What I Learned On My Vegas Vacation

1. My girlfriend has a gambling problem.

After I graduated college, I was out of work for about two years. During this time, I played poker to make a living. I started off as a mediocre player, but I studied the game as much as I could...when I wasn't drinking heavily. Eventually, I made myself into a pretty good online player and an even better live player. I became quite profitable...or profitable enough to sustain my heavy drinking.

I had friends who were living the same life, both locally and across the country. I had other friends who were betting sports for extra income. I had even other friends who were taking sports bets for extra income. We all talked poker, sports, prop bets, and more all day...while drinking heavily.

I know about gambling.

My girlfriend has a serious-ass gambling problem.

I'm not just saying this because she went off for a big number in Vegas. I'm not just saying this because her vices are house games like blackjack. I'm not just saying this because she decides which NFL teams she is going to bet on before she sees the lines. I'm saying this because I know about these things. If you don't believe me, I will give you one indisputable example to prove it.

My girlfriend, or Xmas Girl, as you know her, once placed a bet on how much Beverly Hills Chihuahua would gross opening weekend. AND SHE LOST.

If that isn't a gambling problem, then I don't know what is. I'm waiting for her to bet on the Washington Generals.




2. My future mother-in-law is blogworthy.

Part of this trip to Vegas was planned so that I could meet Xmas Girl's mom. I had heard quite a few stories about this lovely lady, and I was told to brace myself for anything and everything. So with that in mind, XG and I laid odds on what would happen on the first night that we went to her house for dinner. If your girlfriend is going to have a crippling gambling problem, you may as well have fun with it, right?

A. 3/2 -- She burns dinner.
B. 6/1 -- She gives me a kiss hello...on the mouth.
C. 8/1 -- She falls asleep at the dinner table from too much wine.
D. 22/1 -- She cooks a salad bowl in the oven.
E. 1/5 -- She shows a picture of Xmas Girl wearing leather pants.

Amazingly, more than one of these came through. Can you guess which ones? Go ahead guess. Are you done? Ah, fuck it. You didn't guess did you. The answers are A, D, and E. I lost a lot of money on B.

"D" cashed in early when she turned the oven on and after 15 minutes of playing "What's That Smell?" she realized that she had left the salad bowl in there. Why was there a salad bowl in the oven in the first place? I didn't even have time to ask.

"A" followed shortly thereafter when she put the garlic bread in the oven, set it to broil, and left it in there for "about 20 minutes." I'm a guy who can only cook hot dogs and ramen, and even I know that is retarded. She took the black logs out of the oven and tossed them over the balcony.

"E" came up several times, of course. I'm pretty convinced that every picture of XG from 16 - 23 is in leather pants. And they are everywhere. All over her mom's house, all over her friends' houses. It's like they are proud of it. But believe me, I don't even want to know the reasons why. I only have one question. Is it many different pairs or one pair worn over and over again? For some reason, I have a real problem with the former.

I'm still waiting for "B."




3. Never take a shit in a handicapped bathroom.

Is it "handicapped" bathroom or "handicap" bathroom? Either way, I hate them all.

We were walking from the Hard Rock to Mandalay Bay because we felt disgusted by the fact that we played blackjack for twelve hours the day before. I don't know, it made sense to us at the time. On our way there, I find myself overcome with an urgent shitting emergency. I calmly suggest we stop in for a drink at MGM. I sit her down at the bar, order two drinks, and speedwalk to the bathroom.

Inside there's only three stalls, and the two normal ones were taken. I thought I might be able to find another bathroom in the casino, but my stomach made a horrifying noise that informed me otherwise. I darted into the oversized handicapped stall and locked it behind me, making it just in time.

About two minutes later, I hear a loud whirring sound approaching that stopped in front of my stall. I quickly realize that it's a capper coming right for me. He tugs on the door to no avail. I pray that he doesn't choose to wait me out, since considering what I did to my body the night before, he would be looking at about another twenty-five minutes.

Instead, he starts yanking it harder. And then HARDER. It is clear that his arm is not disabled, as he pulls mightily on the handle, rattling the door and my mancage. I'm not sure if he was angry or also mentally retarded, but he was not giving up on this locked door easily.

Finally, after ten seconds of terror, what sounded like yet another handicapped man informed him that there is indeed another bathroom down the hall. He whirred away, and I could only hope that it wasn't some retarded ruse designed by the two men to coax me out of the stall for a beating outside the bathroom. I took the full twenty-five minutes just to be safe.

But just a heads up to the MGM while we're on the subject. If you're going to have a hotel with 20,000 rooms, you may want to have a bathroom with more than two normal stalls. That's pretty fucking retarded.




4. I know of one person who reads this blog.

He is my friend Danny. And I know he reads this blog because he texted me while I was in Vegas that Pacman got into a dust-up with a team bodyguard. This was obviously a ploy to bait me into writing a Pacman's body retread. And of course, it worked. That type of dedication is appreciated. I expect to see more of that from the rest of you.




5. Stand-up comedy is not as hard as it looks.

Obviously, it is. But Xmas Girl's mother's husband works at the Riviera, and he got us tickets to a comedy show there. We figured it would be nice to have a break from all the gambling and drink in a new location.

Well apparently the guy that was headlining was just about 50 years older than the Riviera itself. We had the misfortune of being in the front row as a two hundred year old man read out of a joke book.

It was so uncomfortable that after ten minutes, we waited for him to turn his back and darted out of the room. Then we had to weave in and out of the casino crowd like a couple of ninjas so as not to see the man who got us the tickets and have him be offended.

Best decision I ever made to leave that show.




6. I look like everyone else in the world besides myself.

Some of the older readers will be aware of this phenomenom, but let me catch some of the new people up. Acquaintances and strangers alike seem to have no problem, nay, enjoy walking up to me and blurting out "You know who you look like?" Whether I answer their question or not, they always follow with the name of some C-list celebrity that I do not look like. See for yourself.

This time around it was a drunk guy at a blackjack table saw XG and I walk up and exclaimed, "You look like the kid from High School Musical! You look just like Zac Efron!!"

I.

I have no words.

Make your own jokes.




7. The Hard Rock Casino has dealers, strippers, and stripper-dealers.

In the middle of the casino floor, there is a pit of about 8 blackjack tables that has an island in the middle. This island is an elevated platform with 3 stripper poles on it. As luck would have it, these stripper poles have actual strippers on them Thursday through Sunday night. They wear the least amount of clothing that is legally possible and dance provocatively for rows of men who stop to gawk.

If that wasn't enough, the dealers themselves in this pit are wearing tube tops, napkin shirts, and anything else designed to have their tits pouring out. They flirt and joke, and though widely considered some of the worst technical dealers in the casino, they rake in tips as men line up to give their money away.

The Hard Rock might have figured out a couple things about running a casino.




8. If you're a dealer and you're not going to show your tits, you may as well be racist.

During the day, they put the strippers back in the vault and trot out all their "anti-discrimination act" employees. Now, it's not that I have a problem with fat people. Well, that's a lie. I despise fat people. But, in theory, I could tolerate them.

So if you're hoping to be a tolerable fatty, the least you could do is be nice. That's the least that I'm asking. Seriously, it's not like I'm asking you to eat a salad or take the stairs. Just be nice. Doesn't all that weight make you jolly at all?

Apparently, someone on the Hard Rock day shift never got the memo. As I sat down at her empty blackjack table, she asked for my ID. I kindly obliged and as she looked at my license, she said, "New Jersey? You can't be from New Jersey! Where's your mullet?!"

Now I'm fine with anyone ripping on New Jersey. There are many Jersey jokes to be had, some of them true, most of them lame, but you can have at it if that's how you choose to socialize. But mullets? In Jersey? That's not close to true. That's not even a stereotype. What in the FUCK is your fat ass talking about?

She was also cheering on the Phillies, so I assumed this meant she was from PA, which would explain the Jersey hatred. But no, she explained that she was from New Mexico. Oh! Nary a mullet in New Mexico! I guarantee you that there are ten times as many mullets in New Mexico as there are in New Jersey. You hear me? I'm only saying this in my head, but I know you can hear me you fat fuck.

Chubbsy Ubbsy goes on to say, "Ya know sometimes I tell my dad I have a black boyfriend just to mess with him. He's from the South so it really gets him mad! Hahahaha. Hit or stay."

WHAT. What do you think my reaction to that is going to be? You get a lot of high fives after that story? Is that the anecdote that clinched it on your interview? I'm not a sensitive or politically correct person by a longshot, but seriously, fuck that racist cracker.




9. The Hard Rock Hotel and Casino hosts one giant poser convention.

The downside to #7 is that it brings in droves of doucheclowns and toolboxes. Apparently out West they are trying to start another ill-conceived fashion trend born from their prisons. Half the guys at the Hard Rock were wearing shorts to the knee, floppy tennis shoes, and socks pulled up to mid-calf. They all look like Mexicans in prison...which were impossible to find a picture of, so you'll have to take my word for it.

The other half of the crowd all had bedazzled trucker hats that would make Charles Nelson Reilly blush.

That's right. That's the only rule I have about blogging: shoehorn in a CNR reference whenever possible.




10. You should not take the redeye back from Las Vegas.

Last February I went to Vegas with a few friends. When we booked the trip, we surmised that it was a good idea to take the redeye back to Jersey. "That way we have all day Sunday to keep partying!" For some reason, we didn't seem to put together that we were already going to be in Vegas for six days, and that we would be in no condition to party "all day Sunday."

Well, we soon realized what a grave error in judgment we had made once Sunday came. We packed our bags like zombies and with nowhere else to go, we piled our bodies into a lounge in Planet Hollywood. The four of us sat facing one another, our mullets deflated, tacitly acknowledging that we would not see each other for a month after this trip. After about 8 hours of this, we stood up and went to airport. I haven't talked to them since.

So what did I learn on my Vegas vacation? Nothing, of course. Like the asshole that I am, I did the same thing this time around and booked an 11:45 PM flight home on Sunday night. Obviously, I never learn shit, so who am I to tell Xmas Girl how to gamble. Let's bet the over on the opening weekend of High School Musical 3. I have a feeling I'm gonna be a big hit!

A.J. vs. P.A.C.

Adam Jones' Brain: What did I say..

Adam Jones' Hands: Yo. Aight first off-

Brain: What did I say..

Hands: Yo, I'm sayin'-

Brain: WHAT. DID I. SAY..

Hands: Shiiiit. Aight. You said don't do anything wit'out axin you first.

Brain: Thank you. But did you listen to me? Nooooo. Do you ever listen to me? NOOOOO.

Hands: But yo I'm sayin' it wasn't even my fault!

Brain: Of course it wasn't! It's never your fault! It wasn't your fault when you didn't want to pay the valet so you said, "I'll just hit her." It wasn't your fault when we got pulled over for 75 in a school zone. It wasn't your fault when you wanted to "make it rain" in that strip club in Vegas that coincidentally got shot up after we left. And it certainly wasn't your fault that we got in a drunken fight when we are under a zero tolerance policy from the commissioner of the NFL!

Hands: Exactly. Thank you.

Brain: THEY WERE ALL YOUR FAULT!

Hands: How is the speeding ticket my fault?

Adam Jones' Legs: Don't drag me into this, boy.

Hands: Aight, aight, you wanna blame Hands. Fine. But yo. For real? Shit is going on in the streets, man. Yo niggas is in the grind. Where you be at, man? Niggas be buckin. Why you never buckin? Where you be at, man??

Brain: First of all, I'm a brain, and you are hands. We are a part of the same body. I am always, inherently, in the same place that you are. That's where I "be at." Second of all, if bucking means "shooting a gun," then being that I am a brain, it would be physically impossible for me to shoot a gun. Third of all, those guns are what got us into trouble in the first place. How could you glorify gun violence when that's what essentially cost us our career? Someone almost died behind that!

Legs: Yo, he just stole those lines from a song.

Brain: What?

Legs: Those are lyrics.

Hands: No they aint!

Legs: It's Nas. It's called Destroy and Rebuild.

Brain: Really? What the fuck, Hands. You think this is a joke?

Hands: Nah, man. It's just...I don't know. I don't know what they want from me. It's like the more money we come across, the more problems we see.

Brain: Exactly. That's what I've been saying. All this money and fame can get us into a lot of trouble. Thank you for finally-

Legs: It's another song, Brain.

Hands: Nah, man. I made that up.

Legs: That's BIG man. Everyone know that.

Brain: Seriously? This is what you wanna do all day, Hands?

Hands: Yo. We out there every day and people be throwin' dirt on our name. They be testin' us. They be talkin' shit 'bout Pacman.

Brain: You mean "Adam."

Hands: Nah, fuck that, man! We Pacman! We always been Pacman and we always gon' be Pacman! And when people disrespect Pacman, Hands is on the front line! That big ol' bouncer tried to talk shit and I did what I's 'posed to! I popped that fat bitch in the side of his head!

Legs: Man, you only waited until people were around to separate you.

Brain: Legs, I saw you kicking him too!

Legs: Well, hey, man. You know what they say. Bitches get kick-es.

Brain: That is not an expression.

Hands: Why you so mad, Brain? You act like you surprised.

Brain: I know, I know. I shouldn't be. But it was all going so well. We started out 3-0. Everyone said we were the best team in football. Fans were screaming our name...

Legs: It aint that bad, man.

Brain: ...we led the team in tackles against Green Bay, we recovered a fumble...

Hands: It'll be aight.

Brain: ...it was almost as if everyone forgot. It was all going just as I planned. And now, Jerry Jones is going to kill us.

Legs: Nah, man. JJ loves us.

Brain: That's just for the press! He told me that if we messed up, even once, he would give us a Texas Funeral. And we'd never see it coming.

Legs: You really think he'd do that?

Brain: We were standing at the grave of Frank Cornish when he told me.

Legs: Fuckin shit.

Hands: Nah, man. We good. How he gon' kill family? JJ won't do that. You can't kill family.

Brain: What are you talking about? What is he talking about?

Legs: "Jones."

Brain: Jesus Christ.

Legs: Look, we can't just sit here cryin' all day.

Brain: Well we got four weeks off now. Maybe even more. So what do we do now? What the fuck do we do now?

Adam Jones' Dick: ...Wanna go to the strip club?

With Tim Meadows as Mark Ingram

Mark Ingram is going to prison.


If ever there was a picture that was made for The Sports Hernia.

Have you ever seen one of those old movies where a guy would escape from prison, and a guard in a tower would shine a giant spotlight on him, and he would freeze, and his eyes would fixate like a deer in headlights? Well if you have, Mr. Ingram would love for you to show him that movie, because he is surely going to be trying to escape from prison soon.

From the article:

His sentencing was delayed as he tried to revoke the plea, fired several court-appointed attorneys and made what prosecutors termed “outlandish” legal arguments, including a claim that he was immune from prosecution because he enjoyed diplomatic status as a head of state.

In his most notable game - the 20-19 victory over the Buffalo Bills in the 1991 Super Bowl - Ingram caught five passes, after one of which he fended off tackles and hopped on one leg for a crucial first down.

For Mark's sake, let's hope those skills don't fail him once he's in prison.

Eventually, Mark decided to defend himself. Luckily, I was able to obtain the court transcript:

Judge Denis Hurley: Mark, I want to thank you for finally showing up to my courtroom. I've heard you haven't been feeling too well.

Mark Ingram: That's right, Judge, sir. In fact, I'm still not feeling too well.

Judge: We'll I'm sorry to hear that.

Mark: Ya know, in the ass area... May I go to the "bathroom" please?

Mark makes air quotes with his hands.

Judge: See if you can hold it. Today we will complete this trial once and for all.

Mark: Ya'hona', what we really doin here, hmm? What we doin in this courtroom today? This room of court. This place of justice and truth. Conviction and eviction. Attorneys and prosecutors-

Judge: Mr. Ingram? We know where we are.

Mark: Of course, ya'hona'. Now where was I? Oh yes. The wrongful persecution of Mr. Mark Luther Ingram, Jr. Now, have I done wrong? Of course. I have committed many, many crimes in my lifetime.

Mark Ingram slowly walks down the aisle of the courtroom.

Mark: But I ask you. Are you not just as wrong for accusing me of these crimes? Does not the good book say that man "judge not best, when he be a judge?" And we are to turn to Mr. Judge to tell us what is right and wrong? I think not. I rest my case.

Judge: Mr. Ingram, stop.

Mark: Oh I think I've made my point, Judge.

Judge: I mean stop moving.

A bailiff steps in front of Mark just as he is reaching for the courtroom's exit door. Mr. Ingram turns around smiling.

Mark: Yes, ya'hona'? Are we just about done here? Do you need me to sign something before I leave?

Judge: You're not going anywhere, Mr. Ingram. Bailiff, please show him to his seat. You have elected to represent yourself, Mr. Ingram, so I am obliged to ask you if you have anything else to say before I read your sentence.

Mark: Okay, fine. So what's the big deal with a little marijuana? Who here hasn't smoked some weed in their lives, huh? Who here has never just ever-so-slightly blazed a little of the bubonic chronic?

Mark Ingram smells his fingers, inhaling deeply.

Judge: Mr. Ingram, I'm not sure-

Mark: And who among us, has not sold a little of the sticky icky to get by? Just to pay the bills? Or, perhaps, to turn a small profit?

Judge: Mr. Ingram-

Mark: Or a large profit.

Judge Hurley bangs his gavel.

Judge: MR. INGRAM! We are not here for a drug charge.

Mark: Really? I knew you had nothin' on me! I'm free! Oh lord, oh lord, I can't believe I'm free! I'm gonna party tonight!!

Judge: Mr. Ingram, you're being charged with money laundering. It's a federal offense. Kindly proceed with any final statements before I announce your sentence.

Mark: Umm...final statements, final statements. Umm......please?

Judge: Please what?

Mark: Please don't?

Judge: Mr. Ingram, I have to sentence you.

Mark: But why?

Judge: Mr. Ingram, clearly you have no remorse, explanation or excuse for your crimes. Seeing as how this is by no means your first offense, I sentence you to ninety-two months in a federal prison.

Mark: Really ya'hona'? Damn. Alright. If that's what it has to be, then that's what it has to be. I'll take the two.

Judge: Excuse me?

Mark: I'll take two months.

Judge: No, Mr. Ingram. You are to serve ninety-two months.

Mark: You said, "Nine to two months." I choose two.

Judge: I most certainly did no-

Mark: You goin back on your word, ya'hona'? Oh so you can change the rules of the game? Who's really on trial here?

Judge: MR. INGRAM. You are to serve 7 years, and 8 months.

Mark: Oh I see. I see how it is.

Judge: Good.

Mark: Now you gonna add years to my sentence just because you got your numbers miscalculated? How you gonna keep increasin shit, Judge?

Judge Hurley bangs his gavel several times.

Judge: Bailiff, get him out of my sight! Take Mr. Ingram to prison!

Mark: Wait, wait, ya'hona' please! I just have one more question.

Judge Hurley sighs.

Judge: Go ahead.

Mark: Thank you.

The bailiff unhands Mark as he straightens his suit and tie.

Mark: Ahem. So ya'hona.' Exactly when does my trial start?

Hurry Up And Die -- McSweeney's

I consider myself a man of principle. A man of integrity. A man of class.

I have a strong sense of right and wrong, and I act accordingly.

I treat people how I would like to be treated.

I am a man of my word. A man of loyalty. A man of standards.

Other people may dime on their co-workers, throw others under the bus, and look out for number one in every circumstance. I, however, refuse to lower my standards and sink to their level.


BUT FUCK THOSE PEOPLE*


Today we will commence a new series called Hurry Up And Die. In Hurry Up And Die I will be dishing out large helpings of comeuppance. I will attack those that I have previously spared out of my good will. I will destroy those who have been violated the tenets of a decency. I will obliterate every douchebag on this planet in the name of all that is good and holy.

And I will curse a lot.

Some of you may be saying to yourselves, "But Brown, you're an asshole all the time. This is in no way a departure from your usual behavior. Fuck, I can even look through the archives where you've been an absolutely horrible person to innocent people. What's with the act?"

To that I simply say -- Shut up. Stop ruining it for the new readers.

Before I proceed with the inaugural edition of Hurry Up And Die, I felt I should let you know that I am looking for a domain name to launch this blog on my own. I know that my current URL is quite catchy and easy to remember, but I have decided to branch out. One of my ideas was to launch my own site as hurryupanddie.com. Unfortunately, GoDaddy informs me that it is already taken, but they offered me some fantastic substitutes:

freehurryupanddie.com

hurryupanddiestore.com

hurryupanddienow.com

And my favorite:

besthurryupanddie.com

As perfect as all of those are, I decided to go in a different direction. You can feel free to use them.

On to today's subject: McSweeney's. McSweeney's is a website that compiles literary works from all over, including amateurs and professionals. The pieces are generally light and comedic in nature. In January, I submitted the first of the Brit's Kids series for publication. (I know that seems really lame and hackneyed now, but at the time it wasn't just topical, it was prophetic.)

I received the following reply from one of the editors:

Hi Bryan -

Yeah, I pretty much consider anything about Brittney, Paris, or Lohan low-hanging fruit. This has a clever angle, but not enough to win me over completely, I’m afraid. Thanks for the look, nonetheless.

Best,
[redacted] [dickhole]
Acting Web Site Editor

I forwarded this email to a friend, and added the following as a preface:

It's not that I'd really argue, but it's kinda hard to take the holier-than-thou air of sophistication from McSweeney's when he spells "Britney" wrong. And I thought I made a preemptive strike against the 'another tired Britney piece' criticism with the title of my email, but I suppose to no avail.

Part of me wants to submit another type of piece and part of me wants to just submit elsewhere, even if not this particular bit. I mean I get that Britney isn't the freshest subject, but I guess I just figured good writing is good writing. The cleverness, hopefully, wasn't just the angle but the repartee. I think I'd take my stuff up against 90% of that site, but maybe I'm biased.

Are sour grapes a low-hanging fruit?

At first I wanted to post his email for public opinion, but I thought it may be unprofessional. But now it's Hurry Up And Die day, so he can fucking suck a dick.

So fuck your fag mag and all you homos that run it. You are all the same pathetic pussies from the high school drama club that wore capes and carried lunchboxes. I could easily take every one of your girlfriends, and I would, if fucking a dog wasn't illegal. You have never done anything novel or original. You are fucking worthless to me. I COULD BUY AND SELL YOU.

Okay, I couldn't buy you. But you're still gay.

And what the fuck is this "acting web site editor" bullshit? What are you a fucking intern? Do you even really work there? I guess it's all the same since you don't get paid. And YOUR writing, sir, is terrible.

First of all you start a sentence with "yeah." I would never do that.

Secondly, it's "Britney." I know, I'm not much of a starfucker either. But she's only about the second most famous person on the planet, you should probably know how to spell her name. You know the most famous is Bush, right? I'm hoping you know how to spell that one, but something tells me you're not too familiar with it.

Third...low-hanging fruit? Seriously? What the fuck do you write, Tolstoy? You working on the great American novel over there at McSweeney's? I'd love to have a read one time, if you aren't too busy "acting" like a website editor.

Fourthly, the angle wasn't really the most clever part, it was the banter. Of course it's debatable exactly just how funny the dialogue is, but something tells me you saw Brittney Britney in type and scrambled to get up on your soap box and write a dismissive patronizing email. And I assume you literally have to get on a box to use your computer because only a short person would write in such non-committal pussified language.

Finally, you close your email with "best." "Best?" Don't be that guy, [redacted] [dickhole]. Don't be that guy.

In summation, you wouldn't know a good writer if it took a dump on your chest, WHICH IT JUST DID.

Hurry up and die, McSweeney's.



*Sorry, that was a typo. I'm missing a "T" there.

24 Hour Vacation -- The Family Day

If you haven't read Travel Day, go back and read it.

I know what you're thinking. "Brown, if it's a 24 Hour Vacation, how is one day a Travel Day?" Well the answer is that since the vacation was so short, it was like we were basically traveling the entire time, thus making it a "travel day."

The real answer is that I'm an idiot and I fucked up. Are you happy now? I shit the bed, okay? Jesus what is the matter with you? You think this blog is up for a Pulitzer? Does it make you feel like a big man to brow-beat a poor young man just trying to get by on a simple blogger's wages? Do you know how much a blogger makes? Nothing! Since 2005 the total compensation I've gotten for this blog amounts to a wooden nickel, three buttons and used dental floss. So guess what. You get what you pay for, fucker.

Ahem.

So there we were, in the car on the way to Aunt Lynn's house. The conversation went like this:


Brown: So what do I need to know before I meet everyone?

Ally: Well, Aunt Lynn is really nice.

Xmas Girl: Nicest woman you'll ever meet.

Zolak: She's cool; you'll like her.

Brown: Aww that's cool. I love meeting the family. I can't wait!

Xmas Girl: Grandma is the best. She is only about 5'1", maybe 4'11", but she's a straight shooter.

Ally: She doesn't pull punches.

Zolak: It's funny to hear such awful language coming out of someone who's only 4'7".

Brown: Heh, that's fine. My family is rough-and-tumble. We all go at each other. I can handle it.

Ally: And then there's our cousin Lauren. She is very, very Staten Island.

Brown: Uhhh, coooolll...

Zolak: And her husband Ralph is even worse.

Brown: God, really?

Xmas Girl: And then there's the baby. He may be the most Italian one.

Brown: How is a baby that Italian already? He's a fucking baby!

Ally: Uncle Joey hates John.

Brown: Why?

Zolak: John is a cokehead.

Brown: Who is John??

Xmas Girl: Grandma's husband.

Brown: Jesus Christ! How is a grandfather a cokehead? What is he 80 years old? Does coke make old people move at normal speed? Where does an 80 year old even find blow? Does he page a 17 year old and then blow rails off a poster of the Rat Pack? Hold on, my head is spinning.

Ally: Well there was an issue of money, and cars, and stealing...you know, coke stuff.

Brown: Stealing off your four foot grandma??

Xmas Girl: Oh and also? Everyone is pretty much racist.

Brown: Right. Can we pull over? I'm gonna throw up.


I guess they thought I was kidding because they did not pull over. We did, however, take several U-turns due to Uncle Joey's explicit directions. "Once you pass the billboard with the sign for the Magic Show on the back, then you know you've passed it."

WHAT.

I guess Uncle Joey doesn't read the blog, because if he did, he'd know that "then you know you've past it" is never a part of directions. And have you ever tried to look at the back of a billboard while driving? That shit is fucking impossible. But thanks Uncle Joey. You turned a ten minute drive into just a shade under an hour. Well done. I haven't even met you and I like you already.

We get to the house and Uncle Joey is sitting in the garage on a stool, which I found an odd place to wait for someone, since it was 107 degrees out. But he did have a tank top with gaping arm holes, so I guess he was good to go. We make small talk as we walk in the house when Aunt Lynn pops up with a giant "SHHH!"

We whisper, "Oh my god, I'm sorry. Is the baby sleeping?"

"No. Ralph is."

Ralph? The baby's father? An adult? Great. Since when do I have to tiptoe around a grown man sleeping? He's not my father. I'm pretty sure I'll talk in normal tones and if he wakes up, then I guess he'll just have to deal with a short nap today. Poor baby adult male parent.

I sit down on the couch and nervously pick up one of the baby's toys to occupy myself, when what looks like a one foot tall Italian stereotype enters the room. This baby gangster turns the corner like he's going to shoot me for touching his toy, or more accurately, like he's going to posture that he will shoot me for touching his toy, then go home and watch his Sopranos DVD box set. Either way, I quickly dropped his oily rattle as I was approached by the ugliest baby ever.

Now when I say that this baby is the ugliest baby ever, I am exaggerating. This baby was merely the ugliest baby I've ever seen. I'm sure there are some uglier babies in Uganda or something, but this was definitely the ugliest baby in America. This baby is First World ugly. Luckily, XG and the gang quickly get us out and on our way to Grandma's, who lives half a block away. Aunt Lynn calls Grandma a "bitch" then insists that she is coming with us. I see no way that this can end badly.

As the door to the house opens, I am greeted by Grandma, who stands at just about 3'5". She is a bit banged up from a recent fall and walks around gingerly, but you can tell her mind is sharp by her impressive array of curses. We sit down on the couch and go through the usual small talk until Aunt Lynn interrupts the conversation to announce her disgust with a loud "UGH." It appears John has arrived.

John is a large, jovial, red-faced old man. I know what you're thinking, and you are absolutely correct. John is exactly like Santa Claus...except John is jovial because he is coked up, red-faced because he's drunk, and looks about two days older than Saint Nick. Also, John smokes a cigar and is racist. Besides that they are exactly alike. But hey, they both love to play with elves.

In talking to John I see that he is a very charming and sociable man. He clearly loves their Grandma and he takes care of her constantly. This doesn't mean much to Aunt Lynn, however, who is treating everyone to an icy stare and silence combo. Apparently, she prefers to focus on the fact that he does copious amounts of blow, has lost and/or stolen the car, and engages in unholy acts with other women.

Now I can't attest to the validity of these claims. I do not know how an 80 year old man gets coke, but I certainly saw him in some sort of altered state. I do not know the car situation, though the grandkids confirm there are police records to prove it. And hey, maybe that makes him a bad husband, I don't know. But one thing is for sure: this guy is absolutely NOT out crushing the singles scene getting pussy thrown to him like frisbees.

He has a giant coke problem. He froths at the mouth. You can't understand him. He is older than dirt. If this guy is out getting ass, then I'm going to kill myself. Because my single sexual life consisted of...well, it was horrible. I don't feel like talking about it. Read the archives. So I'm sure Johnny Boy is out getting fucked up. I'm sure he's even leering at other women, or whatever old men do. But trust me, Lynn, this guy is not getting laid.

We tapdance around the elephant in the room for about an hour or five, until he would be ignored no more. John lights the fuse by asking us if we all want some pizza, that fucking dick. Aunt Lynn flips out, yelling through her teeth at Grandma. "I bought eighty dollars worth of cold cuts, and you're gonna get pizza? Fine, get your fuckin pizza, waste eighty dollars. But you know what, next time tell me you're gonna get pizza so I don't waste eighty dollars on fucking cold cuts!" Hey Aunt Lynn, how much were the cold cuts?

We politely agree to some pizza, and John obliges to pick it up. Aunt Lynn thinks an appropriate reaction is to dart out of the house and storm down the block. Ally sends Zolak to go talk to her. FUCK. That is going to be me in two years, walking with a frantically pacing relative, talking about expensive lunch meats.

Zolak calms her down with a pro bono therapy session, and she returns to exchange a fake pleasantry and goodbye. We wait another hour until John returns with the pizza, considerably more red in the face. The girls surmise that he went out to bang out a few quick shots/rails/hookers before he got the pizza. I don't know why they're so skeptical, I think he just really wanted the best pizza he could find. And his face was red from all that Myrtle Beach heat! No? Are those no good? See. This is why I couldn't be a player like John. I have no game.

Now we are forced to fake smile and eat fake pizza. As I'm looking around for cues, I see XG motion me to keep eating more pizza. Being a skinny guy, you can never make the mistake of not eating a lot around family friends anyone. If I eat anything less than a five-course meal, I always get the requisite, "Pff, no wonder you're so skinny!" When do I get to play the No Wonder You're So Fat game? Huh? When is that gonna happen, God? Still waiting on that one.

So I eat slice after slice of this cardboard until XG tells me it's time to go. Finally, we can leave! Finally, we can go to the hotel! Finally, I can change out of the clothes I wore through the flight!

What? No? I didn't quite catch that. I thought you said we weren't going back to the hotel. Oh. We aren't. Umm, why not? Because we're going BACK TO AUNT LYNN'S??? WHY IN THE FUCK WOULD WE DO THAT?!? WE HAVE TO EAT MORE FOOD NOW??? THEN WHY WOULD YOU MAKE ME EAT ALL THAT PIZZA?!!? IS THIS SOME SORT OF BIZARRE FAMILY GAUNTLET I HAVE TO RUN WHERE I MEET AND GREET FIGHTING RELATIVES AND EAT MY WAY THROUGH CHALLENGES?? HOW LONG CAN ONE FUCKING DAY BE??????

As I walk back into Aunt Lynn's, I see Uncle Joey at his usual post-up in the garage, and he offers me a greeting in his usual candor.

"Hey. So how's Dickface?"

I don't know, Fart Pants. Is that an actual question? You were here, by yourself, for hours and the best you could come up with was "Dickface?" Are you sure you don't want to just leave that on his MySpace page? I don't care if you guys hate each other, but can you please not turn this into an episode of Saved By The Bell where I'm playing Mr. Belding?

At Aunt Lynn's we are presented with a mountain of meat. I try to make a giant sandwich to appease the family, and end up choking down a horrendous meal. I stare at a spot on the wall as Aunt Lynn bombards me with questions that frankly, I don't think anyone has the answer to. "It's okay if he wants to get coked up and lose the car, but it's also okay for him to call me a fat fuck?" Umm, Lynn, my dear? I really don't know what to tell you about that.

After about 67 hours of family time, we retreat to the hotel for the first time. I stare at the pool from the window, but I don't even feel like moving an inch to go down there. Plus, a lot of the people down there look fat. Instead I lay on the bed and try to regulate my breathing.

It's only 5 PM.

You still have to go to dinner.

And everyone is going to be there...