Internet, last time we spoke, I was trying my best to be a poetic and heartfelt writer in describing my experience at a wedding. The reception to this writing was warm, and appreciated. But, from more than one of your constituents, I heard you were wondering where my crass childish side had gone. I assure you, that side is living well.
The day after the wedding, I had to wake up early to drive home to begin another good excuse to start binge drinking, a bachelor party. This was the first bachelor party I had ever attended, so my only perspective on such an event has been from watching movies like The Hangover.
This is my friend’s “last” night as a single man. So I was fully expecting to arrive at the cabin the party was taking place, and be welcomed by hookers with hardcore drugs. Unfortunately, we couldn’t find any hookers in Clear Lake, Minnesota (at least none that fit my strict criteria), and we didn’t have the courage to ask the neighbors if that was indeed a meth lab in their basement. Now we’ll never know.
Instead, there was other manly, more legal, shenanigans. The first example of which was a game called “beer darts.” I had no idea that drinking games could be so dangerous. Basically, everyone sits in lawn chairs in a circle outdoors with their beer can sitting between their feet in front of them. Then, you take turns throwing steel-tipped darts at other people’s cans. If you hit the can, that person has to drink out of it until the can stops leaking from the hole the dart just made. Needless to say, I thought I was going to lose a toe on more than one occasion.
We head out on the lake on a pontoon to play more drinking games. These got particularly interesting due to the fact that we had six people on a pontoon with a capacity of four. Trying to keep ourselves from nose diving and sinking the entire boat was a game in of itself.
At this point in the night, I thought we had done the status quo of what is expected at a bachelor party. We were drinking, we were yelling, and we were using the phrase “man-shit” just about any time someone threw something, caught something, hit something, broke something, flexed a muscle, or farted on someone. You know… man-shit.
The evening took a turn for the weird when we made the decision to go to the local street dance. And I knew it was going to be a weird turn because when we got there, one of the bachelor’s friends, whom I’ve met only once before, looked at me and said “let’s get fuckin’ weird” when we arrived at the street dance.
The details are blurry from this point forward, but I do remember the lead singer pointing to me in the crowd in admiration of the batman logo on the front of my shirt. And I’m not surprised, it’s basically the coolest shirt on the planet. After that, I just remember wandering on stage and dancing with a middle aged woman in a Jared Allen jersey while singing along to “I Got Friends In Low Places” by Garth Brooks… I’m not proud. But, the locals certainly seemed to appreciate my moves.
Somehow, I ended up leaving the dance with a near-life-size cut-out of Snoop Dogg advertising a new flavor of malt liquor from Colt .45. This racist joke pretty much writes itself.
I know I usually try to find some sort of heartfelt meaning behind these trivial life experiences, but I’m struggling to find one here. If there’s anything I took away from it, it’s that men need very little excuse to behave like total jackasses. Essentially, all it took for us to get out of hand was a wedding coming up in three weeks and our appreciation for farting in crowds of strangers.
I’ll finish off these epic trilogy in the coming days. In the meantime, remember that it’s not all a joke, but it’s all funny.
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