Diary Of An Entry-Level Try Hard: The Bachelor Party

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Diary,

Man, it’s been a long time. Your boy is currently crushing it professionally and socially. Mentally, I’ve been feeling a little down. The stresses of modern office life have gotten to me. I’ve put on probably 10 pounds since the summer ended. I realized that I needed to get along better with my colleagues, so I started going to lunch with my boss, Terry, and one of our accountants, Jim. They love going hard at lunch. Genghis Grill, Longhorn Steakhouse, Outback, Cheddar’s. We’ve laid waste to the strip mall next to our office. I’m pretty close to getting a free sub from Jersey Mike’s. It’s all about economizing and making my own personal bottom line fat. Unfortunately, eating out for lunch every day makes you balloon up like a pregnant walrus and I’m probably two Harvest Mushroom Filets from having to go from a 34 waist to full blown fatty size 36s.

I busted a button off of my Brooks Brothers Non-Iron button down while sitting on the can last week. I needed something to get my mind off of it. Lucky for me, my best bud in the world, Will “The Thill” Garmon, is getting married in November. Will was my roommate for two years in college. He’s the first guy who told me about all the porn Vine accounts I follow now and took me to my first UFC fight. He called me up a few weeks back and invited me to his bachelor party weekend in Vegas. This was the break I needed, Diary. I took full advantage. Time to load up the Bone Sled and fly her west, to the land of temptation, desire, and high stakes blackjack tables. Vegas.

I’ve never been to Vegas, but I have the entire “Ocean’s 11” trilogy (collector’s edition) on Blu-ray. I was pumped when I got my new computer at work because it came with a built-in Blu-ray player. I’ll stay late on Fridays sometimes and watch O-11 to get my mind right for the weekend. “Tess is with Benedict now? She’s too tall for him.” Ha! Classic Saul.

I knew I needed a fresh suit for the batch party, so I went and saw my guy Jerome at Men’s Wearhouse. Jerome hooked it up during wedding season. Made me feel like a real power player. I wanted to step off my plane at the Vegas airport and make everyone say “Whoa. This guy is here to take all of the Bellagio’s money AND clean out every last crab leg on the Strip.” So, I strolled into MW with the confidence of a thousand Rusty Ryans. Hit Jerome with my request: “Yo, Jerome. My man. Your boy is headed to Vegas next weekend for a bachelor party and I need the hookup. I was thinking light grey, brown loafers and a silk paisley ascot.” Jerome was so stoked to hear my idea that he tried to hide his smile by covering up his mouth with his hand. “Okay. Okay. My man Gil wants to look real fresh for Sin City. Let’s head over here.” $750 later, I walked out of there looking like Mark Cuban on “Shark Tank.” Jerome tried to keep me shopping. J-Bone’s a real salesman. I would’ve stuck around, but I had a prior engagement. Shoulda hit Jerome with a “This suit is really fresh, J-Bone, but your boy has a hot date with a sizzling platter of Mexicampi shrimp at Chevy’s Fresh Mex. For that reason, I’m out.”

I landed at McCarran (Reminded me of AJ and Kathy Webb. Damn, she’s fine) around 8 A.M. I figured I’d just play some slots near the Hudson News shop since it was still early. First spin, I won $200 bucks! Next spin, I won $20! The airport McDonald’s wasn’t even open yet and I was already on a heater! Who was I to stop? Two hours minutes later, I was up $375 big ones. I stepped away after going up that big, because if I learned anything from Danny Ocean, it’s that the house always wins. And if I learned anything from playing “Fallout: New Vegas” five times while living at my parents’ house that one summer, it’s that there’s a guy actually named Mr. House and he’s hellbent on destruction and Socialism. I’m not about to let that guy have all my money.

I showed up at the Flamingo in my suit, which was also the only clothes I had brought on the trip. I kept my bag as empty as possible so I could stuff it full of Benjamins once I had Greg Raymer’d the shit out of every last blackjack table in the joint.

RAYMER

I got an early check-in and figured I’d hit up an all-you-can-eat steak and lobster buffet. So, of course I did. Got a cab to Old Vegas and pounded half my body weight in surf ‘n turf. I could get used to this place. My friends weren’t even there yet, but no one’s gonna ask any questions about a guy who shows up by himself to eat steak and lobster by himself. Especially if that guy is wearing a slim-cut, tailored suit from Men’s Wearhouse. Headed back to the hotel and needed a nap. Once I hit the bed, I was out.

Four hours later, the door crashed open and there was good ol’ Thrill, proudly waving massive stacks of singles as the bellhop brought in his luggage behind him.

“Holy fucking shit, Humpty Crumpty. It’s been awhile,” Thrill said as he gave me the best bro hug ever.

“So, who are we getting this weekend, Garms? The ‘Thrill’ or the ‘Pill?'” I shot back as we hopped up and down while still bro hugging. It might have been the best moment of my life.

“Fuck, I’m horny.”

“Me too, bro. Me too.”

That’s just what man love looks like, Diary.

Next thing I knew, Thrill started unloading his luggage onto the bed. Out poured several pill bottles, a bottle of jack, a one-hitter, another stack of singles, and various sex toys.

“What the fuck are we doing here?” Thrill asked, “Let’s go get plastered and gamble.”

We hit the floor for about three more hours and it was already close to 10 P.M. We had to get dinner. Thrill was already rubbernecking at the baccarat table and he needed two things: shrimp cocktail and Adderall. I leapt into action, throwing Thrill (soon to be Pill) under my arms and taking him up to our room and started feeding him Addy. Two minutes later, he was sober as a nun. He roared like a mighty lion and said he was ready to “fucking rage.”

We headed down to dinner somewhere, I don’t really remember where. Was pretty hammed. All I remember is Pill not blinking as the waitress took his order and our friends all acting worried about Pill and me. Pill and I were pounding old fashioneds and Pill was referring to our waitress as a “beer wench.” It was getting pretty out of control. The manager had to warn us and I was able to calm him down with another order of scotch and crab rangoons. After Pill loudly contested how much the bill was, we finally pushed him out of the restaurant and got him back into the hotel room for another speedball of Adderall and a crushed up One-A-Day Men’s. It’s worked for me in the past.

“WHOOOOOOAAAAAAAA I’M ALIIIIIIIIIIIVE” Pill proclaimed as he pulled himself up off the bathroom floor, powder all over his face. Pill stared wide-eyed around the room, grabbed us all by the shoulders and declared his next intentions. “I want tits. Fat, fat tits.”

Who was I to deny him? Palomino Club it was. It’s the same strip club where they filmed “Showgirls,” so you know it’s good. I was getting my face shoved into some floppy chest hammers and that’s the last thing I remember, Diary. I woke up on the bathroom floor with glitter all over my pants and the faint smell of butt sweat on me. All signs of a good night.

Made my flight on time and suffered the worst panic attack of my life somewhere over Colorado. The flight attendant had to talk me down.

Crashed into my bed and threw the contents of my bag onto my bed. I had spent all of the money I won in the Vegas airport, which probably explained why my face smelled like a toilet seat and my suit looked like it had spent the weekend at a sorority house during homecoming, judging by the glitter and feathers still sticking out of it. There was a lone ketchup stain on the right lapel, but other than that, it was in prestine shape, as was I, Gilbert T. Humplestead.

Looks like some guys actually CAN handle Vegas.

You can’t spell gambling without G-I-L.

Forever money,

Gil

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