Stop Me if You’ve Heard This One Before…

A few months ago, Mark mentioned something to me about flying out to

San Diego to watch the Chiefs play the Chargers. It’s something that happens a lot in

Kansas City . Seems like everyone I know has traveled out of town to watch the Chiefs play a division rival in hostile territory. By far,

San Diego is the most popular stop on the tour.  (Why go to Denver, when I can freeze my ass off at home? And I don’t know anyone who’s braved the trip to

Oakland —that’d be too much like “Black Hawk Down” for a Kansas Citian in a Chiefs jersey.)

Anyway, I digress. Since I’ve never made the trip to see my home team as an away team, I consented. What could be better than watching football in a mild climate, while everyone else back home is freezing their asses off?

Actually, we thought of something better.

So tomorrow, at different times and in different time zones, six of us will board different flights, all for the same locale.

San Diego is a good destination. But we thought we’d all stop and meet up for a drink along the way.

In Vegas.

I’m going with a group of guys who, with the exception of Mark, are all older than me. I only casually know them—golf tournaments, special events, and the occasional night out on the town. They’re all Mark’s brother’s friends, actually. But we have a common denominator: We’ve been to together Vegas before. On a bachelor party.

To be honest, I’ve had a little trouble this week getting up for the trip. Usually, Vegas is a no-brainer. But I’m already fighting severe burn-out. And work lately has been a real bastard. After I hit the gym and make dinner, I’m in bed with the cat. I just didn’t feel like I was excited as I should be for my extended weekend.

But I know I owe you guys an entry. So, I dug a little bit, and managed to find my stuff from the last Vegas trip I made with these guys. Here is an excerpt from an entry written on March 30, 1999. The memories were strong, and I felt a little twinkle in my eye after reading the following:

On the main stage,  a long-haired brunette strutted out with two sticks of fire in her hands. She was wearing a black thong, black heels, a pair of those Marilyn Manson contacts, and nothing else. She was a fire-eater. But my eyes nearly dropped out of my head when she dropped to her back, spread her legs, and lit her CROTCH ON FIRE!  We were awestruck. I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything quite like it.

After catching my breath and picking Mark up off the floor, we found the perfect girl to give Frankie his dances. She was an Italian girl, and she was magnificent. We threw money at her, and she threw herself at Frankie. Mark pulled out his credit card to open a tab, and soon we were drowning in alcohol.

I secured a beautiful little brunette to give me a dance or two of my own. Her name was Margo, and she told me she was in town for the weeekend from New York.  As she straddled me, with her long, beautiful hair wisping back and forth across my face, I smiled and asked her if she had any aspirations for her life. ‘Nope,’ she said. I was in love.”

Ah, Vegas. Wish me luck.

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