Oh, Look, Another Bachelor Party

Oh, Look, Another Bachelor Party

What a way to start the week: a somewhat humorous email sent by the best man followed by the inevitable carpet bombing of responses made up of inside jokes, embarrassing pics, and random high school dudes that I probably won’t talk to. Looks like I’ve been selected to attend another bachelor party. Can’t wait.

Oh, cool. It appears the groom was kind enough to provide us with three dates that work for him. Perfect. I’m sure that won’t elicit a hilarious amount of “I can do ____, but not ____,” and “I’m a maybe for ____, but I need to check with the wife for _____.” RIP, Best Man. And wouldn’t you know it? Every one of those dates works for me! No valid excuses for this guy. Heaven forbid I sit one of these out and never hear the end of it. Guess I’ll go ahead and send the obligatory “In” response, or maybe I’ll get crazy and send a “So in.”

I think that’s number four five for me in 2015. That’s fine, though. I mean, anything for a good friend. It’s not like I’m getting absolutely killed on a mandatory wedding every two weeks for the next three months. NBD. I’ll just hit my parents up for a little cash because that’s not pathetic. But now on to the good stuff: destination. Can’t wait to choose my destructor!

Let’s weigh our options!

Fishing in Costa Rica?

Sounds cheap — international flight, beach house rental, and a chef to cook all our meals. I’m constantly getting berated by my girlfriend for not ever taking her on vacation, but I’m sure she’ll be fine with me dropping $2,500 on a beach trip to a majestic destination. And I can’t wait to bribe the Fuerza Pública so we can keep the groom’s sketchy high school friend out of jail after he buys awesome blow from the wrong dude. Yeah, this sounds like a winner.

New Orleans?

Great food, great culture, and great chance of getting shanked in an alley. I once had a buddy get in a car with a group of random chicks thinking that they were going to another bar. It was all going well until the girl riding shotgun turned around and pointed a pistol at him and robbed his ass. True story. With that being said, I totally like the idea of me arriving pre-noon, getting absolutely blacked out by the time everyone arrives, and passing out at the dinner table while the Commander’s Palace staff debates whether to kick us all out, or just me. Fuck yeah. Maybe I’ll grab a Lucky Dog on my way back to the hotel and cover my favorite Peter Millar in mustard again.

In all seriousness, New Orleans is probably the best option. I mean, aside from the fact that every time I’ve visited, someone in my group has either been robbed, involved in a fistfight, arrested, ended up at a massage parlor, or lost their wallet, it’s always a great success.

Las Vegas?

Original option here, guys. Since we’re all seasoned members of the upper-six figs club, Vegas should be a blast. I mean, you don’t even have to plan anything. We’ll just lose our shit in the casino all day, drop a few grand at Body English at night (because we’re all rich), then charge the Rhino late-night for some high-end dry humping. Glitter anyone? Sounds like a plan to me. I’m sure none of us will max out our accounts/lives on the first night, thereby forcing us to take it easy at the Venetian pool on Saturday. We don’t have mortgages or student loans, though, so looks like it’s time for more bottles for the models.

Which douche will yell “Vegas Baby!” first? Probably me. Hey, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas — until you check your Bank of America statement Tuesday morning and see that your card was run for $1,200 by the strip club. VIP was a poor choice. It was only like three dances.

I don’t know about the rest of these guys, but I’m completely pumped. I’m sure nobody at work will resent the fact that I’m taking yet another Friday off this summer. Nor will I be on the receiving end of a passive aggressive coworker hurricane the following week when I’m clearly operating at about 72 percent.

“Hope your trip was fun.” – Cathy, with that smug, judgmental look on her face like she saw that Snapchat where you’re pouring champagne on the stripper with the fake Scandinavian accent.

Can’t wait for that. I’m sure I won’t have to bite my tongue in order to not snap back, “It was fun, actually, and although it’s Tuesday, I think I’m somehow still hammered. Suck it.” But yeah, I’m in. It makes absolutely no fiscal, moral, or big picture-of-life sense, but I’m in. I’m not going to be the guy on the outside of all the inside jokes at the wedding.

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Lawyer. Writer. Dude doing business. I'm the meatloaf guy from tv.

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