The Hangover

The only reason the title of this blog is The Hangover is because of a trip I took to Vegas last January, and all of the hilarity (?) that ensued. The following is actual events, and can be verified by the person or persons there that weekend.
My friend Daniel flew me and my friend Priscilla out to Vegas for the weekend with his frequent flyer miles. Priscilla could not fly out until the next morning (Saturday), and she was going to be flying out of Orange County. I was flying out Friday night from Orlando. Flying makes me nervous, and when I am out of Xanax, I rely on drinking my dinner to get me through the flight. It was a 4-5 hour flight to Vegas, and when I landed, I was supposed to take a taxi to where my friend Daniel and his nephews were staying. I called him as I landed, and he said that there was a room booked at The Tropicana under Patricia Cervantes. I took a cab to the hotel and stumbled up to the front desk.
"No," the front desk clerk said, shaking her head, "there is no Cervantes here."
I called my friend Daniel who then scrolled through his Blackberry, and said "I made a mistake. It's at the Blah Blah Resort on Tropicana. We are almost there."
So I stumbled back outside to an awaiting cab and made my way to his sister's timeshare. It was a Friday night so there was some traffic on the strip, and it took about 20 minutes to get to the front desk of the Blah Blah Resort. I again asked the front desk clerk if she had a key for Patricia Cervantes.
"Cervantes? Yes," he said in a thick Spanish accent, handing me a room key and map. I made my way up the stairs, heavy duffelbag in hand, and opened the door. There were men's clothes laid out across the beds, and Popeyes Chicken and Coca Cola sitting on the kitchen table. They must have already went out, or are down in the pool, I thought. I threw my duffel bag on the couch, and started unpacking my things. I turned on the TV, and was so exhausted and hungry I wrestled with taking a nap or eating, and decided ultimately on both. I put some chicken and a bisquit in the microwave, and sat on the couch, turning on the TV and looking for either E! or MTV when there was a knock on the door.
I opened it up, and saw 11 Mexicans, of all ages, staring back at me front the doorstep. They walked in and surrounded me. The one that spoke English spoke up.
"What are you doing in our room?" he asked.
"I'm here with Daniel. This is Patricia Cervantes' room."
"Cervantes si," he said.
"Cervantes," I replied.
"Cervantes."
"Yes, Cervantes."
I could see the relatives heads swiveling back and forth like me and Spanglish over here were in a Wimbledon tennis match.
"You are with Patricia? There is no Patricia aqui," he finally said.
"No?" I started laughing. The front desk gave me the wrong key. I started to repack my bags as they watched on. As I turned to leave the microwave beeped that my food was ready. It was the elephant in the room, and I hurried out before they could figure out if I were from immigration or not.
And that was the first night...