Suck that Dick!” my bartender screamed, referring of course to my yard-long strawberry Dick Stick, a potent blend of a strawberry daiquiri-like substance. I was also wearing a giant hat proclaiming: “I name my crabs!” And it was only 4:30 p.m. This was going to be a long day at the office.
Some ways back, a good PR buddy and I thought it would be hysterical if I did a marathon stint at Dick’s Last Resort, the newly opened restaurant/bar at Excalibur. We were both unaware of the liver punishment to come and the sea of double entendres to follow.
I was mainly interested to see what Pure Management Group (PMG)—the nightclub guys who wear $2,000 suits for a pick-up game of basketball—were doing running a company that has coined itself “the Shame o’ the Strip.” The answer appears to be laughing, hysterically, all day long.
Seeing that most of my comrades have normal day jobs, it was hard recruiting company for my midafternoon booze excursion. So the crew at Dick’s brought me a date—a life-size nun mannequin. She got a hat, too, simply saying, “Limp,” with an arrow pointing in my direction. I was then on my second homemade paper fedora declaring “I’d hit that,” with an arrow pointing at my new religious friend. My Catholic school teacher would be so proud.
I looked around at the sea of tourists, and just about every one of them was donning a phallic-shaped headpiece as well, so I didn’t feel singled out. Like the nun and I they seemed to be working in tandem. There was one couple where the gentleman’s hat read “Bubbles,” and the one on the lady (who was old enough to be his mother) professed “I blow Bubbles.” It seemed there was no minimum age requirement for the hat-heckling, either. A girl who couldn’t have been over 12 had a better-constructed bonnet reminiscent of a clergy cap simply stating, “Virgin,” while her mother’s elaborated, “The only thing virgin about me is my daughter’s drink.” This place is a trip.
Whereas PMG’s other boisterous venue across the street, Coyote Ugly, says misbehavior is encouraged, at Dick’s misbehavior is mandatory–therefore it’s the perfect fit for Las Vegas.
Still, I was looking for any clue that PMG was here. The presence of a bathroom attendant was about as close as I could find. No fat neckties, no giant doormen, no velvet rope– it was refreshing to see them lighten up.
Then enter Taco—a rotund, unassuming Latino until he opened his mouth, or lifted up his shirt—about the furthest thing from a PMG employee one would come to expect. Brought in from the San Diego Dick’s to make sure Las Vegas measures up, Taco was the king of crude.
“We don’t serve tacos, Taco serves you,” he said, bumping me off my seat. Not long after, a napkin fight broke out, and Taco somehow ended up with his shirt off, displaying his inflated belly with “Taco Time” tattooed across it, and revealing a red lace bra. And this was still the dinner crowd.
In fact, every employee had some sort of hat, wig or alter ego. I met Rick James, a rude and rowdy Elvis and what appeared to be Elvira, each one of them uncouth and sarcastic in their own way and each one talented with rib-tickling comedic timing. They never really pissed anyone off, either, which was surprising.
“You just have to know people,” Taco said in the only non-derisive conversation we had all night. “You have to know when they want to be pushed to let loose, or if they just want to hang back and watch the fun. But most people are ready to get a little crazy.”
I must fall into that category. As the night aged, so did my liver, exponentially. Resident PMG drink genius Frank Tucker let his hair down with his cocktail list, and after trying a Dick’s Sweet Tea and a Dick’s Sour Lemonade I needed a little base for this party to build. I foolishly opted for the Bonerz, which were actually delicious ribs, but also earned me my next two hats: “I’m only quiet when my mouth is full of Dick’s” and “I found my new love suckin’ on Bonerz.”
By my sixth hour at the bar, I had racked up a Grape Soda, a Red Apple-rita, a Dreamsickle Delight and a Peckerhead. Oh yeah, I was ready to be a Dick! I started making hats of my own and ended up on the dance floor with the live ’70s band. Unfortunately, this was my undoing. Anytime my two left feet are dancing, this Dick just ends up looking like an ass.
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Justin Jimenez firmly believes we should draft beer, not people. And he always sees better through the bottom of an empty glass. The associate editor for Las Vegas Magazine, he can be reached at [email protected].