The Bachelor Party: Beer, Tits, Fights and Crying

The Bachelor Party: Beer, Tits, Fights and Crying

Lies. Filthy fucking lies and empty promises made by Hollywood and society

Fuck “The Hangover”.  I never found it funny.  4 assholes drop E and lose the groom, only to recount the “wacky” evening they had, piece by wacky piece.  Lose the bachelor and “hilarity ensues”, like a shitty Tucker Carlson book.  Aside from my vehement dislike for the content of the film (more out of personal taste than propriety), I was more slighted when my fiancée turned to me and asked, “So is that what guys’ bachelor parties are like?”   Oh, my dear, if only they were.  If only bachelor parties were a comedy of errors where everything turns out right in the end…

Maybe she was half joking, but it reminded me of every other woman asking questions and casting dispersions on what really goes down at one of these shin digs. Most females hear the term “bachelor party” and automatically envision naked women writhing orgasmically on top of a soon-to-be-married man as a drunken orgy ensues, in which every guy there inserts his penis into beautiful women that are not his girlfriend/wife.  Alas, every woman tells her boyfriend/husband the same shit, “Be good.” as she furrows a brow in concern.   The men will be free fromt he watchful eye of the women, and God knows what naughtiness they'll be up to. Sure, the notion of the party is understood to be a bachelor’s  ”last stand"  with as many willing females as possible.

But, bachelor parties are relationship-free excursions that break men from the shackles of monogamy and usher us into a world of beer rivers and cocaine snowdrifts as stunning, naked women seductively dance and sing a siren song for our dongs, right? Incorrecto.

Here’s the deal: A bachelor party is supposed to be a rite of passage, a last night out on the town with the boys. Way back in Sparta, these parties were held as a symbol of entry into manhood.  Today, the bachelor party has evolved beyond that. For worse.  It’s become a  retarded social obligation, filled with too much booze and drugs, fueled by testosterone and shame, littered with crack whores and strung out strippers, that tests the friendships and emotions (and in some cases, the marriages) of all involved.

Who’s gonna be there, bro?

That Guy

There is always one of these assholes present at EVERY bachelor party.  To what extent, will he be that guy?  It depends.  But it is imperative that we discuss him first. He is the “friend” that cannot (and will not) control himself in unsupervised party situations.  Sometimes he's single, but most is most likely married, which is worse.  As he bids farewell to his wife and gets in the car, you wonder, How the fuck did that happen? You’ve seen him to be a fool in his earlier years but marriage/adulthood is not sitting well with your pal.   And it all comes out in the bachelor party.  His pain will be your pain.

You can always spot him before he crosses into the netherworld of asshole supremacy.  When he’s sober, guzzling his first beer, he will immediately start talking about his house and some problem that he is having with it.  You will generally not give a shit and hope this guy will keep drinking and shut up, leaving you to talk to someone way more interesting and less pitiful to talk about. However, be forewarned: you are not the only one to abandon this lonely loser.  In fact, you’re probably the third person to say, “Wow, it sucks to hear about the roof issues you're having.  Pardon me, there’s Josh and I need to talk to him real quick.  I’ll get back to you in a minute.", only to never return.  Well, you, sir, have just added to the inferiority that drives That Guy to swill his loneliness and social frustration in alcohol.  He is fueling his raucous emergence by convincing himself that he needs massive amounts of beer and drink to prove his social and comedic worth to the crowd because no one wants to talk to him while he sober.  

That Guy tends to grind his gears over sports.  While the party is drinking, he will get a glimpse of his favorite team on the television or someone wearing his team’s arch-rival gear.  A comment will be made.  It shall be a loud, booming, stupid comment, but it shall be made.  Once you hear it, it is the first shot of an inevitable war.

What will That Guy do?  Here’s a list of what I have personally witnessed: start a fight because he doesn’t like someone’s face, attempt to dance and fall on his face, spit on the bar or a slot machine, yell at women unintelligibly, show pictures of his house/kid to random strangers, piss himself, piss on someone else, stick a thumb in a stripper’s ass after being told twice already not to, take pictures of a stripper and tell you he’s not doing it while the camera-phone is clearly in his hand recording, hide pepperoni under a bed, flex his biceps while providing an poor imitation of a brain-damaged, slurring Hulk, and fart in someone’s face.

Beware that there may be more than one That Guy at the party (though usually not at the same time).  Possessing an unnatural spirit like some mythical beast sung about by minstrels in forgotten folklore, once you dispose of That Guy, another one will surely take his place.  What’s worse is that the new one will undoubtedly be worse than the previous.  Personally, I have seen 3 separate That Guys removed from a bachelor party (shoved into a cab and shuttled back to the hotel), each replacing the other and evolving in the fields of douchebaggery and stupidity.  Thankfully the last one passed out and we kept him around, like a decapitated head on a spear, as to discourage any further replacements. 

If you find yourself in a situation with two of Those Guys (I am fucking unsure how to word the plural form…deal with it) are present simultaneously, you’re fucked.  I once found myself pinned between two of them, each one whispering in my ear about how they would fight and kill the other in a brawl.  This went on for an hour.  I wanted to smash a dirty bottle into my skull rather than listen to the stereophonic drivel of two drunken idiots. As I tried to escape and change my location, they followed me in their dogged attempts to assert alpha dominance.  In the end, I told them to fight.  I pulled back, allowing them to look at one another, and said, “Fuck it, just fight and kill each other.  I don’t care.”  They looked lost and confused and wandered off in separate directions.  I never knew it could be that simple.  And if they had fought?  That would have been one less of That Guy to deal with. Otherwise, pray that he disappears and passes out on a chair in the hotel lobby.

 The Groom-to-Be

He is the reason you are at the party.  He’s you pal, compadre, confidant, and you will probably wind up hating him at some point during the event.  The reasons will be trivial.  Either he parties too hard and doesn’t know when to quit or he is trying to be one of those white knights on a valiant steed that wants to sit around smoking cigars and playing Texas Hold’em in his basement because he doesn’t want his wife-to-be to get upset.  And you will deal with it and get over it. Protocol dictates that you do what he wants.  You should. But it takes a true friend to tell the future groom to go fuck himself and have a good time…or dial it down a notch unless he wants to get divorced before he gets married. 

The Best Man

He puts the party together.  Thus, he shall be the most miserable person at the event.  He spends months prior to the party corralling the schedules and accommodations of clueless Neanderthals that will be in attendance.  He plans what to do and where to go and when to be there.  He sets up the accommodations and entertainment.  He collects the money so the guest of honor needn’t shell a dime.  And there is always at least one whiney jerk-off that will be unhappy with his decisions.  The best man needs your support (and cash…especially since I have NEVER seen a best man run a  bachelor party and spend less than $1000 out of pocket for all the scumbags who are either too poor to have a good time or are so sketchy that they conveniently forget the wallet and ATM card).  Aside from the groom, you really must be righteous towards this dude at all times. 

If the gods have cursed you and the responsibility of the Best Man falls upon your shoulders, prepare to be the ringleader of the shit show.  Although this undoubtedly is an honor bestowed upon you, it comes at a hefty price: your sanity. In fact, work on killing all feelings and sensitivity to prepare for what will become of your “plans”.  My advice is that you start punching yourself in the dick and practice throwing burning cash at homeless people while you are drunk.    Good luck with that, chief.

The Groom’s Dad

I am glad to see this being more of a tradition, especially seeing the dads making the trip to their son’s celebration.  99.99999% of the time, the dad is fucking awesome.  He will regale you with great stories of manhood and insanity.  He will impart priceless wisdom to all who are wise enough to listen.  He will tell a dirty joke that you wish you had told. He will mercilessly out drink you. He will make you look at your friend and wonder, Why isn’t he as awesome as his dad?

Never ever, under ANY circumstances, should you disrespect or not listen to the dad.  This isn’t just out of respect for the groom.  This is also for your personal safety.  Most of the dads I have met could easily bitch slap and whip the asses out of anybody at the party.  They have dad-strength and you just don’t fuck around and mess with dad-strength.

If the old man is a sissy or uptight, shut your mouth and ride it out.  Chances are he’ll knock off early and be gone before you know it.  Even if he’s a pain in the ass, he’s still your friend’s dad, so shut the fuck up and pay respect.

The Married Guy (aka The Recently Recovered Crack Addict Working at the Crack Store)

Someone wants to party and see chicks more than the man of honor and it is he: your married friend.  He is like a wolf set free upon a stable of sheep, except the wolf has just smoked a fat bag of crack. He is excited and anxious to get the party going because he is “the man” in his own eyes. 

Just think of the Springsteen song “Glory Days”.  This type of guy is out to relive the glory of his college-era.  He’s trying to recapture the dream.  And the further he is from being 25 years old, the more pitiful it gets, as he sings out of date pop songs and recounts his prior sexual/athletic conquests while dancing like an aroused Indonesian epileptic.

Aside from That Guy, the Married Guy is a goddamn pain in the sack.  He will furiously hit on girls that may have been in his league 10 years ago.  He will fail, realizing that she is not only out of his league but he is way out of touch.  Sometimes, this guy succeeds and it is amazing to witness how one girl can be so low in self-esteem and intelligence.  Either way, what follows will surely suck.

The Married Guy inevitably feels some guilt for his actions (successful or not) and that guilt is magnified tenfold by all the toxins floating in his bloodstream (except for that rare reptilian breed that truly does not give a damn about trampling over his vows and would take a picture of himself defecating on his wife and send it to all of his friends with the caption Dude, check this out).  Whether he beds the girl or merely lusted over her, he will regret his actions.  

I’ve seen the Married Guy fly into rage because he felt everyone was “judging” him.  Or his paranoia sets in and he accuses everyone of being jealous and, if anyone tells his wife, he will kill the snitch because that would be in violation of guy code and no guy court in the land would convict him of such a justifiable crime. This is all in compensation for remorse.

But it can be worse. He can become the whiney, sobbing puddle of estrogen that realizes what a scum-bag he is and that he doesn’t deserve the woman he married.   Even if he didn’t cheat, he betrayed the trust.  What if (insert wife’s name) finds out?! Do you know what that means?! Boo-fucking-hoo.  He just evolved into the next type of guy: that slobbering, teary-eyed prick...  

The Crying Guy

There is no room for crying at a bachelor party.  He gets emotional if someone disrespected him in some odd  way or he feels that he is going nowhere in life.  Maybe the groom-to-be didn’t give him enough face-time (yeah, bachelor parties really bring out the emotional broad in many men). He may also realize that he is without girlfriend and that this is the 10^th bachelor party he has been to and is now likely to die alone in a house full of cats while playing World of Warcraft.

Thus, when he is fully inebriated, he will pull you close and slobber his pain in your face as he talks so close you get drunk off of his rotten breath.  If you do not smack him back into reality (and I do mean that literally), he will lurk in the corners drinking himself into oblivion, creeping out the party with his emotional outbursts and sorrow.  There is no room for crying at the bachelor party.

The Pussy

The exact polar opposite of the The Married Guy.  The Pussy hangs in the shadows, wishing to know the touch of a woman, the thrill of a foolish bet, the rush of cocaine…but his tiny, hidden vagina renders him powerless.  He is a spectator at this event, and probably in life. His face lacks scars. He usually starts off drinking wine or suggesting sissy mixed-drinks to imbibe upon because he secretly read about them in a women’s magazine.  You like this guy, you truly do.  He’s a really nice guy, for the most part.  But you get frustrated because of how timid and scared he is of life. You’ll probably buy him a lap dance and try to get him laid with any half-way decent chick that doesn’t have a neck-brace or drools out of the corners of her mouth.  And if you don’t do this or feel this way, you should.  Because deep inside, you feel sorry for him and worry that when he does find a girl, he’ll immediately be cuckolded.  Tread lightly, for if you push too hard, The Pussy becomes The Crying Guy…

(Just a side note: on some occasions, The Pussy will drink too much and attempt to become That Guy.  This is unacceptable.  The moment this happens, you must shuffle him to the bathroom and threaten to beat the shit out of him if he doesn’t straighten himself out. Do not slap him while doing so or he will become The Crying Guy. It’s better to deal with The Pussy in his natural state and not any of his strange mutations.)

The Skel (aka The Scumbag)

No money.  No ride.  Didn’t book a hotel room.  Mooches your cigarettes and drinks.  Yet, I have always seen the Skel in possession of cocaine and illicit drugs in Amy Winehouse proportions.  He believes that this is his carte blanch to run rampant with his hat in hand.  In his mind, the party is a welfare opportunity.  He will not shower and probably comes dressed in cheesy plaid shirt in his futile attempt to be fashionable and hip. Most likely, he is a close talker who smells like he gave head to a 100 unclean Bowery Boys and liked it.  Of course, he shows up late to the party, but that’s only because he had a busy afternoon cruising the high schools.

At any opportunity, he will borrow whatever it is that you do not want him to borrow.  And I don’t mean just cash.  I’m talking hats, shirts, deodorant, socks, a pillow, your room, the remote to the TV.   His requests are absurd at times.  However, any denial to his needs get met with a “Why are you so cheap, bro? “  Or “It’s not even yours, bro, so what are you worried about?”

The Skel is also known to hog the strippers and entertainment, none of which he paid for.  He will attempt to invade the groom’s lap dance and private show, just “looking to have a good time, bro.”  He scours the bars for passed-out chicks and junkies for a quick romp.  He’d fuck a hand dryer if he thought no one was watching. He often teams up with That Guy, so beware.

You know who this guy is.  You’ll definitely hate him before your time is done.  I now deem it acceptable to punch this fucker in the balls upon first Skel infraction.  Do it.  Let’s work together to eliminate the Skel.

The Entertainment

Let’s establish this right off the bat: at the bachelor party, strippers are not people.  No one cares how many kids you have or who abandoned you at what age. Strippers are soulless pieces of meat brought into the arena for entertainment purposes only. No one respects them.  And if anyone at a bachelor party claims they do, they are trying to get laid. 

I know that previous paragraph may have horrified you, but it is an essential and unspoken truth at bachelor parties.  If men respected women at these things, there would be no naked woman shooting eggs from her vagina while a crowd of drunken men showered her with sweaty bills.

Ignore the misconceptions any of these girls that dabble in the flesh trade will have you believe. The strippers that arrive and cater to the bachelor party (not the ones in the club…whole different monster) are full of shit.  Never listen to a word they tell you.  I’ve worked with a Best Man in acquiring talent for the party, using a website that promised real pictures and satisfaction guaranteed, and speaking with our “entertainment representative” that assured us all the needs would be met.  Filthy, whore-induced lies.



What they promised you.



What you get.



The girls that arrive are not what you order and are never as advertised.  If you ask for a blonde and a red head, you will get a black Dominican and a fat Asian girl that does not fit the bill.  Ask for a girl with big breasts, and they will be droopy-dreggy flesh bags that will churn your gut. 





To be fair, stripping for a bachelor party is tough. These ladies deal with drunken assholes en masse.  No wonder they look strung out and haggard.  I don’t blame them for not working out or taking care of their skin or avoiding general personal hygiene (let’s be honest ladies, strawberry body spray is the cure all for everything.  No one will ever suspect your herpes outbreak as long as you smell like a fruit basket, right?). But I don’t want to look at and pay for it.

And a lot of these chicks have weird scars.  Some are obviously crack-pipe burns that their former pimp shelled out as punishment for a light bankroll.  Yet, some of these strippers have the most interestingly shaped scars that must have a really cool story attached.  I ‘d  rather sit in a circle, listening to this soulless harpy recount the origin tale of her hook-shaped scar accompanied by teeth-marks than watch her swallow a flashlight into her uterus.

The Entertainment arrives with their “security” guy.  9 times out of 10, he will be a huge black guy with fingers so fat, you’ll crave Jimmy Dean sausages.  Otherwise, he’ll be Latino. (On one rare occasion, the girls were accompanied by some old white guy that looked like grandpa. That was fucking odd.)  I suppose there is some playing up to racial stereotypes and attitudes.  Many of these security guys are cool as hell, just wanting “a lil’ Henny” (they all do, trust me) as they lay out the ground rules.  However, quite a few are thug-wannabe fucktards out to scare you.  Just stand your ground and don’t be a pussy.  Remember this: you outnumber him at all times.  That’s why he has a gun.  But he’ll probably sweat too much and induce fat-guy asthma if he reaches for it too quickly.  Aside from all that, he lounges in the back, pretending to be Notorious B.I.G.




Are you getting a hard-on, bro? No way!
I gotta have a front row seat for this.

 The girls will proceed to do a show for the groom.  It all starts out with a lap dance and then degenerates from there.  I don’t know about you, but nothing seems more heterosexual than having the groom-to-be stripped down to his underwear so he can be whipped across his naked ass with a belt and forced to wear a dildo-cap on his face while some sloppy vagina gyrates over his face and all of his male friends watch. 

After that, the girls dance for everyone else, happily collecting money (note: do not throw coins at the ladies.  They do not like that.).  When they’re done, they’ll offer the man of the hour a special “private dance” (look out for the Skel here) and probably offer services to those willing to pay an exuberant amount of cash for sloppy condom blowjob in the bathroom while the fat security guy waits right outside.  

You

Don’t be a douchebag.  You’re going.  You’re invited. You’ll have fun.  You’ll be miserable.  You’ll wind up hating all of your friends.  But fuck it, deal with it. Pay up, keep the party going and make the most of it and just don’t be That Guy.

Bro, what’s the plan?

The Weekend versus the 1-day bachelor party

Each have their merits and draw backs.  Do you want everything to explode all at once or do you prefer a slow agonizing torture?

One day/night bachelor parties usually include a short trip/event of some sorts (see below), followed by dinner and the entertainment.  Short, sweet, simple, yes?  Not even close.   Since you are working under a limited time frame, people assume their above mentioned roles at a scarily rapid pace.  Fearing that time is running out, they are out to swallow every beer and chick as fast as humanly possible.  That Guy starts to appear at 11:30 am, the Crying Guy tears up at 6pm, The Skel arrives at 8:12, and someone is looking to fight right before midnight.  These parties, as a whole, usually cost less to the attendees and wrap up in 16 hours…but that’s one intense, condensed collection of 16 hours.

Weekend bachelor parties are 3 day nightmares waiting to happen.  This is the destination bachelor party, a weekend getaway, which will become the Battle of Wounded Knee before it ends, just a slaughter of innocent people left to rot in the sun and never spoken about openly for many, many years.

The first day is deceiving. Everyone is so stoked to see one another.  Old friendships reconnect and the prospect of recapturing that youthful magic spurs the positive energy. Not much goes wrong on the first night except That Guy gets too wasted.  Day 2 gets started at noon and the inebriation quickly follows.  The first part of the day is a good time.  But after the first event concludes, the liquor sets in and people want to keep the party going…strong.  Sure, you’ll stop for a bite to eat, but it will prove useless against the belly of drink that has built up from earlier on.  Right after dinner (and I literally mean RIGHT after dinner), the first ugly incident will show its face.  At the last party I went to, it was an argument with a hooker in which she put me in a headlock as a friend of mine gleefully decimated her feelings of self-worth and probably sent her to tears and suicide.  After I escaped, I watched and laughed, but I knew that was the beginning of the end.  The show carries on to the next venue and the worst you expect to happen probably will.  Undoubtedly, two friends (at least) will find themselves at odds and ready to throw down.  Someone will be right and the other will be wrong, but that means nothing.  Get it under control or more fights will break out.  

 After the shit show wraps up, people return to the hotel rooms and thus begins Day 3.  Day 3 is the awkward continental breakfast where people bottle in sour grapes and resentments, telling each other, “Hey, great to see you, can’t wait to do this again!” while secretly thinking, Fucker, I hope your wife finds out and you fall down a flight of steps, dick first… But you survived and have a shared experience, just like Columbine.

I am guilty of the weekend bachelor party.  Sorry, guys.

The Cigar Bar/Steak Dinner

You ladies ready for your roofie...uh, I mean drink?

Fuck you, GQ.  You’ve fooled men into thinking that such pretentious activities will make them more masculine and superior alphas looming above all the betas as large-breasted women longingly look on and wish to know the length of such men. Wrong.  I also include “Wine-tasting Adventures” in this category. Lame. What's wrong with just being a guy?  Why do we need fancy environments just to be considered gentlemen? People who tout these types of parties are Patrick Bateman date-rape fantasies waiting to happen and have no business reading this.  I hope you get mouth cancer as you choke on your overpriced food.

I am in no way against fine slabs of beef and hand-rolled tobacco, as I thoroughly enjoy both. However, if you make these items the sole focus of the party, you have dropped the ball.  Steak houses are acceptable, cigar bars are for douches.  I respect the guy most who says, “The plan is to score some bags, cheap whiskey and White Castle and then see where the night takes us.”  

The Sporting Event

What, you couldn’t see the Yankees during any of their other 40 or so home games?  Perhaps I’m biased as I am not the sports fanatic.  But why do something so bland? Because the groom wants to, so shut your fat face.

Just be forewarned that the sporting event is the precursor to something later on.  In other words, the party has all day to get smashed and then pull it together for dinner and whatever happens afterwards.  Good luck with that, especially since That Guy has had ample time to build his beer muscles and start running his mouth….



The Hip Singles Bar



How am I a douche bag?
 Let me count the ways.



 Really?  Pathetic.  You’re probably too old and fat to garner any attention here.  That’s your lot in life.  Accept it and be merry.  You don't belong here unless you have a Bently and a bag of cvoke to dangle in front tof the models that frequent this dump, looking for their big break.  Married Guy will surely lose his mind, but will provide endless entertainment as he gets shot down and/or ruins his marriage. The moment you really start to enjoy yourself, you're getting kicked out because The Skel is too skeevey for the bouncers' taste and That Guy just started yelling at a gorup of girls while shoving a picture of his kid in their faces.  



The Concert

Unless you’re seeing Motörhead, Guns n’ Roses (original line-up, of course) or the groom-to-be’s all time favorite band (the type and level of band that he will viciously and remorselessly kick the shit out of anyone who dares badmouth type of band), this is unacceptable and will not be tolerated. This is usually what chicks do for their bachelorette party.  They go out to see Aerosmith or some one-hit-wonder band from the 90’s and get smashed up off of overpriced booze and ride the rest of the night out in a limo shouting unintelligibly at bewildered pedestrians in NYC.  Do you really want to be a part of that? 

Gambling

I will utterly expose my bias: I love gambling.  Casino, horse races, illegal fight clubs where orphan children battle it out over a cot and bowl of soup?  I am in.

Bro, you ALWAYS double down on crabs! 

Gambling is thrilling and exciting and utterly depressing at the same time.  There’s free booze and multiple opportunities to win cash, peppered with decent-looking girls you don’t have to pay to look at.  This allows the party to spread out and ease the building tension while individually pursuing each of their own depraved interests.  If you ever get bored, seek out the moron in your crew that has “figured out the pattern” to roulette/craps/black jack.  At the horse races, I guarantee they have “a hot tip from an expert handicapper”.  Watch them bet and lose, yet find the time to laugh and ridicule him lovingly.

This destination also provides you to terrorize a concurring bachelorette party.  I will bet my left lumpy testicle that you will run into your female doppelgangers in such an environment.  They’ll be easy to spot.  They’ll be wearing obnoxious costumes (cowboy hats, probably) with beads and name tags.  They will want nothing to do with you once they make the obligatory “Hey! Woo-hoo! Congratulations!” comment.  At this point, the Skel or That Guy will proceed to hit on them, in which The Married Guy will play the White Knight role, coming to the damsel’s rescue.  Nothing will happen outside of complete rejection.  But it’s fun to watch the plane burst into flames and hurtle its wreckage back to Earth.  (FYI: if you’re in a bachelor party with nametags or shirts that display your witty nickname that only you find funny, you’re an asshole craving attention. Real bachelor parties do not advertise. And any that do should be looked down upon and shunned from the man world.) 

The Strip Club

Cliché, but true.  There is not much I can tell you about a strip club that you don’t already know.  You will pay way too much to touch way too little and be so destructively horny afterwards; you could probably rape Godzilla with little effort.

Here’s what I do know.  That Guy will probably get you thrown out for spitting on the stage or manhandling the girls.  You can try to have him thrown out separately, but that rarely works. The Married Guy will swear he is capable of bedding each and every stripper because, of course, these ladies are in love with him.  The Skel will be off doing coke and will get you all thrown out once he gets caught offering it to one of the girls or when he whips out his STD-infested cock. Somewhere along the way, The Crying Guy will have an emotional breakdown while The Pussy claims it was a bad idea in the first place. That’s when the Best Man shows you the bill for $5k and everyone looks around and says “I paid for my drinks and dances.”   The Groom-to-be is probably so smashed and aroused that he is suggesting picking up street hookers.  You want reality?  Soak it in because this scene is as real as it gets.  

Why would anyone ever do this? (Aka Not at MY bachelor party)

Shut your face.  Although not ALL of this will be a part of your bachelor party or that of a friend’s, you will see most of these elements come into play.  The types of people above can be individualized or combined into some sick mess of humanity.  They’ll be there, in one form or another. If not, you’re part of a bachelorette party and just don’t know it.  Have fun getting the sand out of your vag’ for the rest of your life.

Ladies, you now know what the hell we go through.  It’s not just glorious, uninhibited sex with porn stars that feed us grapes and fill our goblets, bowing to any of our perverted wishes.  It’s a shit show.  And your man is SOCIALLY OBLIGATED to go. End of story.  You hound us about social obligations all the time, so back off. Don’t give him grief about it because he will have paid for it in spades by the conclusion of the celebration.  Show pity on your man and console him upon return, unless he is That Guy.  In that case, you married an asshole and you'll probably be divorced in the oncoming years.  Plot your escape now. .

Hopefully, you’ve connected to this and will take this knowledge forth as you go to your next, inevitable send-off party. If you’re planning one, I feel sorry for you, but do take note of what awaits.

Be there to support your friends. They only get married once (or twice…no more than three).  It’s a bonding experience.  It’s a rite of passage, not only for the groom-to-be, but for all involved.  You share the pain and joys and take from it what your strengths and weaknesses are.  You fight, you laugh, and you flex your masculinity around, hope not to catch herpes in the process. You may not like where you’re going and who’s going to be there, but that’s tough titties.  It’s your job as a righteous bro to weather the storm and make the most of it.

And no matter what, never be That Guy.


-Nick Marv
Former bachelor, professional partier