I took my dirty-bird ass to Vegas with a gaggle of friends this weekend. Turns out, I’m just not a Vegas guy. There are hundreds of activities Vegas offers, almost none of which appeal to my tightwad, Ebenezer Scrooge tastes.
Gambling just doesn’t make sense to me—at all. I think if everyone taught rambunctious children for a living, Vegas would be a ghost town, because people would be working too hard to piss their money away in some rigged slot machine. But even though I don’t like to gamble myself, I love watching other people lose money doing it. Seriously. Their losses are a constant reaffirmation of why my thinking works; it makes me feel self-righteous for abstaining from risk. Some of my friends lost more money gambling than I spent altogether, and that brings me a smile at their expense.
Clubbing is another realm of Vegas that doesn’t make sense to me—at all. Clubbing is miserable for a guy like me since the whole charade is a stinging reminder that my Sexual Market Value (SMV) is zero. Nobody but a masochist would enjoy clubbing with a SMV that low. And, as a white guy, I don’t like to reinforce bad stereotypes of white people, so in order to practice what I preach, I have to abstain from dancing, which is one of the principal aspects of clubbing. I’m also not much of a drinker, and the music is bad enough to put humans below apes, so there’s just nothing in it for me. Lastly, clubbing often involves waiting for the privilege of enduring all these travails, much like waiting in line at the DMV for further processing. One friend waited 2 hours to get into a club that charged him $50 dollars at the door just for having a swinging dick, and then he still failed to seduce any women. He returned to the suite with one pocket inflated with blue balls and the other deflated of cash.
The one aspect of Vegas that I enjoyed was the food. The buffet we went to was stellar, and I got to visit Cugino’s Italian Deli for lunch one day—a phenomenal place that I highly recommend. I enjoyed talking to the Italian-American lady behind the counter. She asked me where I was from and said, “Oh, everyone who comes here seems to be from Southern California.” She said that she wanted to get out of Vegas and move to California because of how atrocious the people in Vegas were. I agreed but relayed the unfortunate truth that Vegas is mostly just an extension of Los Angeles, and the quality of people in California was equally terrible. I should have told her about my secret hideout in Korea. Or maybe North Dakota.
I have to admit that there was one other aspect of Vegas that was at least interesting—the desert landscape—though I didn’t really like it per se.