are.

We bid the good cops adieu and make our way back to the New York New York. I assume that a couple of the doctors will be at Il Fornaio. Wrong. Just little Dr. Steve and a bottle of wine.

S retires to the room and I have a seat across from Dr. Steve. I have a glass of wine and we head upstairs to drop the leftovers off in his room.

This is when Dr. Steve makes his move and we start to kiss. While he’s holding a bag of pizza. How romantic!

We go to his room and I see Dr. Douche, the groom, and Dr. Mystery passed out on the bed. He suggests that we make out in the bathroom, but I just want to use the bathroom for its intended purposes. I go inside and that’s when I notice the trash can. Plastic tubes and baggies are sticking out. I also see a bit of blood. The IV bags! He was going to make out with me in a room filled with bloody IV bags!

I ask him why there’s so much blood and he said the groom was squirming too much. Remind me to never receive medical care in Arizona.

He walks me up to my room and we go inside and grab a drink, careful not to wake up S. We leave the room and make out in the hallway. Seemed like a grand idea at the time.

Out of the corner of my eye I see some movement. A little boy scurries by in his Spongebog Squarepants boxers. At 3 a.m. In Vegas. He’s soon joined by his mom, who yells at us.

I’m far too drunk for any of this to make sense. All I know is I hate getting reprimanded while on vacation. Dr. Steve and I decide to part ways.

I kiss him goodnight and get into my pajamas when I receive a text.

Dr. Steve: Spend the night nothing else.
KFD: I’m pretty sure all your beds are occupied, dear.
Dr. Steve: Either yours or I could clear mine if needed.
KFD: I suppose you can come down here.
Dr. Steve: At your door.

Well that was fast.

He enters and, true to his word, spends the night and nothing else.

In the morning I wake up to a text from S.

S: Paging Dr. Faggot. Dr. Faaaaaggggotttt!!!
KFD: Are you proud of me?
S: So proud! And you got an S!!…No expectations of course.
KFD: Uh….he’s awake.

First walk of shame for the trip. S got an ‘S’ and I got an ‘S’ and ‘M’!

God, where to start? I meant to post a couple of shorter adventures, specifically the tale of the clown and the broken bed, the 20 year old, and spooning in a middle school at 4 a.m. with a crying man, but Vegas outshines all of them.

Our Vegas adventure can best be summed up into one word and two phrases – “Fate”, “No expectations” and “So much pretty”.

Seriously, story of my life. Why weren’t you there, Maren?! Luckily our text messages were saved and can serve as her commentary.

So how did Vegas come to fruition?

At the beginning of September I found myself sober and hungry and six hours in class. To remedy this situation I meet up with S at a local Chili’s. S is an old sorority sister and a good friend. We have a similar business sense, so it’s nice to be able to catch up on occasion.

As we enjoy our straight-from-the-store-N’-pour-because-that’s-what-you-get-when-you-order-two-for-one margaritas the topic turns to debauchery. My favorite subject.

S: I really want to go to Vegas, but no one is able to come up with the money.
KFD: Uh… I’m made of money.
S: Really? There are some good vacation packages for October since it’s a slower month.
KFD: I can do that.

And within two days our flight was booked. The anticipation for Vegas was as excruciating as it was delicious. For the low, low price of $450 we were able to book a four night, five day stay at the New York New York hotel. It was on.

Cut to October 1^st.

Since S and I are both slackers, we waited until mere hours before our flight to pack and had a mini sleepover.

We wake up at 6 a.m., get dressed, and begin chugging mimosas. Our steadily rising BAC helps our chat turn into a business meeting. I’ll leave those details for another, less drunken blog.

In order to make this post as accurate as possible I documented this trip through several mediums: note cards, my iPhone note app, a voice recorder, text messages, and a camera. Note cards proved least effective (since I have the penmanship of an Octopus) but most convenient. We also signed up for Loopt, an iPhone app that lets people see where you are. Sometimes you have to plant the seeds for hilarity.

Note taking started at 8:30 a.m. on October 1^st and continued until 9 p.m. on October 5^th. I don’t think I’ve put this much effort into anything (including college) in my life. You call it alcoholism, I call it dedication.

We get to our hotel around 2:30 p.m. and boy do I need a drink! The flashing lights and cacophony of slots ringing bring up flashbacks from my last trip to Vegas. S and I hurry to our room, change clothes and look for the most appealing watering hole.

Nine Fine Irishmen. Yes. Dressed to the nines in heels and brightly colored tops we make our way to the bar – but alas! – every spot is taken. Thankfully a host takes notice of the dismay on our faces and guides us upstairs and sits us in a private corner of the bar where he introduces us to the bartender, Lucas.

Host: Hey Lucas, take care of these ladies. Whatever they want, give them doubles.

S and I glance at each other. We can identify a cheap Vegas ploy when we see it, but we go along with it and order a Stoli Razz with Sprite and a vodka tonic.

Um…ever had a tall glass filled with vodka?

Lucas is now our best friend. Not only does he make a mean drink, but – as we’d find out later – he’s crazy knowledgeable about real estate and accomplished at giving pep talks. Best of all? Our bill, which should have been about $25, was $10.

I think I’m in love.

We make a mental note to come back and visit our new beau and head into the casino. Before we start giving our precious pennies to the slots we sign up for an MGM Mirage Players Club card. Because the penny slot players *always* get comped. Just ask Ethel with her fanny pack stuffed with her lucky teddy bears. Textbook definition of a high roller.

While hanging out at the players club counter S sees a man speaking Spanish and decides to strike up a conversation. We find out his name is David and he’s a filmmaker from France. I say “we” because when I’m drunk I can understand Spanish almost perfectly. Seriously. It helped that S and David are both from Europe and speak proper Spanish. Which sounds beautiful, by the way. We also find out that he’s on his way to Orlando, so naturally I promote my bar. See? Even when I’m on vacation I’m still an amazing employee.

We get our card, throw away some pennies, consume some free drinks and decide to head out onto the strip.

A quick note to novice travelers – don’t walk the Las Vegas F’n Strip in your high-as-hell strappy heels. Your feet will never be the same.

Our walk down the strip takes us to Diablo’s for a margarita, the Bellagio to watch the fountain show (if only we’d known what had recently jumped into that fountain), and, finally, to Carnaval Court.

We grab a beer, chat up the bartenders and watch the flair show and the terrifying Black Eyed Peas cover band. Suddenly, we spot some pretty.

Pretty in this case happens to be two quiet, sharply dressed guys. One with an ubiquitous newsboy cap.

I’ll admit – my flirting style isn’t exactly what one would call “good”, “normal”, or “socially acceptable” and I resign myself to focusing on my beverage.

Of course, my undiagnosed ADD and roving eye helps me quickly spot what appears to be Wayne Newton in a sparkly jump suit. S says it’s Elvis. The only way that thing looks like Elvis is if you took his wax statue from Tussauds and put it under a heat lamp.

S, ever the Ad/PR person, sees an opportunity and asks the two pretties what they think. It’s officially Elvis and I’m odd man out. S finds out that the pretties (Shane and Mark) are from Atlanta and, given the close proximity of our respective homes, we should all hang out.

God I’m glad we’re together!

Drunk and sore I refuse to walk another fucking step. Instead, we flag down a taxi. This is when we meet Hector, the cab driver. Hector doesn’t speak English, but that’s okay, because I’m in the zone. S converses with him and I just listen and smile in my drunken daze.

Bring on blackout #1!

Allegedly…

S and I thank the cab driver and go back to the hotel. Her buddy Scotty is supposed to drive in from California and stay a couple of days, but he won’t get to Vegas for another couple of hours. Jet lagged and drunk we decide to take a quick nap. Four hours later I wake up, still in my heels, skirt and top. Scott has been at the hotel for two hours waiting for us to wake up. He’s holding a handle of Crown Royal and a liter of Smirnoff.

KFD: We’re gonna do this shit!
Scott: Are you the girl who told S to prepare her liver?
KFD: Uh…yeah.
Scott: That makes so much more sense now.

I’m told that we then do shots of Crown Royal neat – a cardinal sin as far as Sober Katie is concerned.

It’s approximately 12:30 a.m. and we’ve already lost precious drinking hours. We head over to the New York New York’s club, Rok Vegas. I’m a little groggy and only my life juice, sugar free Red Bull (with the necessary addition of vodka. Geez, do you even know me?), can save me now. S and Scott band together and don’t get shitfaced. Lame.

I make an attempt at dancing, but Sober Katie knows it was probably flailing with generous helpings of googly eyes. To be honest, the club was a little lame. Even the alcohol wasn’t helping.

As I went up to the bar to close out my tab I heard the accent that would drive the rest of my trip.

“Why hello there, where is your boyfriend?”

I cock my head and meet eyes with Warren, a middle-aged Australian. He chats me up and I decide that an Australian conquest will be part of my trip. Not Warren, mind you. Old people are gross. (Sorry, S.)

I send a text to my soul mate, Maren, and set my official goal for the trip.

KFD: I’m going to make out with an Australian. It’s like they find me.

S, Scotty and I leave Rok Vegas in search of sustenance. We cross the bridge and check out the MGM Grand. It’s about 1 a.m. and for some ungodly reason everything is closed. We see the famous lion den and get closer to see if they’re out. Unfortunately it’s just some cleaning lady. Boring.

The only restaurant that’s open is Wolfgang Puck. That’ll do. This is when we separate the men from the boys. I slur out my order for an Elderflower Martini. S and Scotty order water. What the hell?

It turns out they added an extra ingredient to my martini – asshole. Because that’s what it tasted like. A true alcoholic does not waste alcohol or send a drink back, she just makes her friends help chug it.

Food is devoured, the drink is finally finished and we make our way back to the hotel. I am drunk.

KFD: Scott. SCOTT! I love you! Let me know when I’m marrying you, cuz I’m gonna take you for all you’re worth!

On the walk back I realize that I have drank myself blind. I only know this because it’s illegibly scribbled on my note cards.

While wobbling around my hand brushes up against a guy’s hand.

Random Guy: Trying to hold my hand?
KFD: Who knows?

So he takes my hand and we continue walking.

KFD: So where are you from?
RG: San Francisco.
KFD: So you like to take it up the ass?

His friends snicker and he gives me a look of disgust and drops my hand. Obviously someone doesn’t get my sense of humor.

Two a.m. in Vegas and we’re heading to bed? I’m almost ashamed to admit it.

Little did we know the adventures that were in store for us in the coming days.

Maren is in Saint Louis for two weeks, so unfortunately this is a Katie-only adventure.

Every couple of months I get to catch up with one of my best friends from high school. While it’s sad that our meetings are so infrequent, it’s probably in the best interest of my wallet and – more importantly – my liver.

I was sitting at home yesterday, trying my best to get through some of my class readings – when I get a text message from her. In order to protect her identity let’s call her M.

“Any plans for this evening? Want to get a tattoo?”

My interest is piqued, and there is no way this will end well.

In order to get the balls to ink myself, excessive amounts of alcohol must be consumed. This is why I love living downtown. A slew of bars are at my fingertips.

M gets to my house and we begin our assault on Orlando. First stop is Graffiti Junktion. Like any good alcoholic, we know that food is instrumental to ensuring that a bar crawl doesn’t end in the bathroom. From there we go home to do a shot (the first of many that evening) and walk to the other end of downtown to meet M’s boy du jour at The Lodge.

We exchange pleasantries and grab a drink as we plan out where we want to go. A guy across the room catches my eye. A Friday’s alum. For some reason, I’m terrible when it comes to recognizing old co-workers. I try to be slick and look away quickly. As social as I am, I hate catching up with people I haven’t seen in a while. Small talk is the worst. Unfortunately it’s too late and he walks over. M and I put on our best smiles and engage him in the usual small talk and he says he remembers me because I was so funny. I change my verdict on recognizing people. As long as they stroke my ego they can chat with me all they like.

After reminiscing with him we high-tail it out of there to begin some hardcore bar hopping. We go to Lizzy’s and then Finnhenry’s. M has the bright idea to order a round of tequila shots. I can slam tequila with the best of them, but it doesn’t mean I’m enthusiastic about it.

At this point in the evening I become a seductive drunk. I see my mark and begin the process of giving him the googly eyes. Unfortunately I never bother to pick attractive guys and the last time I pulled this move at Finn’s I ended up in a taxi with six guys from Ireland. Not good.

Googly eye recipient notices me and begins lip syncing to LL Cool J. Delightful. Then he whispers something to the bartender and she comes over to inform me that I have a free drink coming. This was too easy. I politely decline and we scoot on over to One Eyed Jacks.

Karaoke night! Obviously more shots are in order. We peruse the song selection while Asian Rick Astley astonishes the audience with his golden pipes.

Then, out of nowhere, and older man materializes between M and her boy toy and hands me a shot. Just as quickly he returns to the shadows.

I’m a gambling lady and the prospect of a roofie only slightly deters me. I examine the shot. It’s green and I assume it’s a Leg Spreader. Until they come up with a shot called Forcible Penetration, this is probably the most aptly named shot to spike.

“Hey guys, if I start acting weird in 30 minutes can you take me to the hospital? K, thanks!” And down the hatch it goes.

Pleased with himself, older man returns and I thank him for the shot. Kind of.

Me: “Hey, you’re not going to rape and kill me, right?”

OM: “Yes.”

Me: “Fuck.”

He tries to get my number and I decide that leaving is in the best thing for me and my lady parts. We travel over to the labyrinth that is Tanqueray’s. How many bars is that? Six? Cripes.

As soon as we enter our bladders decide that is time to visit the restroom. Only one of the stalls has a door. Oddly enough, M doesn’t even care and goes straight for the doorless stall. As soon as she’s done with her business she jumps out, pants around her ankles, and surprises a lady. I laugh so hard that I almost pee again.

There’s a band playing some god-awful jazz music, but we’re drunk so we stick around. Why not? I take this time to slow down and try to use my googly eyes on the attractive drummer. No dice.

Around this time M and her boy go to the restroom and I’m stuck defending their seats from hipsters for 20 minutes. Annoyed, I decide that I’m done with jazz fusion and I want to leave. I go to the restroom one more time and see M and her boy tumble out of a stall. With ruffled hair.

My classy buddies and I leave and start heading home. We pass the tattoo shop on the way. Luckily it was closed. Phew. As we pass Casey’s we decide to grab one last drink. Matthew is working the door. Who is Matthew? Your guess is as good as mine, but Colleen and I met him at Casey’s on Tuesday and he is awesome.

Me: “Hey Matthew!”

Matthew: “Hey Katie!”

Ladies and gentlemen, I surely know how to make an impression.

M decides to order more shots. Red Headed Sluts to be exact. You know I’m gone when Jager touches my lips. I believe by this time I’m up to six shots. Direct eye contact is impossible. Friday’s guy is here. Third time we’ve run into him. Try and tell me Orlando isn’t a small city.

I triumphantly slam my empty shot glass down and someone leans in close behind me. I turn around and it’s Colleen!

Colleen: “As soon as I walked in Matthew told me where to find you.”

Best doorman ever.

Colleen is with a girl in a wheelchair. My friends are amazing. The next thing I know Colleen presses a buttery nipple into my palm. The shot, of course. This is guaranteed to interact nicely with the beer, tequila, jager and vodka.

After that the night is a blur. M said we took a pedicab home. All I know is I woke up alone with my ID, credit cards, cash and phone. Success!

Trump that, Maren.