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We Shelled Out The Cash To Rent A Lamborghini In Vegas And Flew Too Close To The Sun

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If you go to Vegas these days, you might see a lot of Ferraris and Lambos driving around Sin City. And that makes sense because over the last 20 years Vegas has evolved into an international, ultra-luxury nightlife hub famous for giving cash-stuffed bachelor parties the weekend of their lives.

But then, a green Gallardo pulls up to the crosswalk in front of you. You take one look at the sorry schlub inside and conclude, “There’s no way that guy in the H&M button up can afford that car.”

And you’re right. He can’t. That’s because 99 percent of supercars on the streets of Vegas are rented, from a place like Royalty Exotics, Gotham Dream Cars, or even freaking Enterprise (where they give you the tools to be your own boss).

On our most recent trip to Vegas, we rented a Lamborghini Huracán convertible for 24 hours to see what it was like to live the dream of cruising up the Strip in stop and go traffic and pulling into an exclusive nightclub in a quarter million dollar supercar that contractually, we had to self park. Here’s what happened.

10:00 a.m.

A cursory internet search of exotic rentals in Vegas will show you there are clearly better companies to rent with than others based on pricing, mileage, and security deposit. To keep this vague (due to events later in the article) I won’t tell you who we rented from, but if I were to go again I’d probably get it from Royalty Exotic Rentals. Some other guys we met at Omnia went with them and had an awesome experience. They have unlimited miles, no deposits, no hidden fees, and probably some of the lowest rates right now. Plus, I read up on the founder, and it’s a pretty sweet story of a dude starting a lucrative business doing what he loves.

What you shouldn’t do is rent from the first company that some greasy dude on the strip hands you a little flier for on your way out of the buffet at The MGM Grand without doing any research. You can probably see where this is going.

11:00 a.m.

So my buddy Barnes and I travel out to some off-strip strip mall where we handed a couple of fake IDs to a middle-aged bald guy in a small office. He wasn’t amused.

“Okay, ‘Ted’ and ‘Chandler’…” he said, “You two want to rent a Lamborghini? Have you ever driven anything like this before?”

We had not.

“Wouldn’t you be happier with like a Porsche 911, or an Audi R8? Or maybe a Tesla Model S? That thing drives itself.”

We eventually talked him into letting us take the Lambo.

“I’ll double the damage deposit and buy the $1 million 24 H policy,” declared Barnes.

Sold. He wanted to give us the 2014 Gallardo, but Barnes insisted he wouldn’t settle for anything older than a 2016 model Lamborghini.

“You drive a 2010 Ford 500 at home.”

“This is Vegas, baby.”

So an hour later we were on the road in a 2017 Huracán convertable.

12:00 p.m.

Climbing into the passenger seat of the Lambo was like contorting into a Chinese Finger Trap wrapped around a Bangkok prostitute. After completely filling the trunk space with one backpack, I had to holster my Berry Hibiscus Refresher between my legs because somebody built this beast with no damn cupholders. How are you supposed to rocket down the desert highway at 200 mph without a refreshing sweet tea in your hand? It didn’t help that Barnes was excessively trigger happy on the gas. The Lambo’s tiddy-diddling acceleration force felt to me like being lap-mounted by Charlotte, one of the more notorious House Ladies to grace my fraternity. The Charbroiler was 200 pounds of fat, muscle, and red-hot loving that had a thing for erotic asphyxiation of her male partners. It (the Lambo) was the same way: thrilling, chest-depressing, and life-threatening all at once. But every time Barnes tit-punched the bull, we jerked back so hard my Refresher’s plastic lid almost fell off.

Finally, we hit a bump and my drink catapulted skyward, leaving an explosion of sticky goo all over me, the console, and the seats.

“There goes our damage deposit…” Barnes noted.

2:00 p.m.

After two hours of white knuckling the highways around Vegas, we were almost out of gas and had to come back to refill. Barnes decided this would be a good time to swing over to The Grand, get changed into something classier and play eye-candy down the strip.

6:00 p.m.

At a stop light, we pulled up next to two dudes in a F458 Italia. Suddenly, these guys became the living embodiment of one side of an argument that has divided car fanatics for generations.

“They have to be destroyed,” whispered Barnes.

“Dude there’s like another stop light in like 100 yards.”

“I don’t care. This baby goes 0-60 in 3 seconds. We’ll smoke them.”

“There are drunk people wobbling across the street. If we wreck this thing, I’m losing my grad school fund.”

Barnes revved the engine, a black hurricane raging in a bottle. The Ferrari guys revved back.

“Hey, nice car. What’s the retail on one of those things?” Barnes taunted them.

“That reference doesn’t make any fucking sense if you’re yelling at them from a Huracán, dumbass.”

The light turned green and we tore off the line in a ball-shattering drag race. Barnes immediately had to back off and wrestle control back from the car to stop from spinning out. The Ferrari guys cruised straight like they were gliding on air.

“Fuck. I’m sorry.” said Barnes.

“It’s cool, man,” I reassured him. “At least we’ll never see all those fat Russian guys laughing and pointing at us ever again.”

8:00 p.m.

Barnes and I parked up at Caesars to pre-game at the Bacchanal. We got a GroupOn for free unlimited drinks with dinner, so we ended up just drinking 14 beers each and gorging ourselves on the pizza, sushi, and mini-grilled cheeses. Barnes took the risk of leaving the Lambo with the valet because he was planning on showing it off on the chance he got lucky tonight without the long, awkward process of dragging some girl all the way to Self-Park.

12:00 a.m.

As per common sense, Barnes hit a drink moratorium the second we got into Omnia. It was a Thursday, so the only thing that was open was the terrace bar, but the place was still pretty lit.

We saw the Ferrari guys, who recognized Barnes and invited us over to their table. They were from Alabama or something, Phi Delts. They made fun of Barnes a lot, but were generally nice dudes. They were leaving, so they let us keep their table.

From the enviable staging ground of a VIP table in Vegas and a $300 bottle of Bacardi Silver, we were able to attract a squad of attractive ladies. Barnes kept taking pulls from the bottle every time I turned my back, and when it was empty, he had the waitress bring a round of Jäger Bombs for everybody. He was spending a lot of time talking to these two blondes who said they were roommates.

“I think…I’ve got a possible three way here…gonna show em the car…” he slurred into my ear. “There’s only…two seats…so one can sit…on my lap…”

“Don’t do it man, you’ve been drinking! We’ll get one of those $60 limos from the taxi line, take the whole group home.”

“No man, Lambo closes every time.”

Barnes snuck the girls out of the club while I was tipping the waitress to cut him off. I ran downstairs and he was with the Valet and the Huracán. The girls squealed with delight. Barnes climbed in, intending to rev the engine and loudly broadcast the size of his infinitesimally small dong.

Too bad he spewed cheap rum and pizza chunks all over himself and the car before he could do that.

“Shit…we’re definitely losing our deposit now.”

The casino security and Vegas PD edged in closer while I pulled Barnes out of the car and shoved him into a taxi. I ended up giving the Valet $200 to drive me and the stain a couple blocks back to The Grand, where I got all kinds of grossed-out, mocking looks of pity from the Hakkasan crowd.

11:00 a.m.

The next day, we returned the Lambo. Aside from losing the deposit and a HEFTY cleaning fee, it wasn’t in terrible shape. But hey, since Barnes is loaded, the extra costs weren’t much of an issue.

The only problem was Barnes had somehow lost his wallet and all his debit cards while we were at Omnia, and the club didn’t have them.

I ended up having to fork over the fee and the remaining rental balance myself. Plus “Theodore Mosby” and “Chandler Muriel Bing” are probably banned from renting exotic cars in the state of Nevada forever. Barnes and I took a Ride O’ Shame back to our hotel in a Honda and spent the rest of the day looking at tigers and dolphins at the Mirage.

The experience of owning a Lamborghini for a night was one that made me somehow both less and more of a person than I ever was before. Like a dude who’s gone to space or come down from a really mind-blowing acid trip, I felt as if I had touched some other dimension, a different world, and left a part of myself there forever.

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Doctor Franzia

*Not qualified to practice medicine*

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