So I started this post last week on the eve before my pilgrimage...
|"East bound and down"|
I'm about to embark on a voyage-nay, a quest into the black, shit-filled he(f)art of darkness that is Las Vegas. The last time I slow danced with fate in this desert disco of debauchery, the foul gods of diarrhea rewarded my performance by swiftly filling my Farah slacks with unruly amounts of soft serve. I, uh, that is to say-I shit myself in the motherfucking desert. You can read all about that ridiculousness here.
So why would I return? Why, indeed. Well, how about because Burt Reynolds is auctioneering off what appears to be a lifetime payload of celebrity booty at the Palms hotel December 11th and 12th? That's right, my sweet, sweet bitches! Yours truly will be there, if only to get pics of some mustachioed whackin' material. And probably some trouble.
This will not be the first time I'm exposed to the saccharine nectar of all things Burt. I was able to visit the Burt Reynolds and Friends museum in Juno Beach, Florida a decade ago but that yarn shall be unraveled a little further down the path, cowboy.
Burt claims that he's not a total broke-ass. He's more or less downsizing so there's no need for me to feel like a fiendish ghoul drooling over his golden flakes of shaken memorabilia dandruff. "Quite frankly, I am sick of so many pictures of myself in my own home," he recently told Entertainment Tonight, which is where I get all of my news.*
I realize as I re-read this dilettante post that I'm reading the words of a fool. A naive child, blissfully unaware of the bloody mary and buffet breathe I would inhale(and exhale)as I once again made the odyssey into the mouth of madness. You know, fuckin' Las Vegas. Despair not, as I managed to rise from the ashes like the Phoenix emblazoned on the hood of THE pontiac Tran Am, a chariot only worthy of the man whose name I shudder to speak. You know, fuckin' Burt Reynolds. I am now a man. Well, sort of. More of a jerk, but a jerk who's seen a thing or three.
I ask for your patience as I sweat and bleed out the words to articulate what I witnessed and ingested. I'm guessing this shit is gonna be a three parter, Jimmy Carter. Dare I say a trilogy? YES! A trilogy it shall be! Until then, I leave you with this:
"if only to get pics of some mustachioed whackin' material"
*I used the courier font to make it look all typewritery 'n shit. Like this. Balls. Pretty cool, eh? It's looks like I'm some sort of bullshit writer.