Las Vegas Weekly

A tale of two roofies

Photo: Thomas Hawk / Flickr

Apparently someone slipped some Vegas in your drink

The effects of being drugged vary greatly, but they almost always include a general loss of self-control. By its very nature, Las Vegas has this same effect on people, leading them to convince themselves and others that they “must have been drugged” anytime that they’ve imbibed or spent too much.

It is a convenient way to excuse bad behavior, and one of the only things they can think of as they wake up to a hangover and angry voice mails from the wife back in Oklahoma asking why they’ve spent $700 from their joint bank account at a strip club.

“Honey, all I remember is having a drink at the bar after dinner,” he will say, “and then, the next thing I know, I’m in my hotel room this morning with an awful headache. I don’t know what happened. Where is this charge you are talking about? Crazy Horse? I must have been drugged!”

No way, dude. The only thing that was slipped in your drink was a little bit of Vegas, and you should totally man up and just admit that you paid a stripper $700 to play patty-cake with you in the VIP room till 6 a.m. Your wife will totally understand. – Jack Colton

That’s what you get for waking up in Vegas

When I came to, I was chain-smoking cigarettes on my apartment’s balcony in a mismatched pair of pajamas, watching the sun rise. Evidence of cooking was all over the kitchen, and by the looks of the bathroom, I had at some point taken a shower. I was alone, the front door was locked and I still had my purse and wallet; my car was in its usual space. The bed was still made, so I apparently hadn’t slept yet—not there anyway—and my television set was on. Loud.

It guess it’s possible that I blacked out, except that I’d had just one cocktail at Baby’s while waiting for a friend. Was the drink in my sight at all times? No, I suppose not. Perhaps I looked away to make a phone call. Or maybe to hug Mark? But before long, I knew I was checking out. My last solid memory was of telling Mark I felt “odd” and to please take me to my car. I drove off alone. Then ... nothing.

Had I been in a nightclub or with people I didn’t trust, I almost certainly would have been robbed, raped in a hotel room or worse—I’ll simply never know.

And that, kind sir, is why I must respectfully decline that cheap-o mystery shot you’re waving in my face. – Xania Woodman