An honorary Las Vegan

"If you aim to leave Las Vegas with a small fortune, arrive there with a large fortune"  Bum on the street in Vegas who didn't follow his own advice

The Dodge Caravan - also known as the Slam Van

And so it was that Sanchez and his crew of immoral delinquents cruised into Las Vegas hoping to find ourselves a small fortune or a future wife. Due to mistake at the car hire, they were not looking like losers in some lame Ferrari, rather they were pumping beats and selling treats (to little kids) in a mini van. As the throngs of bystanders gaped at this sleek and sexy ride, the lads lived it up in the van that seemed to have only one working speaker. Unfortunately for one person, it was located at the back of the van, directly next to the head of the backseat passenger. As lads we are required by law to blast the music as loud as humanly possible at all times, regardless of how many directions need to be passed on the driver, hence whoever sat in that backseat was not going to have fun. Unless they loved this song.

Even as the city lights blinded him, Sanchez couldn't believe the amount of beautiful women, clearly word of his arrival had spread. His pants were bulging... due to his cash-filled wallet. The hotel room was nice and neat but there was one issue. Hmmm 2 double beds, 5 guys. It took Sanchez a few minutes to do the maths and by the time it dawned on him, it was too late. The others had shotgunned the beds. Sanchez was sleeping on the ground that night. Always the optimist, Sanchez knew there was one way to make this night less painful, vodka. And lots of it. With the 1.75L of vodka that was purchased in LA, Sanchez set about correcting his current sober state. As his first drink hit his lips, the whole night switched to fast forward.

Calvin Harris was first one the list. Very expensive and very alcoholic drinks were next. Then came one of the most disappointing moments in Sanchez's life. Possibly more disappointing than losing his grade 3 spelling bee when he forgot the 'o' in 'count'. During the night, the lads had got split up. So Sanchez was doing the rounds with a solitary lad for assistance in distracting women while Sanchez administered the roofie to their drink. This was risky, one 'distractor', as they are known in the biz, is a dangerous game to play but Sanchez had no choice. After failing a few times due to his distractors terrible choice of distraction and once because Sanchez accidentally drank the roofied drink, Sanchez needed another avenue to the ladies. It didn't take long before Sanchez found an empty table topped with bottles of vodka. Pointing this out to his companion, Sanchez approached stealthily. He looked left, he looked right, and then he went for it. Sanchez tucked it under his left arm and snuck out the side door into the pool area filled with gardens. Having just finished the roofied drink, Sanchez didn't need a hit of straight vodka straight away so he stashed the bottle of vodka in the garden. Everything in the plan was falling into place, there was only one thing left to do.

"Hey girls" Sanchez smiled at two particularly attractive women, "Are you having a good night?"

"Blah blah blah yes we are, blah blah blah" they replied.

"Ok sshhhh, if you come with us, we are about to make your night even better" Sanchez said as he gave a wink.

It was probably the roofie talking but Sanchez really didn't think this sounded seedy at all. He was especially certain of it when they actually came with them. Sanchez led them out to the garden to fetch the bottle of vodka. He sat on the edge of the garden and surreptitiously put his hand back into the garden and searched around in the garden for the bottle. No vodka. Sanchez moved a bit further to his right and recommenced his clandestine search for his holy grail. Still no vodka.

"What the f..." Sanchez moaned exasperatedly. The next second the majority of his body was in the garden and all thoughts of a stealthy search were well and truly gone. He turned to the girls in an attempt to salvage this, "So ladies, we seem to have -". They were gone.

"F... this" Sanchez cried and walked straight to the bar, and as a sign of his frustration, Sanchez purposefully didn't tip. Bad ass. The night ended with some public urination and Sanchez taking a drunken race up the hallway tripping and knocking himself out. It also ended with Sanchez in a bed as in the middle of the night, unbeknownst to Sanchez, he had snuggled up on the edge of the bed after finding the ground a bit uncomfortable. The majority of this story had to be retold to Sanchez in the morning when he awoke with no recollection of his night.

The next few days the lads lived off 1 meal a day and virtually no sunlight. The next night we had Avicii on the agenda. There were whispers that Sanchez couldn't back up, but Sanchez made sure to prove those wrong by once again waking with no recollection of the night. Some of this may have been caused by the first rum and coke Sanchez had ever attempted to finish. After being invited to a VIP area to find free alcohol at the table, Sanchez was unbelievable upset to find no vodka. So what does one do when they find themselves in an upper level VIP library in a club with Avicii playing and free rum? You drink that rum. Or at least you try to. In Sanchez's case, try and fail. With the horrific taste of rum in his mouth and renewed sense of love for vodka, Sanchez headed to the bar and apparently to the blackjack tables as he later awoke with casino chips in his pocket. Through a few vague memories, Sanchez can recall slurring the majority of his speech at the dealer before the pit boss came over. The pit boss was legitimately worried about poor little Sanchez as Sanchez had forgotten where he was staying and his phone battery was flat. Finally, the pit boss walked Sanchez to the front of the taxi queue in front of 100s of people and got him sent home safely.

The next night was New Years Eve - blank. Just blank.

January 1, let's just have a few drinks. Oh hell, we have to finish this vodka before we leave for Canada. Maybe a few more drinks. Actually, let's have a gamble. So Sanchez and the lads headed down to the table to make a small fortune. Things were going well, only one of the lads had gone bust bust bust, broke. The others were prospering in the game of blackjack. Using the philosophy, "it's not gambling if you know you're going to win" the lads threw money on the table like it was going out of fashion. And when I say that, I mean we were betting table minimum. Sanchez at this point was relatively liquored up and getting a bit of confidence about himself. Not something you can usually say about Sanchez. But the lads starting worrying about security when Sanchez had a few losses. These are some of the lines Sanchez threw at the dealer who seemed unimpressed at best.

"You jewed me!" 

"What are you going to do when I bankrupt this casino? You aren't going to have a job. What other life skills do you have? I can help you with your resume if you like because this casino is going to be finished!"

"I'm sorry, it's not you, it's me... I don't like you."  

"You are cheating! Just flat out cheating, I don't like you."

Eventually the lads left under their own volition, there were no small fortunes but there were no major losses. We left Vegas different people, some of us scarred forever. Next on the list of adventures were the snowfields of Whistler, Canada. We will pick that up next time.

As a teaser for next week, I will drop a major plotline about the Whistler story that may shock many of you. The story involves lots of alcohol.

Sanch out!

Sanchez 'the lad' Alfonso returns

"All legends begin somewhere. Some in the bedroom. Some on the battlefield. Some in Vegas. But there is only one legend that began at all three. The man, the legend, the lad; Sanchez Alfonso." Barack Obama

I know I have been away for a long time. I know you must all have a lot of questions. I know the one at the foremost of your mind is "How big's ya dick, Sanchez?" I will not dignify that with a response except to say that in Mexico, when someone is put to death, they aren't hung. They are Sanchez'd!

I know the second question you will be asking is "Where have you been?" I'm afraid I can not answer that yet. For a multitude of reasons, namely, I'm super hungover and can't be bothered, I will be covering my mysterious disappearance at a later time. But worry not my lessers, the story will be one for the ages. For now, I will invite you to take a knee and bear with me as I take you on a spiritual journey across America and Canada as Sanchez searches for pussy, cheap vodka and pussy*.

It all began back when my Mexican mother was gang raped by a bunch of animals. And I don't mean disgusting people, I literally mean animals. That precise moment of conception set in motion a series of events that would eventually form my life and mould my decisions. And so it was in late 2012 that I boarded a plane headed for America, the land of opportunity and cheap vodka.

The flight over was amazing. Whilst taking his seat, Sanchez spotted a few attractive ladies. With his game face on, Sanchez was in his element. With these attractive women, he was about to embark on a 13 hour trip in a fuselage with no possible exit and reclining seats everywhere. As Michael Jackson accurately predicted mere days before his death, "This is it!" Sanchez soon discovered that the TV screen in front of him would also allow him to start up chats with any seat he chose. Sanchez took out his Mile High Club membership forms and started filling them out because this was a lock. Sanchez turned to his traveling partners, "Have you guys got a key? Because this is a mother fucking lock!" They told him to "stop being a homo" and went back to watching their gay porn.

Sanchez then visited the toilet. Well, to the rest of the plane, this was a run of the mill toilet visit. But to the trained eye, this was a reconnaissance mission. Firstly, Sanchez had to find the pretty ladies and remember their seat numbers and secondly, he needed to see what moves the toilet dimensions would allow him to use. Indeed his doubts were confirmed as the toilet dimensions would not allow him to use his infamous 'Sanchez with the lot' move. He returned to his seat and began the chat. He opened with a classic line, "Hey". He could see the girl he was beginning the chat with. He saw her head turn to count the rows back to Sanchez's seat. They made eye contact. It was fleeting but it seemed to last for hours. Sanchez felt as though she had seen into his soul, like she now knew him better than he knew himself. Before she replied to Sanchez's brilliant ice breaker, she got out of her seat and starting walking. Sanchez's heart was racing. "Bitches be frothin!" he shouted in his head. His fingers fumbled over his seat belt as he rushed to unbuckle it. He was shaking with excitement. The girl approached the toilet but then something strange happened... She kept walking. She walked another 5 metres to the door of the plane. Without warning, she unlocked it, opened it and through herself out the door. She didn't even have the manners to close it behind her, and the air hostesses ran to close it. Sanchez sat there stunned. He went back over his moves, thinking where it could have gone wrong. In all the commotion, Sanchez's companions turned to him and said, "Holy crap, did you see that chick jump out of the plane? What the hell happened?" "Yeah that was crazy, I have no idea what made her do that", Sanchez replied. But as he spoke those words, it dawned on him exactly what had gone wrong. He had come on way too strong with his opening line and fleeting eye contact. Sanchez had been out of the game for so long he had forgotten the effect he had on women. She was clearly so intimidated by his brooding good looks and incredibly smooth pick up lines that she knew by attracting Sanchez, her life had peaked at that very moment. She went out on a high. And I mean a real high cause we were easily at an altitude of about 12km, that bitch be dead. And Sanchez knew it. He had caused it and he had to be careful with his powers. He promised himself he would change and he would be more careful. So as he sat there looking at his empty chat screen he reached up to his screen, found seat 34A and typed, "Hi..."

After about 4 more jumpers, the plane landed safely. LA. What a town. What a place. What a giant dirty shithole. God damn, this place was messier than Sanchez's room at his Mexican farm which was literally a pigsty. Literally. Sanchez's first night out with his lads was a ripper. Being mistaken for One Direction which was a personal highlight in the lives of many of Sanchez's companions, was just the beginning. The lads found themselves attending a rooftop party looking fresh to death. Sanchez had worn a scarf to help fight the cold and was looking on top of his game and was midway through dropping some heavy lines on this little honey when she stopped and asking, "You are gay, right?" She woke up from her coma a few days later with no recollection of the night.

Sanchez moved on from that setback. He saw one of his companions talking to clearly the hottest chick at the club. Sanchez couldn't allow that. If there is one thing Sanchez is famous for, it's being a top bloke. But if there is another thing Sanchez is famous for, it's being a shit bloke. And so the annuls of history will forever tell it, Sanchez came, Sanchez saw, Sanchez cock blocked. The hot girl was steadily getting drunker and drunker and before Sanchez knew it, she was on the verge of being unconscious. It was like all Sanchez's Christmas' had come at once. But as he turned around to say something to her, she was gone! He walked around the club trying to find her. Finally he gave up and found his companions, ready to leave. As they reached the bottom floor, Sanchez saw his incredibly intoxicated female friend. But before Sanchez could unzip his pants, he saw one of his smaller companions by her side. He was helping her to a taxi. Sanchez had been cock blocked. He cursed the lord and asked him to smite his blocker with all his might. As his cock blocking companion helped the prime date rape girl to the taxi, Sanchez looked away... And that's when he heard it. SPLASH! He turned back to see his companion jumping from her side and she crumpled to the ground beside a very large lake of vomit. Sanchez just looked to the sky and knew his will had been done.

Blackness. Blackness everywhere. It was just so dark. This isn't that night, this was the next day. And that's all the lads saw as they cruised the streets of LA in search of a hospital after Sanchez caught a severe case of Bieber Fever. Black people, everywhere. I'm sorry, I know that's racist. As my homeboy Barack will confirm, they prefer the term, django. There were just so many djangos.

After a few night in LA it was off to Vegas and that was where the real fun began. Join me next week as the secrets of Vegas are leaked.

Til then, keep drinking.

* Like, lots of pussy. You wouldn't believe how much pussy. Almost too much pussy.

Post Exams Piss

Some people see things and ask why, others dream things and ask why not? Sanchez does neither. With Sanchez, there is no questioning, no thirst for knowledge, no undying appetite for the truth of this world, there is only knowledge. Knowledge of the world, knowledge of women, knowledge that he is the greatest among men. Sadly though, no knowledge of the uni degree he is completing.

On this particular Thursday, this non-existent knowledge was on display. As he sat there in his final exam, looking down at the blank paper that should have been filled with answers, yet sat there empty, teasing him; he thought only of the mischief he would be creating once this exam finished. Finally, he attempted a question. It was a tough one. The question read,

'Name'

As he contemplated the meaning of this question, he decided it wasn't a trick question and proceeded to write his name. "Yes!" he thought, that's one mark down, 59 to go.

After the exam, it was on to the red room. Here, Sanchez's knowledge of women could be used to seduce/roofie a girl. First on the menu, two double blacks. And then two more. Followed by, two more. At which point, Sanchez ordered two more. At this stage, Sanchez wasn't exactly standing up straight. But straight in his cross-hair, was a lovely looking female. As he approached her, the room seemed hotter, rain fell straighter, clocks slowed and sounds were amplified. However, the amplified sounds made it much harder to hear the girl speak so that when she spoke, Sanchez had to revert to lip reading.

"Hey" Sanchez asked.

"Hi, what are you drinking?" she replied.

"Yeah my exams went well, how about you?" he said, showing his rookieness as a lip reader.

"Yes, the weather isn't good" she said, also showing her rookieness at lip reading and how much of a farce this conversation had become.

Sensing the awkwardness, Sanchez decided it was time to go. "Look" he said, pointing to the back corner of the room, "It's a squirrel with a gun! I'm sure he is going to kill everyone!" As she turned her head to find the squirrel, Sanchez grabbed her drink, turned and ran. He ran like Forrest Gump, and ran all the way to the University taxi rank were he caught a cab to the Fox. At the Fox, he found himself drinking two more double blacks and playing the pokies. It was at this stage that someone, somewhere in the room, dropped his glass. It shattered. Everyone yelled taxi and laughed but once the commotion died down, Sanchez called out a sneaky, "Beardddd!"

As Sanchez's pokie money soon ran out, he decided he needed more money. Where do you go to get money? The bank? An ATM? Of course not, the casino! Upon arriving at the casino, Sanchez decided the place he really needed to be was Fridays. As he started the solo trek, he realized he didn't know the way. Calling a friend, he begged her to give him directions. "Please! I don't know how to get there, oh hang on, I need to piss" he said as he found a suitable space of pavement to empty his bladder on whilst on the phone. After re-enacting the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy and walking for about seven hours, Sanchez finally reached Fridays. Only to be told he could not get in. They said too drunk, but Sanchez knew they meant too cool.

Can Sanchez see the future?

It was Saturday the 25th of Septmber, 12.38pm. Today was the AFL Grand Final day. As it was just passed midday, Sanchez was about to have breakfast. As he walked to the kitchen a strange feeling fell over him. He collapsed. He blacked out. Five minutes later he awoke. He had knowledge he previously had not, yes he could still slay sluts on the reg, but there was something new. He couldn't put his finger on it, it was stuck at the back of his mind, unable to be brought to the front. Sanchez decided to let it be, not worried at all by his collapse and black out, he continued to make his breakfast.

He reached down to open the cutlery drawer..."Draw! That's it! The AFL Grand Final will be a draw!"

Sanchez raced to his computer, clicked out of the dozens of redtube videos and brought up his trusty stalking weapon, facebook. He had to publicly dispay his prediction for it to be legit. His fingers danced across the keyboard and before his eyes, history was made. The boldest of prediction had been cast. Many poked fun, laughed and ridiculed Sanchez but throughout it all he stood strong with the knowledge that he was soon to become a national icon. Sorry, scrap that. He stood strong in the knowledge that although he is already a national icon, treasured by millions and worshipped by more, he was about to become even bigger.

Sanchez then went a friend to watch the game. The cruisers were flowing and chat was starting. Going into the final minute with scores tied and everyone screaming for St. Kilda, you could witness a drunken Sanchez standing on a chair screaming for a tie. As the final hooter went, everyone slumped despairingly back into the chairs, hands went to heads and the tears started, but Sanchez jumped off his chair, fist pumping and screaming. He had instantly become bigger the Oprah (not in weight cause that isn't possible, let's be realistic here), Brangelina, move aside, Posh and Becks, who are they? I am Sanchez Alfonso, future teller.

But the night didn't stop there. It was to the local park for a game of drunken AFL and then back to the house to wait for the NRL preliminary final. In the lead up to the game, a dear friend of Sanchez' who we will name BT announced to everyone that he would drink anything I want, and he stressed anything, if I could do 22 clap push-ups. Sanchez isn't exactly known for his physical strength, but when it comes to making BT drink something disgusting, Sanchez knew he had to step up. He drunkinly assumed the push up position and started. At 10 he heard the cry, "You are screwed BT!" But they crowd couldn't feel Sanchez's pain. At 16 he started to slow. The crowd was screaming, Sanchez's muscles were burning and BT was there telling me how much it hurt. 18...19.......20.....................21....................................Nothing! Sanchez couldn't do it. He collapsed, BT dived on him, screaming words that can not be repeated here.

After overcoming that disappointment with a few tasty cruisers, the count was now up to 10. Halfway through the footy game, a drinking game was proposed. You had to name a player from each team and each time they touched the ball, you had to drink. If the players tackled each other, you had to scull. Sanchez picked Gibbs from the Tigers and Cooper from the Dragons. The game was going well until Cooper was tackled by Gibbs. Oh no, a scull. But what's this? No one has noticed. Sanchez had copped a massive break. A few tackles later he lent over to his mate, who shall be named, DA (yes I am just using peoples initials, shutup), and whispered, "DA, can you keep a secret?" "Sure mate" he replied. "Even if its incriminating against me?" "Mate, even more reason for me to keep it." he assured me. "Good, cause my two players just tackled each other" I divulged to him. He looked at me and smiled a cheeky but dangerous smile. Sanchez had seen that smile before, he had just made a grave error. "Sanchez's players just tackled each other, he has to scull!" he shouted across the room. It reminded me of a famous saying Sanchez once used in a grade 2 speech... In war, trust is an unfamiliar novelty in which a vessel of deceipt may flow. Poignant and poetic.

Finally Sanchez made it out. Chat chat chat chat. Sanchez woke up with a sore shoulder from throwing so much chat. Not too mention the most raging hangover. But let us rewind, the first stop was Fridays. Then to Stocky. This is where it gets messy. Sanchez caught up with some boys from his old mexican school days and because two of them weren't drinking, Sanchez decided to make up for them. Sanchez's proudest moment came when he went to the bar one time. The girl next to him smiled at him, he smiled back. Sanchez knew, he was in. No doubts, she wanted him. It was fact. Sanchez said hello, she said hi. Another smile. Wow, too easy, clear the bar, this is going to happen right here, right now! "What are you drinking?" Sanchez opened with, hoping this would lead to another classic roofies joke. But as he said this, he noticed a strange thing around this girls neck. It was a male arm. Suddenly she had rotated and instead of her being next to me, it was the owner of the arm. "Mate, it doesn't matter what she is drinking!" the owner told me. Sanchez had two thoughts, 1. Soooo, I shouldn't make a roofies joke? and 2. Hmmm maybe she won't be getting with me. Although he was still unsure on that last one. Apparently some people smile to be polite and not to signal extreme attraction and readiness to engage in adulterous affairs on nightclub bars.

Sanchez was still trying to rap his head and this when he passed out on the bus ride home and had to be woken by the bus driver as he was the last person on the bus. And just on a side note, the bus stop near Fridays won't be the same again. Sanchez the Seer had become Sanchez the Sick.