I'm so sick of bachelor parties. Just when I fool myself into believing that I'm a healthy civilized human being, along comes a bachelor party to remind me what a gross impulsive beast I really am. Here are some highly edited highlights from my little bro Colum's bachelor weekend in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina:
- I thought people from the South were supposed to be nice. Not true at all. People were rude to me everywhere I went. The nicest service we got was at Dick's Last Resort, where the waitresses are supposed to be mean to you. What's the deal, South? You've got to be polite - that's your bread and butter. Pick it up a little.
- At Hooters (I know, I know - but there was nothing but disgusting chain restaurants in this town), the girls were trying to convince my brother to get up and sing on the microphone. He wasn't into it, but luckily his big brother Brendo wasn't born with the shy gene. A little song turned into about 20 minutes of drunken wing-fueled improv. When people were starting to be annoyed by me, I held the mic up to the speaker to create a little screeching feedback. It was obnoxious as ALL hell.
- While Colum didn't get the "stage hog" gene, he definitely got the "not a retard" gene, as evidence by the following exchange, late in the evening:
Me: Hey, I got us shots of whiskey.
Colum: No way - whiskey is a really bad idea.
Me: Yeah, you're probably right. (downs both shots of whiskey)
- I officially broke the South Carolina record for the most times saying "This is my little baby brother! He's getting maaaaaaaaaaaaarried!" It's true. They gave me a ribbon.
Now, I'm back to the relatively sane life of a rock star, ready to rock your asses six ways from sideways at the Middle East Downstairs with OK Go! and Juliette Lewis. What? You don't have your tickets yet? For shaaaaaaaaame.
- I thought people from the South were supposed to be nice. Not true at all. People were rude to me everywhere I went. The nicest service we got was at Dick's Last Resort, where the waitresses are supposed to be mean to you. What's the deal, South? You've got to be polite - that's your bread and butter. Pick it up a little.
- At Hooters (I know, I know - but there was nothing but disgusting chain restaurants in this town), the girls were trying to convince my brother to get up and sing on the microphone. He wasn't into it, but luckily his big brother Brendo wasn't born with the shy gene. A little song turned into about 20 minutes of drunken wing-fueled improv. When people were starting to be annoyed by me, I held the mic up to the speaker to create a little screeching feedback. It was obnoxious as ALL hell.
- While Colum didn't get the "stage hog" gene, he definitely got the "not a retard" gene, as evidence by the following exchange, late in the evening:
Me: Hey, I got us shots of whiskey.
Colum: No way - whiskey is a really bad idea.
Me: Yeah, you're probably right. (downs both shots of whiskey)
- I officially broke the South Carolina record for the most times saying "This is my little baby brother! He's getting maaaaaaaaaaaaarried!" It's true. They gave me a ribbon.
Now, I'm back to the relatively sane life of a rock star, ready to rock your asses six ways from sideways at the Middle East Downstairs with OK Go! and Juliette Lewis. What? You don't have your tickets yet? For shaaaaaaaaame.
4 Comments:
I want the uneditted highlights! Now!
Isn't it a bit odd that you can be surrounded by dozens of naked, predatory 19-year old strippers offering back massages and lesbian shows, throwing hundreds of dollars away on soul-numbing lapdances and $15 domestic beers, drunk out of your mind and reduced to a snarling, lust-blinded walking erection, and still say something perfectly reasonable like "Actually, now that I have a moment to reflect, I don't believe that I would enjoy a shot of tequilla at this time." Damned id should run free as the buffalo, man, if not then, then when?
No unedited highlights will be forthcoming. We all signed confidentiality agreements.
Whiskey is tasty.
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