The Great Sake Bomb Massacre

So there I was, dragged into the neon abyss of Sin City, not out of desire but necessity. The exorbitant cost of California living had me shackled to a job I neither loathed nor excelled at, just enough to keep the family fed and the podcast rolling. But hey, it came with perks—like mandatory treks to San Diego, the cesspool of LA, and the glittering mirage of Las Vegas.

What’s my gig, you ask? Irrelevant. What matters is Vegas, baby.

Nestled in the bowels of The Mirage, an ancient relic oozing with the stench of bygone eras and stale tobacco, I pondered my existence amidst kitschy decor straight out of Grandma’s basement.

But this wasn’t your typical Vegas romp; it was a corporate circus. Rubbing elbows with suits I’d never otherwise acknowledge, I paraded through conferences, spewing jargon like a malfunctioning buzzword generator.

One evening, we found ourselves at Benihana—a tourist trap masquerading as a culinary experience. Three hours of onion volcanoes and airborne shrimp left me smelling like a hibachi grill’s illicit affair with MSG. Sake bombs ensued, accompanied by raucous chants, almost resembling a racial slur in an accent I dare not replicate.

The following day brought more charades of competence, culminating in an excursion to the newly christened Las Vegas Sphere. Amidst AI greeters and digital scans promising entry into some Orwellian metaverse, I opted out—FBI, take note.

The show inside was a psychedelic sermon on humanity’s folly, a woke manifesto accompanied by sensory overload. For a moment, I teetered on the brink of existential revelation, tripping balls in a spherical cathedral of enlightenment.

But alas, reality beckoned. Back in my room, amidst the haze of intoxication, I reflected on the casino floor—a tableau of despair and depleted fortunes. Disheartened, I retreated, pondering the irony of an old woman seeking directions to Planet 13, the cannabis superstore.

That brings us to the end of this uninspiring trip to land of greed, Next time, Vegas, it’ll be on my terms—sans corporate shackles and with chosen companions. No more pretense, just pure, unadulterated debauchery.