viva Las Vegas

I'm telling you, this was a f***ing free-for-all. This was every man for himself. This was Hunter S. Thompson's dream sports weekend. This was Vegas on steroids. This was Vegas' impression of Barry Bonds during spring training in 1998, only if he reeked like stale bong water. And now that it's over, I'm relieved that we finished the weekend without a single riot, that I made it home alive, that I'm still married, that I still have my wallet, that I spent 15 hours playing blackjack in each of four consecutive days and escaped dead-even, that I'm coherent enough to write with the stale smell of weed still trapped in my nostril hairs and my body battling the effects of 72 hours without a single REM cycle. Say what you want about the Hip-Hop Woodstock, but it was definitely memorable. Then again, so is an appendectomy.

Someone forgot to tell Bill Simmons that what happens in Vegas stays there.