Sexy Friday is doing Sin City with Sergei Fedorov, random chicks, and a guest poster

So with The Sports Guy telling tales from Vegas this week, we thought we should do the same. But since the four HF's don't really have the Vegas stories to satiate the demanding tastes of Sexy Friday readers, we've turned to friend of FHF Goozo to tell his story of Sergei Fedorov and random Eurobabes. For context, picture Goozo as a babe-magnet 6'2", athletic, and with a thick Saguenay accent. Because the story is a bit long and we wanted to include as many silicone-enhanced Vegas chicks as possible, we're putting the whole thing after the jump.


My buddy, The Bear, once claimed, in all seriousness, that the circular bar of the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas might be his favorite place in the world. It is the epicenter of what used to be the coolest hotel in Las Vegas -- until 2007, after it was sold by Peter Morton to a generic hotel conglomerate, lost some its soul and celebrities began avoiding it. Around the central and huge bar gravitates, within the same room, all one needs during a three day stay in Sin City: a small and busy casino with enough 15$ black-jack tables; a Nobu restaurant where, with the White Flash I had my most expansive meal that abruptly ended with shots of warm fish oil; Mr. Lucky Deli, for the usual morning-after "What the hell happened last night?" brunches; cool rock stars memorabilia; sightings of Dennis Rodman and Drew Barrymore; wild night-clubs; hot chicks and, of course, strippers and hookers galore (one of whom once forgot to tell my buddy Fifaro that her "fees" were NOT in Canadian dollars).

A Vegas trip always begins as a male bonding experience but a typical night will often reach a tipping point; where each member of the group embark on its own erratic trajectory, some of them ending in a different hotel, on a minuscule couch in the lobby or frantically trying to find your friend's passport to prove to the two doormen that picked him up passed-out under a craps table that he does in fact stay in your room. Indeed, I was on my own the night I met Sergei Federov at the Hard Rock's circular bar. The Bear, Fredouille and Don Pedro were nowhere in sight and Fifaro, nearby, was trying to convince his table's dealer-that-looked-like-Bridget-Nielsen-circa-Rocky-4 she should move to Montreal because "we have a casino too and she could work there". While having a beer and trying to determine whether some girl was a pro or not, a drunken midwest dude tagged along and pointed to someone, hanging out at the bar "Hey man, do you know who that is?" I looked and immediately knew. "Yeah, it's Sergei Federov" I said, unimpressed.


He seemed shocked that I could recognize him so easily and rapidly. "I do know him. I play in the NHL too" I told him. He looked perplexed but my French accent added to the revelation that I played for the Montreal Canadiens, and it actually began to make some sense. Federov was accompanied by two stunning beauties - both decidedly non-American. So I walked toward him and introduced myself, saying I was a big hockey fan and that it was a shame he wasn't on the ice, playing in a playoffs game (ed. note: it was late april 2005, the year the season was cancelled). He, too, had had a few drinks. He was in Vegas to purchase a condo in the residential tower the Hard Rock was planning to build next to the hotel. (As we now know, Federov is not the savviest investor -- that project never materialized) He disinterestedly talked about the strike for a few minutes. Then his face lit-up when I casually mentioned that I lived in Montreal and was a Habs fan. "Ahhhhh! Montreal - Les Kana-diens!!" he shouted, with that unmistakable Russian accent. He followed with a soliloquy about his father being the biggest fan of the team, how he would tell him about the Richard-Béliveau-Lafleur triumvirate and that, ultimately, he dreamt of playing in Montreal. I ordered a round of drinks. He became friendlier and we kept talking and laughing (for, as The White Flash says, I am only funny when I speak English, not French) Next drinks were on him. Suddenly, the Mid-West dude showed up again and told me "So you do know him" and I introduced him to Sergei. More drinks. The Eurobabes had been chatting among themselves up to this point.


Montreal was again a topic of discussion when one of them asked me if I spoke French. "Oh great!" she said when I answered that I did. She was from England, worked in the fashion industry and missed speaking French, which she did quite well. Listening to a gorgeous British girl speak French is enchanting, particularly when they can't stop singing the praise of your city. She loved coming to Montreal for the Grand Prix week-end so I name-dropped all the places she went to when in town, as if I were a regular. I think my French was doing miracles. I had heard enough of Les Canadiens' mystique and barely paid attention to Federov anymore. I was in a zone and began thinking that I might actually score with the smoking hot groupie-friend-whatever-she-was of an NHL former superstar -- a story that would legitimately be Pantheon worthy. But the dream ended as fast as you can bust when hitting on a 16. Federov suddenly got up and left with his lovely entourage. I was alone and the friends were gone who knows where. Mid-West dude resurfaced, drunker, and asked me if I wanted another drink. A stranger, paying me a beer in the middle of the night on the sole assumption that I might be an unknown utility player in the NHL. It was around 3 or 4 am, when one should not even bother trying to determine if the girls still around are pros or not. Vegas baby. Vegas.

Maybe Sexy Friday is public domain by now? If not, KSK, etc.