Vegas Chronicles Part 1: The Great Migration

Featuring government fruit inspections, tiny burgers and repeated fry assaults.

My OG Readers already know the rule: if a weekend with the boys gets recapped in one post, society collapses. The servers crash. I black out halfway through typing. Bestie probably files a formal complaint with management over the timeline inconsistencies.

So naturally this story requires parts. Multiple parts. Possibly an unnecessary amount of parts because I enjoy drama and believe in milking a narrative for entertainment purposes. Sue me.

Anyway.

Yes, Readers. I survived another Vegas weekend with the boys and have returned to tell the tale. Well the PG-13 version of the tale. We’re gonna keep certain details locked away in the vault because I like pretending this page is wholesome family-friendly content. It is not. But we maintain the illusion over here for legal and emotional reasons.

The chaos officially began Friday around 3 p.m. Which was already an hour behind schedule. And if you know anything about Bestie, you know that man treats timelines like military operations. Being behind schedule physically pains him. I’m pretty sure his eye started twitching around 2:17.

Naturally, Bestie blamed Craig.
Craig blamed Bestie.
I blamed both of them because that felt spiritually correct.

By the time they finally loaded my luggage into the SUV, it was almost 3:30. And before any of you ask: yes, I overpacked. I ALWAYS overpack with these men because traveling with them is like spinning a giant roulette wheel.

You have to be prepared for anything. One minute you’re dressed for a five-star restaurant with a dress code and the next you’re limping through a casino at midnight holding an iced coffee and questioning every life decision that brought you there. Layering is important, Readers. Survival instincts.

Anyway, the drive to Vegas was weirdly emotional? Which is honestly rude of them because I had mentally prepared for chaos, not feelings. Feelings are not part of the itinerary.

There was a conversation in that SUV that I am absolutely not emotionally equipped to unpack yet. Not with you people. Not with myself. Not with God. So we’re gonna place that entire situation into a tiny mental storage box labeled “Return To Sender” and revisit it in approximately 10 to 24 business months. Maybe longer depending on my coping mechanisms.

But despite the emotional spiraling happening somewhere between Arizona and Nevada, we still managed to maintain our sacred Road Trip Traditions because apparently trauma does not stop these men from operating on vibes and routine.

For those of you new here, let me explain something very important about road trips with the boys:

They begin with French fries.

I know.

I don’t understand it either.

I could explain the full origin story, but nobody has that kind of time today, and frankly, I’m still emotionally recovering from the fact that this is my life now.

Just know it is part of the sacred travel ritual. Like checking the gas tank. Loading the bags. Making sure Bestie has control of the route because God forbid anyone else navigate. And Craig getting fries.

And yes, he does eat some of them. But the fries he does not eat? Those become tiny potato projectiles aimed directly at Bestie’s head.

No, Readers. This is not satire.

He seriously does this.

Every time.

The routine is always the same. Bestie is being annoying, which is his default factory setting. Craig silently reaches into the fry bag, launches one at him, Bestie glares with that deeply offended husband look, and Craig just smiles and says, “You love me.”

Every. Single. Time.

So yes, before we could officially leave town, we had to stop at Wendy’s so Craig could get his fries and Frosty. Because apparently no one can emotionally survive the desert without fried potatoes and dairy-based chaos.

And then onward we went.

Next stop: the California border.

Which, for those unfamiliar, includes this deeply bizarre fruit checkpoint that has existed my entire Arizona life. I have lived here since I was nine years old, and that little fruit stand, as I call it, has always been there like some produce-themed portal into another dimension.

It looks like Border Patrol, but instead of asking dramatic federal questions, they ask where you’re coming from and whether you have any fruit.

Because apparently bringing certain fruit into California from Arizona farms is a whole thing. A fruit crime, if you will. Citrus contraband. Peach trafficking. Apple laundering.

I don’t know the law, Readers. I just know that somewhere between Arizona and California there are people being paid to ask if you have grapes.

Now whether this checkpoint is actually manned is always a gamble. Sometimes no one is there. Sometimes they wave you through. Usually, once we say we’re coming from Havasu, they let us go.

Except one time Bestie said “Paradise Valley,” and the poor guy looked at him like he had just invented a fake country. He asked Bestie to clarify about three times before Bestie finally said “Scottsdale,” and suddenly everything made sense and we were released back into society.

But aside from the fruit checkpoint, there are also random U.S. Border Patrol vehicles parked around, just sitting there ominously on the side of the road. I never see anyone in them. I never see anyone get out. They just exist. Like government lawn ornaments with sirens.

Which brings us to the ongoing Craig joke.

And listen. In hindsight, is it appropriate? Probably not. Are we terrible? Maybe. Do we roast each other constantly because our love language is psychological warfare with snacks? Absolutely.

Craig is part Puerto Rican, and Bestie, being Bestie, makes the same joke every time we pass any kind of checkpoint. Federal. State. Fruit-based. Doesn’t matter.

He says Craig is going to get us stopped and searched and that he is absolutely not bailing him out.

For the record, Craig is a full-blown American.

Bestie is just an ass.

Bestie also seems to believe that playing Fox News or some random conservative radio program while driving past a checkpoint is somehow going to protect us from being questioned.

Because nothing says “normal, law-abiding travelers” like three exhausted adults in an overpacked SUV, one of whom is throwing fries, one controlling the playlist like a political hostage situation, and me in the backseat wondering how this became the plot of my life.

Personally, I think the employees at the check points look inside, sense the emotional instability, and decide they want no part of whatever is happening in that vehicle.

And honestly?

I get it.

I would wave us through too.

Now before we even entered the Vegas city limits, we had already made two more stops. And Readers, these are not optional stops. These are part of the ritual now. Nobody even questions it anymore. We simply accept our fate and pull over.

The first stop is always the Nevada state sponsored rest area.

Now most normal people use rest stops to go to the bathroom and continue their journey. Not Bestie. Bestie treats every state sponsored rest stop like it’s a historic landmark that must be documented for future generations.

This man HAS to get photos at every single one.

It does not matter if we have stopped there before. It does not matter if it’s literally just a building, a vending machine, and a sad little patch of desert. If it says “State Sponsored Rest Area,” Bestie is pulling over with the seriousness of a National Geographic photographer on assignment.

And apparently this is part of some imaginary scrapbook game he has invented in his head where the rules change constantly so nobody else can ever win.

He is deeply committed to nonsense, Readers. I’ll give him that.

Then came Stop Number Two: The Searchlight McDonald’s.

Because Craig “needed more fries.”

Personally, I think Craig just needed an excuse to escape the SUV for ten minutes because by this point in the drive Bestie is usually operating at maximum insufferable capacity and morale is low for everyone involved.

So to recap for the historical record, Readers: we left Havasu around 3:30ish.

Which sounds reasonable until you factor in the fact that we stopped approximately every eleven minutes for fries, rest stops, emotional support nonsense, and California’s Fruit Investigation Unit.

And by some miracle we still made it to Vegas around 6:45.

Well technically we didn’t actually make it to the Tower until almost an hour later thanks to traffic that can only be described as psychologically damaging. Readers, it was INSANE. Like dangerously close to Los Angeles traffic levels of suffering. I know Vegas has approximately seventeen major events happening every weekend now, but good Lord. We moved three feet every twenty minutes.

Anyway.

As longtime Readers know, Bestie requires us to “dress appropriately” before entering the Tower. This is apparently very important to him despite the fact that every single time we walk through the lobby there are at least six people wearing flip flops, basketball shorts, and a T-shirt that says something unholy on it.

And every single time I point this out.
And every single time Bestie says something about how those people “lack sophistication.”

Readers, this man is one minor inconvenience away from becoming a cartoon villain.

Anyway, we finally checked in, went upstairs to freshen up, and immediately headed back downstairs for dinner because at this point all three of us were hangry simultaneously, which is an extremely dangerous group dynamic.

Human beings cannot survive on fries alone.
Craig has tried.

So we went down to the restaurant that Bestie insists is “basically five stars.” Now listen. It’s nice. Very nice. But Bestie talks about this restaurant like Gordon Ramsay personally rises from the kitchen every evening to bless the salmon.

Which, to be fair, IS delicious.

Bestie and I both ordered salmon because I always order salmon there. It’s part of my own personal Tower ritual at this point.

But then Craig, sweet innocent Craig, ordered sliders.

Readers, the LOOK Bestie gave that man when the waitress asked for his order could have ended civilizations.

According to Bestie, you do not order sliders at a five-star restaurant unless you are either:
A) a child
or
B) and I quote, “a peasant who cannot afford anything else.”

THAT WAS HIS WORD. NOT MINE.

Craig just sat there smiling while eating his tiny burgers like a man completely unbothered by class warfare.

Honestly? Iconic behavior.

Anyway, after dinner we made what I would consider an extremely mature and emotionally responsible decision for once in our lives.

We stayed in for the night.

It had been a long day. An emotional day. And that giant hot tub in our was calling to us like a beautiful little stress-relief cauldron neary sixty floors above Vegas.

So that’s exactly what we did.

We went upstairs, soaked in the hot tub, stared dramatically at the Sphere glowing outside the window, and questioned every life choice that led us to this exact moment.

Well. Among other things. But we’ll keep this PG-13 for now.

And Readers, that’s where I’m leaving you tonight.

Until tomorrow’s recap of Day Two featuring:

• a colorful garden

• a Trump hat

• Morgan Wallen

• emotional instability

• and the three of us ending up at In-N-Out at 1 a.m. like the exhausted little disasters we are.

Honestly, it’s somehow even more ridiculous than it sounds.

But then again, this IS us.