It’s Like One of Cher’s Final Farewell Tours. Only Without the ‘Cher’ Part
Our Farewell Tour has begun.
We began last week with a quick stint in Phoenix. Purely to gain another client and create more work for my soon-to-be-ex-partner. Choke on that, Bitch.
Followed only hours later with a flight back to Vegas. If you’re just joining in, note that we at Nine-Seven wash up in Vegas often. To see previous mistakes, please click here. And here. And here. Other notable Vegas mentions include:
-Destination: New Orleans and The Wrong Turn
-Dominique and Her Czech Counterparts
-Paradise with China
-The Bathroom Attendant
-Road Trip with The Mormon
-Nap for Two in the Trunk of My Coupe
-Angry State Patrol and How My Companion’s Cooter Got Us Off with a Warning
-Eggs In a Window
-Propositioning 101
-Propositioning 201
-Realizing That You Didn’t Pass Propositioning 101
-and my personal favorite, Body English, the $3,500 Tab, the 7 am Flight Home, and The Girlfriend Who Picked Me Up, Slept With Me But Wouldn’t Kiss Me and Then Introduced Me To Her Mother Who Didn’t Speak English.
Back to The Tour of 2006. If you’re ever out there and get the chance to catch a show, I adamantly recommend Anthony Cools. It’s not like the huge blockbusters like Celine or Carrot Top or any of that dog shit, but it’ll be in your best cultural interest to indulge yourself one evening. Basically, he’s a hypnosis comedian. Which means he takes volunteers from the audience, hypnotizes them, and then has them degrade themselves on stage for all of our amusement and photographic pleasure.
So my buddy and I volunteered to go on stage.
We closed our eyes. . .
And we breathed. . .
And we concentrated. . .
And we followed instructions. . .
And the chick next to me fell asleep on my shoulder. . .
Alas, we could not be hypnotized and were shown back to our seats.
However, four people (three women and one man) were pulled in and I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t one of the funniest, most fu*ked up two hours of my life.
From the beginning, the guy was taught that each time he heard Ring of Fire, that he was to experience the most severe, acute case of rectal itch known to man or animal which could only be moderately controlled by dragging his ass across the stage like Grandma with a case of tapeworm.
One of the other ladies was led to believe that every time she heard her name, her vagina was screaming the utmost inappropriate obscenities for all to hear, of which she struggled to covertly keep her crotch quite.
Been there.
Here we witness one of two women blow a chair in what they thought was an adult film tryout.
Here we see the guy dry-humping the same willing, albeit inanimate partner.
Again, been there. Mad props for form.
You can’t make this shit up, kids.
There’s more. Much more. Like the floatable bar in my buddies pool; which now has an unexplainable hole in it. Or what I did to his lawn. Worse yet, what he did to his rose bush under the kitchen window while his wife made us brownies. Yes, there’s more. But my Physical Therapist just labeled me a Bad Patient. Now I have to write a letter explaining the steps I’m going to take from now on to remember to bring my cane with me everywhere I go.
God, she's hot.
We began last week with a quick stint in Phoenix. Purely to gain another client and create more work for my soon-to-be-ex-partner. Choke on that, Bitch.
Followed only hours later with a flight back to Vegas. If you’re just joining in, note that we at Nine-Seven wash up in Vegas often. To see previous mistakes, please click here. And here. And here. Other notable Vegas mentions include:
-Destination: New Orleans and The Wrong Turn
-Dominique and Her Czech Counterparts
-Paradise with China
-The Bathroom Attendant
-Road Trip with The Mormon
-Nap for Two in the Trunk of My Coupe
-Angry State Patrol and How My Companion’s Cooter Got Us Off with a Warning
-Eggs In a Window
-Propositioning 101
-Propositioning 201
-Realizing That You Didn’t Pass Propositioning 101
-and my personal favorite, Body English, the $3,500 Tab, the 7 am Flight Home, and The Girlfriend Who Picked Me Up, Slept With Me But Wouldn’t Kiss Me and Then Introduced Me To Her Mother Who Didn’t Speak English.
Back to The Tour of 2006. If you’re ever out there and get the chance to catch a show, I adamantly recommend Anthony Cools. It’s not like the huge blockbusters like Celine or Carrot Top or any of that dog shit, but it’ll be in your best cultural interest to indulge yourself one evening. Basically, he’s a hypnosis comedian. Which means he takes volunteers from the audience, hypnotizes them, and then has them degrade themselves on stage for all of our amusement and photographic pleasure.
So my buddy and I volunteered to go on stage.
We closed our eyes. . .
And we breathed. . .
And we concentrated. . .
And we followed instructions. . .
And the chick next to me fell asleep on my shoulder. . .
Alas, we could not be hypnotized and were shown back to our seats.
However, four people (three women and one man) were pulled in and I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t one of the funniest, most fu*ked up two hours of my life.
From the beginning, the guy was taught that each time he heard Ring of Fire, that he was to experience the most severe, acute case of rectal itch known to man or animal which could only be moderately controlled by dragging his ass across the stage like Grandma with a case of tapeworm.
One of the other ladies was led to believe that every time she heard her name, her vagina was screaming the utmost inappropriate obscenities for all to hear, of which she struggled to covertly keep her crotch quite.
Been there.
Here we witness one of two women blow a chair in what they thought was an adult film tryout.
Here we see the guy dry-humping the same willing, albeit inanimate partner.
Again, been there. Mad props for form.
You can’t make this shit up, kids.
There’s more. Much more. Like the floatable bar in my buddies pool; which now has an unexplainable hole in it. Or what I did to his lawn. Worse yet, what he did to his rose bush under the kitchen window while his wife made us brownies. Yes, there’s more. But my Physical Therapist just labeled me a Bad Patient. Now I have to write a letter explaining the steps I’m going to take from now on to remember to bring my cane with me everywhere I go.
God, she's hot.
