Vegas: The Morning After
We’ve all been victim to the Monday morning in which a fellow colleague, and might I add douche bag, has just returned from Vegas. They go out of their way to look extra shitty, and struggle with the simplest of tasks to make sure that every single person in the office knows that they did, in fact, just spent a weekend in the city of sin.
I’ve seen it in action. They’ll be at the coffee station, and upon seeing or hearing someone come along, make it seem as if the task of creating a cup of Joe is on par with Lance Armstrong completing a Tour de France…sans PEDS. Relax bro, it’s a Keurig.
Once they get the desired interest, a simple response of the word “Vegas” in a tone similar to one you would use to describe walking in on your parents humping on a Sunday morning is all they respond. And that’s it. That’s all anyone needs to know.
Personally, I thought it was bullshit having never been to Vegas myself. I wanted details. Please tell me what it was that happened to you this weekend that was so crazy that it is unspeakable, and then do me the honors of informing me how that correlates to the fact that your shirt is not ironed, and your fly is unzipped. Also, don’t think I buy it for one minute that you actually forgot a belt loop. I’m on to you, and I know it was only for effect.
Anyway… that is how I used to feel.
Today, I’m writing to report that I have officially become the said Monday Morning Douche. (MMD)
Yesterday, upon walking back into my apartment, the weekend caught up to me, hard and fast (Insert sex w/ stripper joke here?) My lips were dryer than the Sahara desert, and no, that’s not a reference to my recent lack of sexual prowess. My head was pounding in places I didn’t know could emit pain. I spent the better half of the day curled in the fetal position and all I wanted to do was be able to shit or puke, but I couldn’t do either. (You’d think that wouldn’t be the case, what with all the cocaine and anal insertion.) I was a slave to my own body. I was Vegas’ bitch.
Finally after managing to get some fried MSG products down, I forced myself into bed, and immersed myself into a fit of night shakes and sweats, with the occasional intermittent memory of glow sticks and Chippendales dancers. (I love you Nathan.)
Luckily for me, I’m self-employed, (okay, fine unemployed) meaning that after I dragged myself out of bed this morning, the only person I had to answer to was… myself. Upon standing in front of the mirror, I took a look at the person staring back at me. With her face in distress, and her hair in what I presume to be one giant knot… All I could say was …
Please excuse me while I spend the rest of the day battling w the others via gchat, fbchat, text etc. as to who is in fact, struggling the hardest this morning.
Disclaimer #1: I almost single handedly defamed the career of the man who walked on the moon as I initially wrote Neil instead of Lance. But in regards to Lance’s admission of using performance enhancing drugs, I ask why LiveStrong when you can LiveStronger.
Disclaimer #2: As the cab driver from Las To Caesar’s informed me… The old adage of “What happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas” is a lie… I will soon be detailing some of the better parts of the trip… and more importantly trying to find some justification for my life after coming across this picture…