Vegas tan lines are the worst

We love our “Sin City” moniker. The name “Sun City” would also probably work if it weren’t taken. There’s a good chance you’re too young to get that reference. But suffice it to say we ain’t gonna play Sun City. We are, however, going to endure long stretches of blistering sun exposure because, despite being a 24/7 town, our pool clubs assume everyone wants the sun and fun—or the clubs just don’t want to risk having that many drunk people around a pool at 2 a.m.

All that sun brings the inevitable tan lines. Like the hurried rush to the doctor or drug store after a one-night stand, all you want is a little relief, but all your friends know what’s really going on. You did something dumb, like laid out in the sun unprotected or laid on top of someone’s son unprotected. Now parts of you are red, sore and itchy, while other parts are pale and sad. So remember to take precautions next time. Wear sunscreen and any other prophylactics you need. Or you might end up like these people:

Pretend we wrote something funny about one of that kid’s songs. We honestly don’t know any and don’t want to look one up.

Best friends/worst enemies

He still doesn’t know. And she’s not going to tell him. She stood there and watched while his friends spelled that out in sunscreen on his passed out ass. And she even knew how to properly spell the pop star who shall not be named, but she let them spell it wrong out of spite. Oh she’ll tell him eventually. And she will laugh and laugh. But for the rest of his days he’ll have to live with this picture on the internet, and the painful memory of the people he loves most tragically and painfully misspelling the name of the young, blonde boy he hearts so hard. That’s right, he’s a closet Belieber. And he will not be shamed.

I swear they’re my hands

“Just one more,” they said. “These look great,” they said. She was holding her boobs so long that she ended up with tan lines of her own fingers. The worst part was going home and having to explain to her husband that they were, in fact, her own hands. He’s not a very trusting guy. Eventually she convinced him and everything worked out. The moral of the story is, if you’re cheating on your husband with another woman, make sure she has the same sized hands as you. You never know when you’re going to need to lie about whose hand prints are on your boobs.

The water gun is full of whiskey and his heart is full of love.

Squirt Man

He did it to himself, just because he thought it would be funny. And he was dead sober too. Then he started running around calling himself Squirt Man. It was sad. He doesn’t look it but he’s actually 43 years old. He’s never been married and he makes his money by day-trading and posing for stock images that later get Photoshopped for comedic effect. And he comes to Vegas a few times a year to visit a young child he donated a kidney to in 2004. You feel a little bad about judging him now, don’t you? You should. Squirt Man is a hero.

Fishnets of desire

The cover-up was an impulse buy. It was off the shoulders, tight but flowing in the right places. And it made her feel like a real woman again, even after the three kids and the divorce. She’d spent so long getting her body back and she was so happy to show it off. The next day her youngest kid tried to play chess on her arm, but she didn’t care. She was happy with her choices and her progress. The tan lines would fade, but the memories never would. She’s the Vegas story we should all aspire to emulate.

We don’t know where he came from or where he went, but we’re glad we experienced his glory.

Bong MacGyver

This dude was messed the fudge up. He was drunk when he showed up, he stole that sombrero and we still can’t figure out how he MacGyvered a bong out of a mojito glass and a big floppy hat. But we do know that it took four buff pool attendants to carry him out of that bachelorette party’s cabana after he passed out there. He doesn’t look it, but this guy is pure muscle. They probably shouldn’t have set him in the sun but he didn’t seem to mind. He just woke up five hours later, kept partying and, we’ve been told, broke into the Secret Garden and fought a tiger to a standstill. You go, bong MacGyver. You go, Vegas style.


I came from a little town in the Midwest. And believe me, I’m never going back. It’s probably nice if you love grass and snow; but I love the lights, the glamour, and the flocks of tourists seeking fun and fortune. Once the sun goes down, I’ll be the first one out hitting the clubs or just wandering the Strip for a little nighttime adventure. Passing through Bond on my way to Lily Bar, or taking a shortcut through Double Helix before landing at Parasol Up/Down, I’m the one you’ll randomly bump into – only sometimes literally – strolling through Sin City’s liquored veins – and loving every minute of it.