HAMMER AND BANG, or...

FREE YOUR PANTS AND THE REST WILL FOLLOW.

Our last full day in Vegas, and I've realized that we have done absolutely nothing close to what most people come here for.

We've spent maybe $60 at the slots. Neither myself, nor my girlfriend knows the first thing about cards (except a couple of cornball card tricks good for entertaining drunk uncles at Christmas) and we've seen nary a strip club nor a brothel. Our trip has been entirely public-vulva free as a matter of fact. We did see an amazing burlesque show (have I mentioned that?) but that was all very tasteful- er, as tasteful as off color jokes and nipple tassels can be.

So, after heading out on the "new" strip for the first real measurable amount of time in five days, we've come to find the true Vegas- the one people fly out to to fritter away their life savings. After three hours or so shuffling around with the fanny pack and camera herds, we decided we needed a breather. So we headed back to the confines of our slightly less austentatious hotel(though- still incredibly austentatious by normal hotel standards. We weren't at the Travelodge or anything, though I'm sure if we were it would be ritzier than, say, the Travelodge in Peoria.)

As we entered the front doors, there on a bench just inside, before entering the droves of people milling about with light beers and miserable expressions, and adjacent to the $10.99 buffet sits a fratty man-boy man shouting into his cell phone to his loved ones back home, recounting the exploits of the night prior.

And what did he do that was worth the public phone call?

Oh, he just "banged the shit out of some prostitutes, bro."

And with that- I realize we've really just been pecking around at the side dishes here in this town, with not a single bite of the steak they accompany.

Yes, a town where you don't just "bang the shit out of" A prostitute. No, you "bang the shit out of" SOME prostitutes, with an "s" on the end. With your friends. And you can recount just "how hard" your best pal "gave it to this one prostitute."

When we get home, our bank accounts will only be short the cost of food, lodging, and airfare. No second mortgage- in fact, no house to take a second mortgage out on. And our naughty bits will be in the same shape they were when we took off from O'Hare.

And y'know? I'm pretty God damn alright with that.