I fucking love Las Vegas.
Even after enduring that long-as-hell cramped car ride on Friday through the
desolate stretches of brown scrubland that we all forget is actually still part
of California, the mere sight of the city’s distant twinkling lights grazing
the night horizon was all it took for me to muster some unknown energy deep
from within my inner self, and prepare for the festivities that I knew were
about to take place.

But before I discuss the city’s slimy yet oh-so-satisfying
character, let’s rewind. This President’s Day weekend excursion to Vegas is
Guardian tradition, so, to say the least, my co-workers and I were quite
excited to get the hell out of our messy, cramped (yet totally awesome) Student
Center offices and get our collective party on.

I’ve made the trek with fellow staffers to Nevada’s oasis of
sin on multiple occasions now, and each time have been pleasantly surprised by
the unique experiences thrown at me from the Strip’s every nook and cranny. In
short, Vegas is nonstop hilarity and constant insanity, and I’m going to tell
you why.

First of all, people watching in Sin
City seriously never gets old. I’m
not even joking; there’s no where else on the planet where you can find so many
interesting-looking people of all shapes, sizes, races, ages and intelligence
levels sitting side by side in entranced harmony, hoping to win that coveted
million-dollar jackpot.

I’ve found that merely sitting on the casino sidelines and
hearing those distinct jangles and beeps emanating from the slot machines is a
great way to start off the evening — if nothing else, you will at least be able
to laugh at the sea of gamblers and the intense looks they have on their faces
as they pull the slot-machine lever.

If you decide to observe the betting strangers for a bit
longer, their robotic looks occasionally evolve into surprise, disgust,
anger (I saw one woman scream “No” and
slap the side of her machine) and eventually momentary defeat.

And I say momentary because after they lose on one machine
they get up and sit at one a few feet down before the process begins again.

In fact, the whole city and everything that happens there is
a cycle — a cycle of pure, unadulterated debauchery.

But that’s precisely why we went, because the events that
accompany such a cycle are unpredictably entertaining.

Every day and every night are essentially the same: drunken
Strip-wanderers, shady guys yelling that they can get you into x-club(s),
people screaming, sirens roaring down Las Vegas Boulevard, multicolored
flashing lights, women wearing strange feather headdresses and sequins and more
billboards for cheap all-you-can eat prime rib than I ever thought were
possible.

All the while, the huge — and admittedly beautiful — hotels
and casinos tease passersby with advertisements for shows and shops as
strangers thrust naked-lady cards in your face every five seconds offering a
phone number for a quick $39 escort special.

It’s easy to see how that kind of environment brings out
everyone’s inner crazy.

And I definitely saw it come out among my co-workers this
weekend. I’m not going to name names — you all know the Vegas motto — but let’s
just say there were some interesting lines spoken this weekend, among them
being:

“I can feel the gravity,” uttered by one particularly
inebriated editor as she met the elevator floor for the first time; “My name
starts with an ‘A,’ and your name has an ‘A’ in it,” spoken after I asked for
justification following another staffer’s drunken assertion that we were twins;
and “Shmanadipsy!,” a spur-of-the-moment term coined by another drunk editor
who couldn’t think of the correct lyrics to a song we were all singing.

I think a weekend like that, where we could forget about
school and work and San Diego in
general, was long overdue for all of us.

That’s why Vegas is the perfect destination for a trip; you
can pretend you’re a baller for a few days and actually spend a few dollars on
things that you would never otherwise buy, like $1 30-second lap dances or
yard-long, watered-down daiquiris.

And you can do it all from the safe confines of anonymity.
No one around you cares about your antics (even the police didn’t stop me when
I walked past them carrying a drunk co-worker on my back) because everyone is
there for the exact same reasons you are.

But the best thing about this weekend was that amid all of
the chaotic bombardment, I was reminded how lucky I am to be an American. As I
drunkenly stumbled down the Strip toward god-knows-what, I decided to stop and
watch the Bellagio’s famous water show. As I gazed up, I realized that “Proud
to Be an American” was the theme song accompanying the towering columns of
water.

Laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation, I turned
around to see a “Hot Babes” truck barreling down the Strip and a group of drunk
bros yelling catcalls at some girls that were way too hot for them.

I think it was the overwhelming irony of the moment that
finally made me realize just how much I love Las Vegas
— either that, or the fact that I knew I had more partying to do.