Vegas vexation

You know how that famous scene from Chariots of Fire makes beach running seem like the epitome of fitness fun, when in reality it just gives you Achilles tendonitis and makes you smell like sweaty fish?

My weekend in Las Vegas was kind of like that.

Like many things in life, my Sin City experience didn’t exactly live up to all of the Hollywood hype.

I didn’t win a car. I didn’t get a suntan. I didn’t meet anyone famous (not even Criss Angel, Mindfreak). Wayne Newton didn’t invite me to ride horses at his sprawling desert retreat. I didn’t even get roofied or wake up with a jungle cat in the bathroom.

What I did do was:

(a) wander aimlessly down the strip, breathing in an ever-present vapor of cheap cologne and cigarette smoke.

(b) pay $12 for one freaking Mimosa, which I sipped while lounging on an upholstered poolside Chaise lounge that reeked of cheap cologne and cigarette smoke.

(c) run on a treadmill—despite the fact that it was 75 degrees outside—in a hotel fitness room that smelled like cheap cologne and cigarette smoke.

Why, you might wonder, would I resort to working out in such a respiratorily hostile environment, surrounded by greasy, hungover dudes in cutoff t-shirts?

Because if I had braved the streets of Vegas, I would not have gotten anywhere without running into:

(a) a horde of intoxicated tourists.

(b) a neighborhood where all of the buildings have metal bars over the doors and windows.

(c) Carrot Top.

To drive home my point, I have created the following chart. Do with it what you will.