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| January 4, 2002
By Phat Plastered
Phat Plastered Arrives in Vegas to Report the Nats--Alert the Media
| It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Oh, who am I kidding, I was just doing time.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.
Oh, who am I kidding, I was just doing time. It was the very worst of times. Fortunately my parole came through. California, not wanting me to remain in the state, sent me to Vegas. They said there were lots of people like me there.
I got on the Greyhound and started it up. I guess I should have waited for the driver, but he was late in my books. Scared the livin bejesus out of a bunch of old people, but I got them there. Playing slot cars on the wrong side of the 15 freeway did about thirty percent in by way of coronary. But hey, only the strong survive. I mean only the strong and lucky. I mean only the strong, lucky and those that have money.
Never mind.
So here I was, in Heaven. I was at the fountains of all knowledge. I was in the greatest city on earth. I was where I was made to be. I, Phat Plastered, International Man of Adventure, was in Las Vegas, Nevada, the place where here is not personal income tax thanks to your friends, the Underworld.
I had made it alive.
I could walk around in my Georgio Armani Tuxedo and no one would dare look askance. I could carry my martini glass and no one would chuckle. Heck, I could walk around naked and all they would do is direct me to the Crazy Horse. The cops had even seen much weirder than me. My goodness, I had found a place where I could fit in.
Heaven. Pure heaven is all I got to say. Joy unspeakable.
I was ready to P-A-R-T-Y…
Paul and John at NARCh had set me up with a line of credit. Of course, it was up to $25 at the Texas, but hey, you get a line of credit? Ten minutes later I was on the strip, wandering. Wandering and grousing. It was not going well and it hadn’t even started.
I was staying at the Belagio, at least I was until they told me I could sleep on the bench in front, and had to stop bugging the patrons for quarters, so I had to go find another place to stay. Went to the local mission aka homeless shelter. Lookie here, this is the deal. If you got to be broke and homeless, go to the place where they encourage it. The city where no one sleeps. Best shelter food in fifty cities I have visited, I must say. Lines were not that big either.
I also stole $500 from some Ellis kid, who got it from some dude named Daryn. I was back in business.
Ten minutes later, lost it all again. Got hungry.
The Seven Eleven didn’t think shoplifting was a good thing, and I was forced to pay for the Ding Dongs and sterno after all, so I hitched away from there as fast as I could before the Nevada State Patrol, aka those with a license to kill and a grin on their face to match, showed up.
Down there at the end of the street, stood a lonely wherehouse. Lots of people were hanging around, and they all seemed to be carrying their worldly possessions. Many smelled badly like that Irish guy I am filling in for. I was here. It had to be. My God! Vegas had two homeless shelters…
I sat down in the street and cried.
Anyway, it turned out to be the Crystal Palace, which didn’t make sense to me because with all these yo yos around, a piece of crystal would have lasted intact and in one piece for about as long as Osama Bin Laden in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I walked on in and there they were, getting ready. Some big ol Patton guy kept throwing me out saying we don’t want your ilk here. I didn’t know what an ilk was, but by God someone as thin and svelt like me wasn’t going to get squashed by some no neck monster. So, I thought about leaving. Then, I waited until he wasn’t looking, put on a Ref’s uniform, and walked on in. Stangest thing was they sent me out on some big ol thing where people skated by and hit a donut with some stick. Every now and then I got to watch some people fight and beat the tar out of each other. When my sciatica acted up I tossed my arms up and stuff, and the people flying around the rink would do different things. It was a lot of fun. When I got tired and came off, everyone rushed up to me and said it was the best officiating all year long…
I found the bar. Actually, I was drawn to it. Ordered some watered down beer. Ihate beer. Whats the point. It is just amateur gin. However, they had great wings and sauce. I found some paper on the floor and read it. A schedule or something. I wasn’t going to make every game, being I intended to have a very severe hang over wherever I could get someone to buy me anything alcoholic, so I thought I would run down the list for those “must see” games.
I called up Irish, who was traveling on his hog Don Quixote style with some Osama Latte Smith guy on a moped with a red Barbie helmet, and he said he had been detained in Lybia. In Lybia it is not a real good thing to get drunk and then suggest that Omar likes to do odd things with leather thongs and broken Sony Walkmans. I know it doesn’t make much sense, but it offended someone. Nor is it a good idea to scream out in the market place, “Hey baby, take off that Kimono and let me see what you got.” Just store that away for future reference. I understand Irish and his side kick was making a break for Nigeria, but since it wasn’t next door to Lybia, he was a bit lost on what or how to do it. Between you and me, I figure one more day on brown rice and goat milk, will be enough for Irish to blast his way out of the bowels of hell, so the Lybians won’t stand much of a chance.
I had called Irish on his Satillite phone. Apparently it was given to Osama years ago by the CIA. The big ‘O’ was hiding it in the women’s underwear he wore under his Dockers and large Pink Polo shirt. We went over the schedule. He also said he missed all you folks and that he was sorry he couldn’t make it, then started laughing and couldn’t stop.
It all starts January 4, 2002. Get used to it. Daily reports will follow...
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