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.
