He wasn't there, as the lady at the crepe station at The Flamingo so rudely informed me. But we had our shirts. And they.were.awesome.
It was amazing - AMAZING, ya'll! - the number of guys we ran into who were named Harry!
And while our favorite Brit wasn't anywhere to be found, we did manage to find one of my personal favorite things in the whole wide world.
GUYS IN KILTS.
The one on the end there, hugged up to my girl Dana, was American. His friend though? Scottish. With the panty-dropper accent. He was also drunk. So drunk.
All in all, our shirts had a really good run. The only thing that could've made them better? Harry. Of course.
