Coming out of MGM Grand Garden Arena just before midnight on a UFC Saturday night is like showing up to a slightly out-of-control party four hours too late. The yell-talking has already begun. Everyone but you seems to have agreed on a relaxed approach to personal space boundaries. Women in smeared makeup walk through the casino barefoot, clutching high heels in their hands, while men in untucked dress shirts weave together in small packs. You get the unmistakable sense that something fun has gone on here, but it’s over now and you’ve made it just in time for the beginning of the aftermath. And the nightclubs, my God. The nightclubs are 10 times worse than the casinos.