Ron-Ron Juice, Episode 3: Pabst Blue Ribbon Is Just Like Ron-Ron Juice, Except Better Tasting And Doesn't Make You Throw Your Girlfriend's Mattress Out Onto The Deck In An Angry Drunken Stupor

Ron-Ron Juice is what the guys of the Jersey Shore drink when they wait approximately four hours for the girls to get ready to go out to the clubs. The basically sit on the couch and drink into oblivion, yelling random and probably obscene nonsense while the gals cake their makeup on and bathe in perfume. This is me, waiting for Pam. Not nearly as long, not even close, but long enough to blog. And this is me, drinking a little bit. Not nearly as much, not even close, but enough to be considered "pregaming." And this is me, blogging, during that time. Ron-Ron Juice Time. CABS ARE HEEYAH.

Pam is straight up HUSTLING to pick a dress to wear tonight (seriously, they all look ridiculously good on her, I don't quite understand what the big decision is), so I'll make this quick.

We finally did something that thing we were dreading on doing for a while and are, frankly, a little ashamed of doing after the fact.

We ordered some Philly cheesesteaks from a Las Vegas sandwich shop.

Please don't judge us. It's tough being away from home for so long from our Philadelphia and all the wonderful things that come with living in the greatest city on earth. I'm dying without having the Phillies on TV, so much so that I paid eight dollars a darn beer to watch them at the Wynn sports book yesterday (though, to even out price-wise, they had an absolutely delicious, cheap sandwich that had corned beef, turkey, provolone, russian dressing, and two poached eggs. I hungrily digress). I miss our family and friends so much, because it's tough to watch the Phillies alone (or a random creepy guy who sat next to you because he saw your Hamels tee shirt). And I miss cheesesteaks. I miss eating cheesesteaks for breakfast and I miss eating cheesesteaks for a 2 a.m. snack.

And we all know that to get a "Philly Steak" outside of Philadelphia is sacrilege. Every sandwich shop from coast to coast sells their variation of the venerable cheesesteak, but they are all an embarrassment, save for those valiant steak czars: Jim, Steve, Pat, Geno.

But hey, sometimes you go crazy out here in the desert. Sometimes you'll see a false beautiful oasis in the middle of a stretch of sand if you are thirsty enough. Sometimes you'll see some chopped up meat on a roll with some cheese (and lacking onions, because I'm a wit'out guy) and you'll miss Philadelphia so darn much that you'll eat a pale imitation of the real thing just to feel something, just a little bit, that you haven't felt in three months.

Sorry, guys. It was a good sandwich. I'm so ashamed.

So who wants to go to Jim's with me on July 24th?