A shelter for obnoxious, privileged, So-Cal kids to parade around with unsupervised egos and bathroomed key bumps. 

Friday 6:30pm:  Saunter up to the room carrying luggage and brown bags of super market purchased Red Bull and vodka to shower and commence “pre-gaming.”
8:30pm:  Listening to party-rap music from the clock-radio, the males make sure that their striped Banana Republic buttondowns aren’t too long as they remain untucked over their outlet purchased True Religion jeans.  Black Kenneth Cole shoes are definitely shiny enough.  Females put on enough makeup and Gap perfume that would normally kill the animals they were tested upon.  Feel good about hitting the treadmill hard and being bulimic during the past two weeks to mitigate the belly hangover overflowing from their hip hugging Chip and Pepper jeans.  Snort LA purchased cocaine.
10:30pm: Finished dinner at Mandalay Bay restaurant with food that had questionable flavor combinations (but you’d never say anything negative because its trendy and its YOUR tastebuds that have not evolved sufficiently) and way-too-loud Thievery Corporation-esque music. 
11:00pm: Stand in line for taxi.  Begin ironic condescending banter with taxi driver because it’s apparently hysterical to tell Kato vivid details regarding the upcoming night of debauchery.  Snort coke in taxi (great story for friends at home).  Chug rest of Red Bull and Vodka. 
11:30pm: Stand in line at Light/Pure/Tryst/Jet/Body English.  Getting antsy, biting lip, and bitching about how their Vegas connection is taking “so fucking long” to get them in VIP.  Everyone in line is comparing previous competitive celebrity sightings in exclusive clubs. 
1:30am:  In the club listening to Kanye West’s “Gold Digger” (it seems like the DJ already played it a few times before tonight) and just accidentally spilled your Amstel Light (you had to switch to beer because you were having a tough time feeling your legs) all over your shirt.  You contemplate starting an argument with the “douchebag” who knocked into you, but remember hearing a story about all the cameras in the nightclubs and that it wouldn’t be a good idea.
2:30am:  Leaving the club and hungry, but still decide to “man up” and go to afterhours. 
3:30am:  Still in line at Drai’s.
4:30am:  After one drink at Drai’s, you’re starting to come down from the coke and all you want to do is get something to eat.  Plus, some weird people with neck tattoos are starting to come into the club at this hour.
5:00am:  Order a quesadilla and the steak and eggs special from the 24-hour café at Mandalay Bay.  Try to invite the unattractive bachelorette party girls at the next table up to your room for more partying.  They (predictably) refuse.  You press on, but don’t want to leave your food.
6:00am:  See the sun starting to rise as you close the shades of the hotel room window and get ready to pass out.  As you get in bed you grunt to your suite mate about how many bloody mary’s you’ll drink tomorrow at the pool.  Right before you fall asleep, you have the self-congratulatory thought that no one knows how to party in Vegas as hard as you do. 



Any bona fide Moorea Beach Club member knows that the cafe is no longer open 24 hours.  5 am entry needs to read Grand Luxe at Venetian or Pyramid Cafe at (hacking cough) Luxor.

10:50pm: Exit restaurant. walk past "check yourself out mirrors" in between Mixx and the cafe. Check yourself out, for good measure.

9:00am (next day): Send the designated fat tool runner friend or younger underage Persian cousin to the pool to stake out chairs.

10:30am: Try to peep at Moorea beach to see if any girl is topless.

10:35am: Thoroughly regret it.
-OGT