On Bachelor Parties

The scary thing about even attempting a "bachelor party" is that you only get one; no matter what comes before or after, there is this weight to the proceedings because the event itself is essentially a flash in the pan. For me, I had the great fortune of having my pan to flash in being the party-pit known as New Orleans.

When entering the Big Easy, there is an almost unnerving sense of isolation and abandonment, as half the buildings are boarded up shells of themselves and the streets are practically "I am Legend"-like in their vacancy. If I was alone and had this first impression when driving into the city, I would have probably started to ration out food and water, while waiting till midday to venture out an collect weapons and ammo in preparation for the looming zombie assault. 


Luckily, that mostly only held true over near the "Holiday Inn Superdome" where we were staying, as the main points of interest (Canal and Bourbon Street) are only a five minute walk away. It also helps that I had a crew of belligerently jubilant friends and family who, at their peak on the drive down to N.O., were yelling "bachelor party!" and "show me your tits" at every passing car (the truckers loved us). Needless to say, we were jacked.

What proceeded next could fill a novel. If you ask any one of us who were there, I am sure there would be several alcohol-marred versions of the same stories. There aren't any pictures or videos, just those stories that will bind us together, because we swore we would take them to the grave (just kidding, Sam!). The fun part will come when we all reunite at different times in our lives, and verbally try and play back the shit we said and did. I will go out on a limb and openly admit that I now believe that my marriage is fated, because the magic that happened at the bachelor party cannot be denied. Anything we even thought of doing, it practically fell into our laps (pun intended). Again, to maintain dignity of the individuals involved, I won't go into specifics. If you really want to know, just ask.

There are some awards to be given out:

• Best Segue: Scotty, from explaining the nature of the expansion of the universe, to taking a double shot out of the pants of a nastier Brooke Hogan lookalike. 
• Best Heater: Travis, who spent 7 hours calling us from the casino to tell us he was still on one (he only made $100).
• Most "Beeriods": Adam with 6. 
• Most Rallies: Ben, who followed 8 gin and tonics (in 2 hours) at the casino on Day 2 , with 4 separate hurl-fests.
• Most Awkward Lapdance: Joey, whose NBA style commentary on the lapdance he was receiving would crack up Marv Albert. 
• Worst Sexile: Pat, whose staunch pass-out in the bed reverse-sexiled Adam into bumping uglies in the bathroom.
• Most Money Guide: Brad, for hooking us up and locking us in to the the essentials of getting fucked up on B-street.
• Best Drunk Dial: Grayson, who ghosted off into the night, only to leave us with a message about him "finding some pussy." 

• BONUS: Best Soul-Crushing "Making it Rain": Travis, who lazily flipped $20 ($1 at a time) out of his stack of 200 1$ bills onto the stage, while all the strippers scampered like roaches to pick it all up.

Thanks guys. Now how the fuck do we top that?