Bachelor got so drunk he didn’t realize he didn’t make it to Vegas
Thomas Merribell, a 36 year old soon-to-be-wed account manager for a big-three telecom from Las Parnas who asked that we didn’t use his name, had only two important things to tell us. “First, I’m still like 90% sure I was in Vegas, and second don’t use my title or say what industry I’m in.”
Merribell, a self described trainwreck, met his fiance at a convention, though he refused to say which one.
“It was a convention for those pillows you date and marry because you can’t find anyone who can stand being around you,” said Sandra, his fiance. “I knew he was a bit awesome because all he liked was weird Pokemon stuff, and he didn’t have [much in the way of] social skills, and [yet] he still had the $3,900 to get into the convention. I knew we’d be married when I first saw him.”
Maribell, who asked once again that we not use his name, owns a Covette C5, an Oculus Rift, and loves the odd casino game.
“I’m not a tool,” swore the man whose name we’re not allowed to mention, which is Thomas Merribell. “I just wanted to spend my honeymoon having fun, gaming, and whatever.”
The whatever turnt out to be illicit substances, and the “spending my honeymoon” turned out to be a weekend in the drunk tank in Las Vegas.
Upon his release, Merribell reminded us that we did not have permission to use his name, and suggested that “there are a lot of things about this city you don’t understand,” though he said it in such a way that we believe he didn’t understand those things himself, and that we’re perfectly free to use his name. Not to shame him, but so that he can stand as a lesson to others.
During fact-check for this article, we learned that Sandra has moved back home to her family, where she now lives with David, a man who swears he’s not her husband, despite state records that show that he clearly is, since they wed in 2009. David runs a blog called “How to use your girl to scam money off lonely dudes,” which he insisted was ironic, and further that if we pressed the question further, he’d put some combination of our or his teeth into each others asses, faces, or “testiballs,” which, while an uncertain outcome, was something we decided as an editorial board we would prefer to steer wide of by a mile, if not one of the country variety.