London is fast becoming my favorite place in the world. I might have been spoiled by a bad trip years ago with my ex. With less than 36 hours to recover from carnage in Vegas I was again on a plane bound for Heathrow.

Thursday – Get in at noon. Jetlag sets in. Go for a “nap” and wake up at 9PM - it did exactly what I didn’t want to do…major schedule-flippage! Shower, go out for some sushi, sneak our way into one of the best clubs in England, get a VIP table, and get completely pissed (for the gringos in means drunk).

Friday – Wake up after only two hours of sleep still drunk. I got an email back from this girl I had met kind of randomly tripping my ass off on some shrooms in Amsterdam. She phoned me up (“called”) and asked if I wanted to go to Camden with her. To be honest, I couldn’t even precisely remember what she looked like, but when she walked up in Lester Square, I don’t see how I could have forgot! She was FIT (English slang “hot”). We take the tube (subway) to the park, have a swim (bikini confirms…yes, very fit – 9.5 to 10), and then sit out in the park and smoke some weed in a field with UK supermodels that made it back. Cabs are tough to find so we walk about 5 miles pramming (even the English don’t know that phrase) and chatting. Go up to a bar and have some drinks where some dodgey (sketchy) waitress tries to take us for a few pounds for our drinks. We meet her friend Patience (yeah, that’s her real name) and go to an excellent restaurant for dinner and 2 awesome bottles of wine. By this time we are getting pretty hammered, so we go out and get some bugger sugar (cocaine) which is pretty bad but keeps us up till we rejoin my friend at a club and I blackout.

Saturday – Meet up for the AOE Webmaster show yeah, I know it’s stupid to go all the way to England for less than 12 hours of business, but alls fair in fun and tax write-offs! We meet up with the girl from the day before (ok, I’ve got a little crush by now), eat some Ostrich burgers, and start on the pub crawl. . It is clear that my partner is dragging from the night before. Right about the time he bails and skives off (blows off) on the rest of the day about 6 or 7 English pornstars and a few Playboy Bunnys show up to liven things. We go on drinking, seeing the sights, riding the eye, cruising the Thames till midnight. Me and a guy from Playboy wind up at a hotel with a dozen randy bachlorettes (not being familiar with English law – I strike a few details here) and find my way back to my hotel at 5AM — everyone is still on the streets partying and having a great time.

I love England.

Sunday – Sleep till 8PM. Have plans to meet the bird (chick) and her sister from the days previous for dinner. It seems to me that there is some level of attraction going on here, but I can’t figure why nothing has happened yet. We meet at this hippy bar where some lady is reciting some “worm” monologue she’s probably been doing for the past 3 decades. We start drinking, go out to eat, all slip a few tabs of E, and go to a club. After we buy another bag of shit coke from this dodgey fucker her sister tells me that she has a boyfriend and hasn’t been mentioning. For once in my life, I actually crushing pretty hard…I felt like this was girlfriend material. Some guy comes by and sells me 3 pills for 10 quid. I take all 3. Around 4 the sisters get in an argument and run out of the club….I stay completely mashed up (wasted) until we get our plane hours later. (Threat level of gums = shade bright stunning magenta)

Jay, you born alone and, believe me, you’ll die alone — which is fine by me…it’s a hell of a lot more fun, so don’t mug yourself (get down).

Besides, wasn’t it the English that said, “It’s not the kill, it’s the thrill of the chase…”?

I can’t wait to go back!

England rules!

This past week’s show in Vegas was quite a debacle. The 5.5 day standoff was — by no means, easy the brain, liver, or wallet.

Here are the gory details:

Wednasday, July 12th - Arrive in Vegas early evening and check into the Hard Rock. Hit a couple parties and then proceed onward to strip clubs. Wander out into omnipresent Vegas heat at 8AM a few dollars poorer and blueballed.

No biggie.

Thursday, July 13th - Go out to the “show” floor, which consists of a bunch of various porn companies sponsoring poolside cabanas around the pool at the Hard Rock. Start getting wasted in the 110 degree heat, proceed to the circle bar, keep drinking, skip dinner and go to Tao at the Venetian. At first Tao was kind of boring because we had a shitty table. Things improved when when I start sharking on some porn slut. Before long she was jerking me off and she is blowing me at the table right in front of all my friends. I suggest we leave, she obliges, and we go back to the Hard Rock for a quick shag. I suggest we rejoin the group, she obliges (does she say no to anything?), but on the way back she gets a phone call to meet “some clients”.

I guess I got boned pro-bono. Free hookers are like a sore dick:
You can’t beat it.

I meet back up with the group at Tao again, but the place quickly gets boring again without some porn snizz attached to your dick, so we decide to bail and go over to Tryst at the Wynn. We’re there for the last hour messing around with another group of girls and doing silly dance moves. It was now half-past-drug-thirty, so we went back to my buddy Steve’s room, where he had some coke. He was also nice enough to also get some baking soda and aluminum foil sor me so I could go shiny side down. I’ve been trying to quite smoking rocks for a few weeks — but cum’ on…the guy bought foin and baking soda for Christ sakes! To NOT smoke it would be unconscionable. The crack really livens me up and I proceed into one of my crack-addled comedy routines which leave the whole room room mesmerized.

8AM, or so, rolls around. I crash out.

Friday, 14th – I am awakened at 10 AM by 2 stupid sluts pounding repeatedly on my door. The two are rambling incohently about wanting to get some coke, but I explain that I just smoked it all. So, they pull the blankets off the other bed in the room, which makes my laptop hit the floor harder Sonny Bono hits a tree at Aspen.

Finally, I give the ultimatum: Give up the nappy or get the fuck out — they leave.

I wake up later on that day and decide that I ought to check my email. I take my laptop out — the entire glass panle from the screen falls right out onto my keyboard.

THOSE STUPID FUCKING SLUTS!

Undaunted, I go back out to the pool and start drinking again. I meet up with a bunch of people and we go over to Body English (club at the Hard Rock) that night. After a while Body Engish gets boring so me and SAK (Assmunchers) go across the street to the Rainbow (not as cool as the one in LA), eat some pizza, get bored, and wander into the adjacent strip club only so somehow manage to insult all the strippers. We wind back at the Hard Rock and I get a text message from the girls that had broke my laptop saying that they wanted to “make it up to me” and “had some coke”. Figuring that I would never see a dime from them, I figure I could probably best hedge my loses with such commodities. I get up to my room and only see one of the girls sitting there against my door. We go it the room, she busts out some blow, I snort some huge fucking rockstar lines, the coke sucks, and I actually wind up passing out.

Saturday, 15th – I wake up that slut from the night before (asleep in the other bed) screaming at her husband at 9AM. I tell her to shut the fuck up and get out of the room. This bitch is like the worst person in the world – hand down. The show is over at this point, but I am so pissed off I…

Can anybody guess?

Surprise, surprise: Go out to the pool and start drinking.

This day is it is my buddies birthday and they’ve rented a bunch of Cabanas, our boy from Myfirstpornscence was supossed to roll by with Britney Starr and a bunch of hookers. While hanging out at the Cabanas I manage to score a bunch of hits of ecstasy, meet a group of hot looking chicks from San Diego, and we all go back after the pool closes to my boy Mark from Naughty America’s room. One of the girls is this super hot model-looking chick with crazy green eyes. I tell Mark that if he can hook me up with her I would double his traffic. We make plans with the girls for later, I go over to Steve’s room, snort some weasel dust, go back to my room and puke all over the bathroom.

I meet up with all of my friends at Simon’s at the Hard Rock for the birthday dinner. I decide that I would not be eating but drinking my dinner that night. During dinner I took one of the tabs of E, put it on a fork and ate it. Before long, I was rolling my balls off. I gobbled down a couple more and we went up to the ongoing birthday party at Body English. At the club I met back up with the group of girls from San Diego and (as fortune would have it) they were rolling too. So we wind up partying all night and we are all supposed to leave the next day. It was 10AM, my flight was coming up in a few hours and so was the girls. There was “romance” going on between me and one of them, so I convinced her to re-book her flight if I re-booked mine and got the room for another night.

Now, I guess I had better segue into…

Sunday, 16th – With no sleep before…me and the San Diego girls decide to check out the “world famous” Rehab pool party. Truthfully, Relapse would be a better name. We meet up with another friend of mine John from Wegcash and hang out at their Cabana. Before long a friend of mine comes up and hand me and entire eightball of cocaine and tells me that I can have it. There’s a bunch of ghetto strippers hanging out there so we toss it to them for a bit, some crazy steroided out guy comes up and sells up 6 more hits of E for next to nothing. The girl and I drop them, Rehab winds up shutting down, and we finally go back up to my room to consummate out relationship for several hours (you gotta love E — no softserve). After, 4 hours of drugged out sex we realized that we still have half and eightball of cocaine left, but at this point we are so partied out we even want it anymore. So, we call everyone we know to trying to give it away, but nobody will wants it.

There is nothing sadder than an orphaned bag of cocaine.

Not long after, I get a call from my girl Lia, who had left Rehab late that afternoon and had apparently been kicked off of her flight for being to drunk, while wearing nothing but a bikini, and having her bags had been sent on to Arizona. She was stranded at the airport. I tell her she can come up and stay in my other bed, because I was finally starting to get sleepy, and if the girl I was with got pounded anymore she might never walk again.

Finally…we slept and the 2 day bender had come to an end.

Monday, 17th – Finally, after being zonked into a coma for 12 hours I wake up with just enough time to catch my flight home and and go straight back to sleep.

Scorecard:

5.5 days in Vegas
6 hits of E
9 Eightballs
2647 Bud Lights
685 Shots Of Jauger
94 Advil
11 Bars of Xanax
6 VIP Tables
Maybe 1 Meal
3 strip clubs
6 Cabanas
26 condoms
2 new sexual partners
? - $$$!

I’m back home again.

Vegas: You are glad to get there and you are glad to get the fuck out.

Viva.

Jay

Shiney Side Down – When going to the foil foil you should always smoke “shiny side down” to avoid inhailing the dangerous chemicals on the shiney side.

“The really rich people figure out how to dodge taxes anyway.”

–George w. Bush

Check out my new project:

www.xxxpornmovielinks.com

It’s a 2nd generation linklist that is similar to Jays XXX but has some nice improvements.

Just got back from the XBiz Vegas show. The maximum amount of time anyone should attempt to withstand in Sin City - (spiritually, mentally, or financially) — is 3 days, after which — you are only causing unneeded damage to your liver, brain, and wallet.

So what really goes on at these conventions? It’s a good forum to make new contacts and hammer out business deals. While in Lost Wages, I formed a new company: Bitch Management Solutions, where our motto is:

“WE SLAP BITCHES SO YOU DON’T HAVE TO”

During a series of high level business meetings, it was decided I would be CEO Chief Slap-a-Hoe, while my partners would head up the dirty arm of Bitch Management Solutions: The Ugly Webcam Girl Consulting Firm. For a nominal service charge, we will show up at some nasty looking webcam chick’s house and lay an Agassi-sized backhand on her.

Ok, none of that is really true…it’s what you call fodder for a blog. The truth is a lot worse. Look for the gory details soon.

During my buddy Paul’s recent flight from Panama, he stopped at my place in Los Angeles. Looking to kill some time one afternoon, we decided to visit The Museum of Tolerance – if for no other reason, just to mock it. The Museum of Tolerance is supposed to educate the public about how bigotry, hate, and racism destroy society — with a focus on the WWII Holocaust. Honestly, we didn’t expect to make it through the entire exhibit before being tossed out like used bandages.

I read on the MOT’s website that it had been set up by Samuel J Wiesenthal, with whom I was already familiar because of my obsession with the Third Reich. Wiesenthal is best known for the hunting down, capture, and bringing to justice of Nazi ringleader Adolph Eichmann. I was impressed by the perseverance and dedication it took Wiesenthal to send Eichmann to his own death, some twenty years after fleeing Europe to Argentina. By the same notion, I am also impressed my Eichmann’s dedication to his cause. His last words to his Jewish executioners at the gallows were:

“I hope you all follow me.”

That’s pretty burley, you’ve got to admire him for keeping is so Trill (for my Ebonicly challenged readers: Trill = True and Real). Upon arriving at the MOT, Paul and I were treated to a security screening regimen that made flying El-Al the day after 9/11 with a towel on you head, a fake ZZ Top beard, wearing a “I’m Just Here for the Jihad” T-shirt, with a carry-on bag full of box cutters seem mild by comparison. It was time to begin the tour. The guide gave us a brief orientation then led us to two doors and said:

“There are two doors here. One is the door you walk through if you are prejudiced, and the other if for non-prejudiced.”

Then she pulls on the non-prejudiced door to show that it is locked, and continues;

“No matter what, all people are prejudiced to some degree, so all of you must walk through the prejudiced door.”

Damn it! I was planning on running through the racist entrance screaming incoherently about how I thought that niggers were nothing more than shaved apes! Hey lady! Thanks for stealing my thunder! Oh well, once inside there were exhibits about the dangers of right wing pinko radio hosts, the genocide it Rwanda, the plight of the American Indians, and other timely subjects, but fuck all of that shit — it was time for the money shot. That’s right folks: The Holocaust Wing.

Ahh, the Holocaust Wing. I like the sound of that. I might have one added to my house. Upon entering, you get this ATM card thingy with a picture of an actual person that had been in Hitler’s death camps. As you go through the exhibit, you place the card in terminals and it tells what has happened to your person at various points in Hitler’s rise to power. At the end, you find out whether they lived or not. I remember thinking to myself, “Now that is pretty cool, getting this card alone has made this worth the trip already.” I mean, what a great gag: You go to settle up your bar tab, and you hand the bartender the Concentration Camp Card “by mistake”. And when he hands it back, you can say, “Whoops, sorry about that I meant to give you my Visa, but I accidentally handed you my Poor Little Bernie Goldberg Who Was Forced to Shovel His Own Grave Before Being Gassed at Dachau Card. Whoops, my bad!”

Now, that’s comedy!

As you stroll through the MOT, you are treated to facts about the Hitler’s early years, how his propaganda captured the minds of a nation, his imperialistic quest to spread his ideology though Europe, the methods employed at the concentration camps. The men behind him, such as Himmler, Baldur von Schirach, Josef Mengele. And the eventual defeat of the Nazis by the Allied forces. All interesting, but pretty much a rehash of everything I already knew. I admit it, I am fascinated by Hitler. Though, I will say, as brutal mass killing regimes of the 20th century go, Hitler was a hack, coming in a mere 3rd behind Stalin’s 29 million high Beef Stroganov body count and Mau Tse-Tung’s 53 million served chop suey pile. Hitler’s 6 million is paltry in comparison, but for what Hitler lacked it kill-a-bration, he more than made up with in charisma, style, and that cool signature mustache.

Other highlights of the tour included a delightful authentic Nazi children’s picture book brutally stereotyping Jews in some hilarious drawings (I don’t know anything about the page missing with the hook-nosed lawyer, getting fatter and fatter while his clients lose their pants) and Paul inexplicably getting a hard-on while looking at the empty Zyklon-B containers. It was now on the end, where you get to present your Holocaust Card to find out if your kid lived or not. Mine made it, but Paul’s kid’s hair now stuffs an antique pillow somewhere in Berlin. The exhibit was pretty cool, but it could have been a little more gruesome I thought. At least I get to keep this nifty Holocaust Card. So I reach to pull it back out of the machine and guess what?

The machine fucking took the thing. THOSE GODDAMNED CHEAP ASS, GOOD FOR NOTHING FILTHY KYKE-ASS-SHEENIE FUCKIN’ JEWS!

Oh well, except for losing the card, a mild overdose of forbearance, and a slight lack of gore in the Holocaust Wing (I still like the sound of that) the overall message of the MOT is a good one: Remember the past so that history does not repeat itself. Do not let one man’s self-righteous ideologies befall a nation, to inspire it’s people to now feel it is their divine mission to force their way of life down the throats of all civilization and then attempting to attain world domination through a combination of fear, propaganda, and brute military force.

Fuck it, in this case, a picture is worth all 1042 words:

Still a Golden God,
Jay