Oh, my... God.
hung over. major. It's 8am and I got drunk early last night. A couple responses to some comments on the last blog:
QBall: You got a 'B' in Communications? One of our beloved strippers actually made fun of me because I had a degree in communications. Her stage name was "Rachel." I asked her if her real name was "Porsche."
Gregster: It took me eight years to get that degree in communication. I'd be pissed if you got yours in a year. Unfortunately, you probably could.
Woke up to "Saved By the Bell" reruns this morning. I'm impressed I got back to my room. I actually looked around to see if I was in my room.
Drunk Gooch had Nathan's Hot Dogs last night. I can taste it... Dammit, why can't I eat salads when I'm plastered?
People Magazine lists Hottest Bachelors. Thank God they spelled my name right this time.
Also, I've encountered more than one friend that has either found Jesus or quit drinking and has said to me (during the course of this trip) "Oh... you're probably drunk" or "Gee are you drunk?" or "I quit drinking [within the last week], but you're fucked up aren't you?"
Lick my fucking balls. I've spent five days in Vegas right at this point. That's like a month in real time and I'm still alive. "Vegas" is an old Mohican Indian word for "Bender." A lot of people don't know that. Last night was the first night I got shit faced and the worst thing I did was hit on a fat chick. Actually I hit on her hot friend, too. Actually I hit on them both at the same time. In front of each other. I guess that's a breach of etiquette. We ended up having drinks for a while but I was too inebriated to continue on with the evening.
Going back to bed. goochout.
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