Vegas??? Holy shit, did the groom propose on the top of the Empire State Building, too?
Let me guess: your trip-planning group chat was called “The Wolfpack,” you all brought suits to wear on the first night, and you’ve already decided who out of your group is Zach Galifianakis. And after the fourth time any of you says, “Vegas, baby. Vegas!” you’re officially played. Like, in a 1996 kinda way.
You scoured the Internet trying to find deals on suites, realized the only people who get to stay in those suites are dudes who drop a million a hand on Pai gow, and settled on two-to-a-room at Terrible’s. Of course, that’s not what you tell the girls in front of you on the half-mile line at Marquee. To them, you’re staying at the Cosmopolitan. In a suite. Never mind why you still have to wait in this line, much less have a heated debate in the middle of a casino about whether dropping $500 a person for a table is worth it to “skip all this shit.”