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The Underwriter rules your ass. Nolo.

Alright. Let's get right to the heart of this thing. 72 hours ago, I was sitting at the National Urban Affairs desk at my Roswell, Georgia headquarters. Drinking cold Heinekens and chasing them with Guinness. Hiding from the brutish realities of this foul year of our Lord, 2007.

Shout to Hunter S. Thompson. I'm biting his style heavy in that last parag., if you weren't aware. Nolo.

I was drunk, of course, feeling like liberation was right around the bend. My flight for Las Vegas was leaving Hartsfield-Jackson (ATL) Airport at 8:00 a.m. EST., connecting in Phoenix and finally arriving at McCarran at 11:04 in the morn. I decided to stay awake, because I've never been good at getting any sleep within 12 hours of a good trip. So I kept drankin and chiefing, packing my bag and preparing myself for airport security. Would this trip bring about any positive developments? Did I just need a vacation? Was I about to go 18-dummy in the casino and lose my life savings? Is prostitution still as legal as it was when I visited back in 1998?

I left the house at 5:40 a.m. My intention was to buy a digital camera, since mine had been "lost" by a co-worker at my last magazine editing job. Pressed for time, literally and fig, I just high-tailed it to College Park to ensure I made my flight on time. Good thinking, it turned out. Since I hadn't been on a plane in three years, I wasn't ready for the security protocols that came after Young Bin Laden and the gang supposedly knocked down the towers. Things done changed. Stakes is high.

Luckily, I had spoken to 2 very close friends in those early morning hours before the flight, who warned me that Airport Po-Po ain't nuttin to eff wit'. You have to have your Zip-Lock game up to par, or you'll be throwing away cologne, lotion and lubricants. How tragic. I got prepped up and put everyting in it's proper place, but still had trouble in the line at US Airways. It appeared that I had only received the boarding pass for the connecting flight instead of the one from ATL. This was painful, especially after sitting in the security line for 20 mins and being told to fuck off in the most professional of vocal tones. I had to bolt back to the check-in point, with two heavy-ass bags, to get the right ticket. By the grace of Yahweh, I printed my correct ticket within seconds of the deadline for boarding. Lucky me.

The flight sucked. Why the fuck can't pilots actualy fly? I mean, I navigate through potential tragedies every day in Atlanta traffic, and planes have a much better system of organized movement than highways. But fuck it. I guess I have to reliquish control sometimes, even if it feels like rapeage.

But when I arrived, a little after 11:30, the trip began. Oh, my brothers and sisters, I had a fucking blast.

(This trip was so dope that one post couldn't possibly cover the fuckery. This is just an introduction. More pictures and more commentary is forthcoming in the next 24.)

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