The name of this column derives from my intense enjoyment of everything in this crazy city. But in the interest of journalistic integrity, it should really be altered to read, “Viva Everything (Except Dayclubs)!”
Dayclubs. The fact that this term even exists sticks in my craw like an ecstasy tablet hidden in a chlorine-soaked tampon. The douchebag-ridden club industry was bad enough when it was confined to the depths of night — but now it’s invaded the daylight hours. Almost every Strip hotel has roped off a swimming pool and installed a Eurotrash DJ, an ear-splitting sound system and a phalanx of aviator-shade-wearing thugs to man the entrance, picking and choosing from the throngs of swamp-assed party whores amassed in line. BAH!
I avoid these places at all costs — and not just because I have a modicum of taste. A couple years back thedaily.com ran tests on water samples from several Vegas dayclub pools and found many to contain alarmingly high levels of urine and bacteria. Shocker! If you’ve been to any of these places, you’ve seen the number of totally wasted, fake-baked, silicone-laden fist-pumpers sloshing drunkenly about in a primordial soup of lime wedges, tanning oil, pre-cum and endometrium. Thanks anyway!
But there is one thing that can lure me into such an establishment: money. The other week, a friend hired me to prank some of his buddies who were celebrating at the dayclub du jour — a place we’ll call Wetlandia. The idea was for me to play a drunken party girl, infiltrate their cabana and then “accidentally piss” all over the host. Goooood times! I enjoy many things in life, but none so much as pissing all over a douchebag. Even if it’s fake pee.
So I arrived at Wetlandia on an unseasonably sweltering Saturday afternoon, fitted with an IV bag full of water stashed in my bra, its clear plastic tube strung down the small of my back into my bikini bottom. Fortunately, a full IV bag crammed into a sports bra looks and feels exactly like a set of fake tits, so the guards waved me through. They were too busy searching each and every pocket on each and every pair of cargo pants to make sure no one brought drugs in. Meanwhile — duhhh — I guessed every person in the place was already high as a kite, rolling on a wave of ecstasy big enough to take out a Japanese power plant.
I made my way through the sweaty hordes of tramp-stamped and tribal-tatted humanoids stinking of self-tanner, beer and pheromones, and found my target: the cabana where my friend and his buddies were frolicking merrily with a bevy of skanky community-college dropouts. There, I cozied up to the target, dancing and seductively rubbing my IV water bags on his back until I finally got his attention.
“Wooooooooo hoooooo!” Playing the part, I clambered atop the bar, so that my crotch was at eye-level. Then, reaching behind me, I opened the valve on the IV tube … unleashing a torrent of water that ran down my thighs in an unsettlingly realistic manner.
“Holy shit! That chick’s pissing on the bar!”
All around me, partygoers were momentarily snapped into horrified sobriety as I cackled gleefully, “peeing” all over myself and everything around me, generously splattering my prey in the process. Success!
My rain dance was short-lived, however — I was soon surrounded by security guards, demanding that I get down and hand over my ID. Although I was laughing so hard I could hardly move, I managed to comply, and choked out an explanation: “Wait, guys … it was water; I was punking a friend!” I flashed my IV bag, now withered and deflated like today’s crop of fake tits in about 20 years, and explained the logistics of the prank.
Security guard No. 1 looked at No. 2 with a raised eyebrow, and as backup arrived in angry droves, he reluctantly handed me my license. And with that, I got the hell out of there! I wasn’t taking any chances; even if the security didn’t get me, the outraged masses of interrupted partiers surely would. It’s one thing to evade a muscle-bound, slow-moving security guard; hordes of vodka-fueled, Avicii-obsessed egomaniacs are quite another.
I spent the next seven days laughing uncontrollably. “Wetlandia,” indeed — I’ll show you Wetlandia! For such a douchebag-infested hotbed of idiocy, I couldn’t wait to go back. Because the best part? The friend who paid me to do this has just started a business based on pranking people! Thanks to my successful execution of this particular prank, he told me I’m his No. 1 go-to actress. Which means I’ll be punking people all over the Strip, allllll summer long. So watch out!
SARAH JANE WOODALL goes with the flow on her blog, www.wonderhussy.com.