A woman in Surrender nightclub is sitting with her Orange County friends, a bachelorette party, and coaxes me to join her. We pose for a photo. She makes kissy faces. (It's 11 p.m. Saturday.)
A man stumbles into me on his way to the restroom, peers into my eyes with his drunken ones and confesses, "I just pissed my pants."
A man, scrutinizing the exciting backside of a woman in a tight dress, exclaims: "Oh my God. I didn't even see her face. She could have one eye. I'd be like, 'OK, Cyclops, let's go!' " (It's midnight.)
A man tells me he once served a woman a drink, when he tended bar across town, then he immediately invited her to a backroom where she lasciviously serviced him. They had just met. She paid for the drink.
A man walks around, holding his date's high-heel shoes, and another man rags on him: "Nice shoes!" The man holding the high-heels smiles and responds, "Thanks, bro."
A woman sitting near the dance floor is forced into a wheelchair by security guards, because she is wheelchair drunk. She protests: "I can walk!" She tries. She can't. (It's 1:45 a.m.)
A woman who is drop-dead beautiful is walking down the Encore hallway. She has a black eye, her left eye. (It's time to drive to the downtown bars for another birthday party.)
A man on East Fremont Street sits bleeding on the sidewalk, attended by police, after he took on four guys in a fight. (It's time to ditch this and find post-club food.)
A woman near a restaurant in the Four Queens looks nine-months pregnant. She is smoking a cigarette and drinking a beer. Judgmental people take photos. (It's 3:30 a.m., time to go to The Cosmopolitan for a nightcap.)
A woman in a shiny club dress in The Cosmopolitan walks toward the front door, limping on high heels, a gazelle with a flat tire.
A man walking across the Cosmo casino floor passes many club women, several of whom are making out with men, and remarks, "I swear they give out tube dresses at the border." (It's 4:45 a.m.)
A woman in a tube dress finishes eating in the Henry restaurant at Cosmopolitan. She holds a digital camera in front of her face and snaps a photo of herself, smiling, alone. (It's 5 a.m., time to go home, if you have any sense.)
Doug Elfman's column appears Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. Contact him at delfman@reviewjournal. com. He blogs at reviewjournal.com/elfman.