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.”
And while one of you is pissed because the ATM cut him off just before his genius roulette “system” was about to pay out, another one won’t shut up about how he “hit it big” at blackjack (yet is still bitching about who had the more expensive steak at Gordon Ramsay).The only guy sadder than those two is the dude who met a nice single woman at the baccarat bar, only to find out once they got upstairs to the room that she wanted $1,000 -- and, like, please don’t tell his wife. He will repeat this story anytime anyone brings up Vegas for the rest of his life.
And as your last night in Vegas winds down while you desperately try to find SOMETHING to do that ends with a tiger in your hotel room, you head to Drai’s after closing time to see if you can round up some “stragglers.” Failing to realize that, much like the patsy at the poker table, the stragglers are YOU. The only “epic” thing about your weekend was the Sunday morning TSA line at McCarran. But, of course, that won’t stop you from answering every single inquiry about your trip with, “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” although really, it doesn’t need to.
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Matt Meltzer is a staff writer for Thrillist. Follow his bachelor party fun @mmeltrez.