Holy Fuck, the Rapture is Coming!

Apparently, there’s a Rapture of sorts around the bend, May 21st, I believe. Now, I’m not gonna jump on that bandwagon—I’m sticking fast to my belief that 2012 is it because those Christians don’t have anything on those Mayans.

Anyway, here’s the deal: The Rapture is when all the chosen folk get their early exit to Heaven, which I just like to think of as a little population control, aka the most Annoying People exiting the planet, so the rest of us can get on with it and have some peace and fun whilst not listening to them prattle on about how marriage is a union between a man and a woman only and that abortions are murder.

A lot of fucking annoying people leaving the planet.

You keeping up?

Here’s a crash course on the Signs of the End: False Prophets, War, Starvation, Earthquakes, Persecutions and Tortures, and Lawlessness. I’m pretty sure most of these things have plagued humankind from the very start of time—hell, even plagued the dinosaurs for all that matter (suck on that, Creationists)—but for some reason, the Rapture folks think this is gonna culminate on May 21, including a very large earthquake in L.A.

Also, the Man himself, Jesus, is supposed to make an appearance on May 21 to take all the righteous folk back to Heaven with him. I found a handy, and I’m sure absolutely authoritative blog, judgmentday2011.com, to help explain it all to me:

“Jesus himself will return to Earth on May 21 per God’s will in order to restore the spiritual world back to a stable level.

Second Coming of Jesus Christ on May 21 2011. The Book of Revelations says that there will be some very difficult times ahead for those who are left on Earth until the end of the world on October 21 of this year. I, and likely you reading, will be among the lucky ones who are able to be saved when Jesus returns to earth for the second time ever.”

Jesus came back. And stole my hot rod.

Anyway, for those of you expecting fire and brimstone and dogs fucking cats, and vice versa, on May 21, I figured I’d do a little list of stuff I’m hoping the Rapture will bring:

1. The First One to go is Sarah Palin.

Yeeeeeooooowwwwww! Jesus, can I bring my shotgun?

2. Star Jones will eat her own head.

3. Exxon Mobil’s headquarters explodes and a giant moneyball blows up and fills the sky with hundred-dollar bills, ya’ all. Us sinners hire the Outkast to play a major show in Central Park.

4. Donald Trump will announce that he’s running for president.

End of days or no, Obama is still your better option.

5. Miller Lite promises that its beer will taste great and be less filling. And it actually happens.

6. Apparently, the Rapture turned up early for this guy. When it hits, feel free to drop trou, but please keep your highly racist and offensive remarks to yourself, so that others around you can enjoy their Rapture experience as well.

7. An earthquake hits L.A., swallowing Paris Hilton’s estate. Prescriptions for Valtrex decline in the greater Los Angeles metro area by 17 percent.

8. Due to reduced traffic on the LIE and the LIRR, New Yorkers are able to make it to the beach in less than two hours on Friday afternoons all summer long. Yippy!

9. End of Days on Oct. 21 alleviates the overwhelming pressure of deciding on a slutty Halloween costume for 2011.

Fuck, I was gonna be Wonder Woman.

10. Earth is finally evacuated, leaving only the members of the Jersey Shore to fight and fuck themselves. Even hell doesn’t want those assholes.

'Paris, you got any of that Valtrex left?'

What do you think is gonna happen?

I feel like we already covered this in 'Ghostbusters,' circa . Now, who you gonna call?

Fucked-Up Shit: Orgies in Vegas (Part One, Definitely NSFW.)

Recently, a friend from Vegas visited NYC and regaled me with a tale the likes of which I haven’t heard for quite a while. See, he’s a musician and was hired to play this huge birthday party that ran well into the six figures that Caesar’s was throwing for some Japanese whale. No, not the fat, blubbery kind. The obscenely rich kind.

Anyway, the dude was like two hours late to this gallant affair that Usher and the Pussycat Dolls and other such celebs-for-hire were whored out to. Why? Because he spent the earlier hours of his birthday drinking. With Paris Hilton. By the pool. The two dingbats were taking bottles of Cristal and shaking them up and poring them all over themselves and the ground. Tens of thousands of dollars of champagne. Apparently some of that made it into the whale’s mouth, cause he was too drunk to make his own party on time. (FYI, who chooses to spend their birthday with Paris Hilton?)

See, that is fucked-up shit. As much as I hate hearing about rich people throwing the equivalent of a few dozen schools and healthcare for a few hundred people in Haiti or Somalia or similar on the ground, I love hearing about fucked-up shit. And man, have I missed being witness to some fucked-up shit.

So, here’s my most favorite fucked-up shit of all time.

A few years ago, when I was a reporter in Vegas, I was following this high-roller group of swingers. Now, these were not your ordinary, HBO After Dark, middle-aged, saggy, hippie, Burning Man, Free Love types of swingers.

Low Rent Orgy

Low rent orgy.

No, these swingers had money. And were attractive. And they only wanted to fuck other swingers who had money and were attractive. In short, it was like a very exclusive club for only beautiful, wealthy people. Like Posh and Becks invited you over for a pool party.

I spent about six months following the parties’ organizers. They would throw these really lavish affairs at different restaurants and casinos—with champagne and lovely food and fashion shows and the works. Then the rich people would meet other rich people at the parties and go fuck each other in their hotel suites.

High Rent Orgy

High rent orgy.

I knew that my little story on the swingers would not be complete until I witnessed one of these after-hours parties. It took some convincing and some time, but I finally got my shot.

In late July, there’s a main swingers convention in Vegas, and the high rollers were there to “recruit” or be on the lookout for other attractive, wealthy folks to fuck. After a few hours at the Tropicana’s swing-trash fest, the lady, let’s call her Jess, who I’d been following, turns to me and says, “You should come to the party tonight.”

Her husband looks at her like she’s crazy. Let a reporter into an after-party? “Um, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Jess was pretty adamant I go. “Oh, no, it’ll be totally fine.”

And so, we left the Tropicana, which is a pretty sleazy hotel and headed to Caesars, where some so-called rich dude was throwing an after-party en suite. Imagine this: five people wedged into an Audi sportscar with an almost nonexistent back seat, two chicks crammed in the back, changing into their Swinger Wear—which was basically nonexistent lingerie—thongs, bras, garters and such.

Ladies' outfits not unlike these. Hugh was not at the Orgy.

Ladies' outfits not unlike these. Hugh was not at the Orgy.

We arrive at Caesars on a Saturday night and the place is packed with gamblers—as we stroll through the main casino floor, everyone is staring at us. No wonder. These chicks are practically naked. Some guy goes, “What’s up with those people?” The dealer deadpans, “There’s a swingers’ convention in town.”

Waiting at the VIP elevators—not the regular elevators, mind you, that take regular folks up to their regular hotel rooms—the host is introduced to us. Apparently, he’s got a thing for Jess. He also looks and talks like Andy Warhol. Let’s just call him Andy for that reason.

“How’re you doing at the tables tonight?” someone asks Andy.

“I was up $1.2 million last night,” he says. “I’m down $400,000 tonight.”

He’s massaging a handful of $5,000 chips in his hand, which I am pretty handily eyeballing. See, I’m pretty fucking broke. I figure, he’s drunk, he’s not paying attention, and he’s gonna drop one of those chips—which can pay my rent for six months.

Then Andy turns to Jess. “I want to fuck you.” She laughs.

So we get up to the suite. This is a suite. A couple thousand square feet. Top floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows with views of the Strip. Four bedrooms, a study, a living area, a kitchen, two bathrooms—and an open bar staffed by Mexicans. And man, those Mexicans kept their eyes glued to the ceiling the entire time. And a bouncer at the door.

Right after we walk in, this tanned, muscled-up chick comes up to Jess. I think she’s a body builder? “Hey, doll, how’re you doing?” she says, then lifts up what little skirt Jess is wearing and plants a big kiss right on her pussy. Seriously, this is her standard greeting. “Nice wax job.”

Now, I hadn’t eaten anything all night. Neither had Jess. And we figured there’d be some kind of food at this party. Nada. Nothing. However, a friend of Jess’ brings in a tray of muffins for her. “Very special muffins.” Starving, I scarf down two of them. I think you know where we’re headed here.

Things get off to a fairly slow start, but then people start getting real friendly. One minute you’re unknowingly scarfing down a pot muffin, the next, there’s an oiled-up threeway, like three greased pigs rolling around, on the leather sofa right next to you.

Jess and her husband swing exclusively with this other couple, let’s just call him Dr. San Fran and his wife, some biochemist. Dr. San Fran is hotter than shit, and I know that he’s considered somewhat of a boyfriend to Jess. So Dr. San Fran comes up to me and starts hitting on me. Now, I hadn’t participated, nor planned on participating, in any of these shenanigans, but sometimes when a hot, shirtless doctor comes up to you in a Hotel Suite at Caesars Palace and wants to kiss you in front of his girlfriend, well, you just gotta let him.

The night quickly becomes blurry—thanks pot muffins! Open bar!—and folks are really splintering off to get down to business. I realize at one point that everyone is off fucking or something, and I am sitting all alone on the couch. So, I decided to take a walk. And see what I can lift in the process. As I wander around the suite, picking up cigarettes, lighters, and Aveda body products courtesy of Caesars hospitality, I peak into the bedrooms. And let me tell you, watching swarthy, tanned, bored rich people fuck is … boring.

When a friend asked me to recap the next day, I said, “It was like being in a porno with an open bar.” Everyone’s physical appearance was unnatural, everyone was waxed within an inch of their lives, and everyone looked bored as they pounded away. And all that groaning and moaning sounded so fake. Plus, let’s just say I didn’t see a lot of condoms being used. Yucky.

Anyway, at some point Dr. San Fran and Jess come out, and we’re hanging. “Let’s go get some champagne,” someone suggests, so we go into the kitchen and there are cases of the stuff. Drinking champagne at an orgy at 4 a.m.! Who knew? Then Dr. San Fran’s wife comes running into the kitchen, “Hey, guys, do you wanna watch me fuck this guy?”

We all look at each other, shrug, “Why not?” and follow her into the bedroom.

All told, you can only watch people fuck each other for so long. I wanted to go home. I was lying in the living room on some chaise lounge, drinking champagne, watching the sun come up–the best part of the night, really–when some trashy-looking chick climbs on top of me and starts licking me. While the guy she came to the party with is intently watching us from some chair.

Now, I’m lying there thinking, “Should I just go with it.” Then I’m like, uh, no.

“I’m sorry, you’re attractive and all, but I’m not into it.” I tell her.

“Of course you’re not, Reporter!” she spats at me.

“How’d you know that?” I ask her.

“Who else would come to this party dressed like this?” she says, indicating that, unlike every other woman there, I am still clothed.

She gets off me. I finally find Jess and am like, “Get me the fuck out of here.”

While waiting for my party to get rounded up, the chick’s husband comes up to me. “So, what are you going to write about this?”

“I don’t know, just what it is,” I say, crushing out a cigarette.

“Well,” he says, getting real menacing-like. “I hope you treat it right.”

“Are you threatening me?”

He doesn’t answer. My posse finally rolls up, and we pile into the Audi. Dr. San Fran is driving me home, I am crammed in the middle of the two front-seats—no seat-belt, of course—when some drunk driver, swear to God, swerves at us on Sunset Blvd. south of the Strip. I can imagine the Clark Co. coroner telling my parents how I died, “Well, she was in an Audi with a bunch of swingers at 7 a.m. with no bra on.”

All told, my swingers experience was quite fun—silly, ridiculous—fun. But also quite sad. I think every couple I met was divorcing a year later. It was really the last bastion of party-going for them—the “we’re rich, bored, have everything and nothing thrills us” anymore. Let’s just say, there was more dead-eyed fucking than a Kim Kardashian porn.

And that is some fucked-up shit.