Vegas no parents 2008 cheese factory christmas adventure miracle featuring robert jordan's lord of chaos (no dignity part IV)

Sometimes I drive all the way to Vegas to watch a friend scalp some lousy BYU tickets, eat at a Carrabbas affiliate, purchase 1 pair of jeans and 1 pair of corduroys, gorge myself at a wretched $11.5 dollar buffet, watch 4 episodes of arrested development, eat Christmas tree shaped biscuits, play Clue with a 4 and a 7 year old, eat free economy salsa curd at the Beaver cheese factory, eat a cinnamon roll, a pint of highly fattening vitamin D milk, 2 scoops of Dryers ice cream, and an In-N-out double double all in a 5 hour period, and think, "Well that was a waste of a day and a half/a series of poor life decisions."

But then I recall the euphoria swelling within my breast as I felt the waves of sound bursting forth from David Hasselhoff's most blessed vocal chords wash over me in an orgy of musical majesty. I've never heard a more beautiful rendition of the Star Spangled Banner.

When Patrick told me that he had tickets to the Vegas Bowl and wanted to go down I thought, "Cool. H&M. Let's go." However, once I found out that David Hasselhoff would be rendering the crowd speechless with the national anthem, I was suddenly very interested in that wretched, mindless, waste of a Saturday night.

Somehow, David Hasselhoff slipped free of my mind over the ensuing tip grubbing, ass kissing hours at Carrabbas. When Saturday morning arrived, and Patrick informed me that he would be scalping the tickets I thought, "Cool. H&M. Let's go."

I can't go through southern Utah without stopping at the Beaver cheese factory. Or perhaps I should say, the cheese factory located in Beaver. I suppose one could make cheese from a beaver. Anything that could be milked, really. And everything that produces milk for an infant can be milked? (Question mark inserted because I am not positive as to the truth of that statement.) And milk can always be made into cheese. So I guess a beaver cheese factory isn't really all that preposterous a notion.

I love salsa curd. I approached the sample table just in time to see Scott shove his filthy hand right into the curd pot. "Getta toothpick you dirt bag." Moments later, as I was reinserting my toothpick into the curd bucket, I was similarly called a dirt bag by the aforementioned dirt bag. I maintain that it was less a filthy gesture than the initial fingering of the curd.

After conversing with an apparent elderly BYU fan while I pissed (weird) we were ready to head south again. I guess he was wondering what brought a man with purple slacks and a P coat to the Beaver cheese factory. "Scalping, sir." I zipped up and left.

After the fourth black man at the stadium offered to purchase Patrick's $50 tickets for 10 bucks, I began to feel like selling them was a waste of our life. Also, like a scum bag.

Scalping. No dignity.

It was somewhere between hearing the frat douche Arizona fans cheering in the form of the F word cleverly mixed in with their school letters, and witnessing a possible drug deal from a Winnebago, that it hit me like a ton of flaming bricks; I was going to miss Hasselhoff. I suddenly, for the first time in my life, wished I was a organized sport fan and had fought Patrick's supreme executive authority to scalp those tickets.

As I was standing outside the stadium gates, amidst the scalping scum of Vegas, my heart skipped a beat as I heard the announcement of Hasselhoff's pending musical number. I realized that although I would miss being able to actually bathe in his vibrant glow, to bask in his vivacious essence, I would still be able to hear him take Vegas' collective breath away.

It was absolutely beautiful, and EVERYTHING I had imagined. So powerful, so raw. I saw tears streaming forth unabated from the scalping dregs of the Vegas underbelly.

After the emotion wore off, I remembered that I was, if not necessarily personally scalping tickets, an accomplice to a scalper. No freaking dignity. I had not felt quite so humiliated in a long time, as I stood there amongst the ticket hustlers trying to make a couple of bucks. Or rather watched Patrick try to make a couple of bucks.

H&M was a disappointment. I didn't get to eat at the Winn buffet. I left almost an entire jug of Simply Apple in my cousin's fridge, as well as my phone charger. I didn't get to gawk at the Bellagio fountains, nor ride the big shot on top of the stratosphere. I didn't find a black P coat, nor shoes to my liking.

The whole trip seemed a waste, except for that one magic moment, that 2 minute slice of time when the heavens opened up, and Hasselhoff's voice rained down from above.

Worth it? Hell yes.