BIG Ballz and I arrived Las Vegas—but due to some farked planning we actually arrived on the night of Halloween and so missed a few great hours of partying. We booked our accommodation on the internet to suit the budget conscious—which meant we were actually out of the Las Vegas and right beside the Nellis Air Force base.
Big Ballz couldn’t contain himself—we were in Vegas on Halloween; no way at 10.30 pm was he going to bed—so we called a taxi to take us to the Casinos. Las Vegas town cabs didn’t want to go to Nellis so the wait was up to an hour (note to self: pay the extra $20/night and stay in strip next time).
Vegas is, I must say, unbelievable! Once inside the casino it doesn’t matter what time day or night it is—there are no clocks, no windows, and if you sit at a table and gamble, there are no drink costs.
Big Ballz and I laid out $100 each. Big Ballz had, at one stage, up about $400 in winnings but, as is usual, the house eventually wins. But we had two hours of free drinks, entertainment, and basically came home with what we started with. The drinks are free—soft, beer, wine, spirits (watered down)—but they aren’t the quickest when it comes to service! Needless to say we gave them a little bit of curry about this.
The night was great because every pissed, half-dressed college girl in the USA comes to the casino after their parties. The place was alive and Big Ballz was almost uncontrollable.
The next day Big Ballz and I mounted our trusty steeds and headed to the desert. I was told there was an awesome ride through a place called the Valley of Fire and you could go on to Hoover Dam. Sounded like us.
The park is a traditional Indian area abutted by reservations, and you get the eerie feeling that Indian spirits are around. The road is adorned with small piles of rocks which are Indian totem marks.
Big Ballz and I stopped at one of the large rock beehives to take some snaps. Three Yanks were there taking pictures of rocks. Being an old hunter and infantryman, I was spying the ridge-line, and there, in all its glory, was a mountain ram—a wild very large type of goat. Big Ballz and I gazed as it stood proud and watched us.
I called to the Yanks, “Hey, have a look up here on the ridge.”
They were gob smacked! Being witty Yanks one of the guys said, “So in Australian, mate, would you call that a sheila or a bloke?” and they all giggled.
I replied, “Fucked if I know! In Australia in half an hour we would call it a barbeque.”
These poor bastards are so insular, I thought they were going to wet themselves. They said that was the funniest thing they had ever heard. Shit, might get my own sitcom at this rate.
Big Ballz and I rode on and straight into a rest area to get some water because it was hot—and we rode right into someone’s wedding. Stiff shit, it’s parkland and we needed water.
The crowd looked at us, and a guy moved our way.
I called out: “So where’s the bride we have to kidnap?”
They all laughed, we had a drink—this sitcom thing may have legs!
After bumbling around we were running out of light, so we gave Hoover Dam a miss and trundled back to Nellis to change and get ready for our last night on the town in Vegas.
For Harley riders, you have to do Las Vegas Harley, but more importantly, the Harley Café, which has bikes around the roof on conveyor belts. The café is a mix of riders, wannabes and tourists—and crumpet! We stayed quite a while for a few drinks and decided to leave the bikes in the carpark.
When in Vegas one has to go and see a show so we wandered around the discount show ticket booths, into the various casinos, and by popular decision, decided to see some dickhead Dutch magician, Hans Klok: the Beauty of Magic. The show looked ordinary, was reasonably priced for a Vegas Show, and really only had one appeal—the co-star was Pamela Anderson! It took no convincing for Big Ballz to make his choice! And we paid an extra $50/ticket to get second row seats!
At the start of the show the Cockmeister (as we like to call him) called for a volunteer to work with Pamela. Big Ballz jumped onto the seat and screamed the hall down. The Dickpuller (as we also sometimes call him) picked some small dicked Japanese businessman. Big Ballz was devastated; yet we did get a good look at her tits and atrocious acting ability.
Big Ballz felt much better after a few ales and a photo in front of a stall named after him. So slightly refreshed, GPS taped to the handlebars, we headed back to the hotel ready for a night’s sleep in preparation for tomorrow’s long ride to San Diego.
Roo’s Mis-Adventure continues next issue…