Bachelor Party

Two weeks after the trip to Chicago, it was Jeff’s turn (along with several other close friends and family members) to visit me. It was time for the Bachelor Party. In the interim two weeks I attended another wedding shower where I thought I invented mixing Sprite with whiskey. Using creative license, I hereby claim to be the inventor of the popular 7 and 7 drink you all enjoy. My fiancé also had her bachelorette party that resulted in several pictures of her with a two-foot dildo that she probably thought looked small in comparison to the penis she is used to, her grandmother pole-dancing on a party bus, my mother winning a beer drinking contest and then drunk dialing her sons like a college sophomore to tell them about it, and her aunt walking away amazed at just how naughty elementary school teachers act at parties.

The original plan for the bachelor party was to have everyone meet in Milwaukee for a Brewers’ game and then get hotel rooms and drink about the town. This plan would have been terrible. In fact, looking at this plan now, I have no idea what I was thinking. My dad, who has done his fair share of drinking in his day, suggested we meet in the Quad Cities, get a party bus, ride said party bus to Milwaukee, tailgate, watch baseball, ride previously said party bus back to the Quad Cities, and amicably part ways. For the quantitative types, this plan would result in well over twelve hours of consecutive beverage consumption. Appropriately, this party would be on a Saturday. Normal people don’t work on Saturdays.

Before we get to Saturday though, we should rewind to the middle of that week, when my cousin Matt, my brother Dallas, Jeff, Theo, Dave, and Hampton (formerly My Friend Who Looks Jewish but Isn’t) called and asked if they could all come up the Friday before the Saturday that was to be the bachelor party. I called the fiancé and said, “Babe, you’re going to have to find somewhere to stay this weekend,” and said yes to all of them. (Yes, my fiancé and I lived in sin prior to the wedding. Unfortunately financial sense beat out outdated codes of morality.) Matt arrived first at around 6:00 on Friday night. Matt and I sat in the basement and talked about marriage and children and growing up. He asked me how I was doing. How was I doing? I hadn’t thought about it. In two weeks I’d be married. Never mind the fact I’d dated the same woman for eight years, in two weeks it’d be forever. A seed of uh-oh was planted.

Matt is my older cousin. We had a lot in common growing up, even if our interests and weight fluctuated regularly. He often made up lies about his friends dressing up in tin foil and/or lighting their hands on fire and ringing random doorbells asking for help, which I believe is where I got my keen sense of nonsense and exaggeration. He went through several phases growing up—he once wore a beanie, he once drew nothing but dragons, he once whittled a lot, but the same Matt was always there—quick to irreverence. My favorite Matt memory? Our family would take annual weeklong trips to cabins up in Minnesota. When we were younger, we’d all sit around and joke around. When we were older, we’d all sit around and drink and joke around. One summer, Matt and I drunkenly forced Dallas to play Upwords with us. Because Matt and I had been drinking, we made the rule that he and I could make up any combination of letters and call it a word, but Dallas had to use real words. Dallas didn’t find the rules fair as he couldn’t very well build off of words like TFEWQ and PWQNIIBV. Every time my little mushroom brother would complain Matt would laugh his loud giggle he inherited from Grandpa and tell Dallas he better not cheat. Dallas hated Matt the rest of the vacation.

In an amazing bit of happenstance, Dave, Dallas, and Hampton all arrived within three minutes of each other around 6:30. This is especially amazing if you know that none of them are ever on time for anything ever. Theo and Jeff weren’t expected until later that night.

Logic told us we should go get delicious bar food. Why bar food? Because bar food was served at bars. We started the night at a local rib joint where three of the idiots with me incorrectly ordered pork tenderloin sandwiches. Dave and myself ate a half slab of ribs. This will be important later. Upon leaving the restaurant bar (for those curious Hampton is always the driver. He doesn’t drink. He also looks like a child molester.), we called Nate (formerly my Irish friend) and Karen (his ladyfriend). They were playing darts at a local tavern, so we drove there to meet them. The next three hours passed innocently enough… drinks… popcorn… darts… talk of a late night meal. Eventually Jeff and Theo showed up. Then I called Kelsey’s brother Joe to see if he came to town early. He said of course he did. I asked if he wanted to meet us out. He said of course he did. Not only did we now have another sober driver, we had one that drove a van. Sweet.

Not much can be said about the tavern itself. At one point Hampton and I traded punches to further the game we started at my sister’s May graduation. A game I call “Trading Punches with Hampton.” There is no malice or ill intent. It’s simply a game men play to prove who has higher testosterone levels. It’s important amongst men to have more testosterone then your friends. Around midnight Nate and Karen said they were going to go order delicious loose meat sandwiches at a 24-hour diner in the QC called Ross’ Diner. Joe and I, familiar with the restaurant, explained to the rest of our party what a Magic Mountain was. It was this: A piece of Texas Toast covered in loose meat, covered in French fries, covered in cheese, covered in onions, and thrown onto a plate. The alcohol told all of us this would be a great idea. We hopped in Joe’s van and headed for Ross’. In the van, people talked about how it would make more sense to go to a strip club. Debate ensued. One group wanted delicious loose meat sandwiches. Another group wanted strippers. A compromise was reached: it’s unfortunate no strip joint called Loose Meat Loose Meat offering both existed.

It’s never a good idea to let an inebriated mind take over when food is around. That’s how obesity happens. In addition to ordering a Magic Mountain, I ordered a fountain Diet Pepsi with free refills and drank seven or so. By the end of the meal, part of my body said, “sleep child, you full,” another part said, “eat more, you drunk,” and another part said, “PEPSI! YOU PEPSI!” I felt better than Jeff though. He decided to not only finish his abominable Magic Mountain but Matt’s too. Unbeknownst to him, Kelsey and I were out of toilet paper at the time. In approximately seven hours from that moment, Jeff would hate me. We took our checks and walked towards the door. I noticed Ross’ had 4th of July paraphernalia strewn about the restaurant. Obviously since I was to be married on the 4th of July, I could help myself to any of the Go America gear I wanted. I took two small American flags and put them in my pocket.

At this point, I had been standing in line to pay for approximately sixty-seven seconds which was too long. Kelsey’s brother Joe stood next to me. I asked him if I should pay. He giggled, because he rarely speaks. I said I think I’m going to go. He giggled. I opened the door and walked out. Joe followed. I believe Joe already paid. Joe and I found Matt and Dallas at the van whom I immediately asked, “Guess who didn’t pay for their meal?” Those jerks both responded, “Us!” The four of us then hopped in the van and drive away, waving our triumphant flags of glory.

For some reason Joe dropped us off at a gas station and left. We stood outside the gas station at which some point Jeff, Dave, Hampton, and Theo arrived. We made idle chit chat when all of a sudden a man from across the street with terribly hunched posture hobbled over to the group. He said, “I’m crazy. Whoopee la la.” Okay, not really. During our conversation with this man someone told him I was to be married soon. The strange hobbling man who wanders the streets of Davenport, IA said, “My advice: Get a pre-nup. I lost two businesses to my ex-wives, including that body shop across the street.” I told him how sorry I was to hear about his divorces. He said he should have seen it coming--the woman left him for the Budweiser deliveryman. Agreed. Who doesn’t suspect the driver? At some point his marital wisdom became too much for me to bear, and I said he was a sage and a prophet. I told him he gave the best advice I’d ever heard. He seemed confused by this. I don’t think many people look up to this man. He turned to waddle away triumphantly and I shouted, “I never caught your name, so I’ll call you Henry.” Henry shouted his real name back to us, but it vanished in the distance as he did.

The next morning, after somehow getting home from the gas station and smoking wonderful cigars, I had the privilege of waking up to an angry Jeff asking why the hell I didn’t have any toilet paper. I’ve avoided descriptions thus far. Since our sophomore year in college Jeff has looked similar to how you would picture the chubbier older brother of Jesus. He told me that it’s just cruel to have people eat Magic Mountains at night and not have toilet paper in the morning. Unbeknownst to him, I had both ribs AND a Magic Mountain. I won. This day would be awesome.

After waiting for everyone to arrive at the house, we had the following cast of characters ready to hop on the bus: Myself, Dallas, Jeff, Matt, Dave, Hampton, Joe, Theo, Alan (work buddy), Brent (another work buddy), Mike (Kelsey’s Dad), Jim (Kelsey’s Uncle), My Dad, and Travis (the driver whose real name is probably something else). Drinking for three hours straight on the way to Milwaukee had the following highlights…Dad “paced himself” which meant he didn’t crack open beer seven until two hours into the journey…the bus itself couldn’t simultaneously air condition the cab of the bus and the party area; the driver seemed offended when we told him to sweat it out…Joe giggled a lot, because he rarely speaks, while quietly drinking half a bottle of vodka…I avoided the temptation to steal Mentos from a gas station…we explained my Dad’s Kurt Russell admiration...

Dad’s Kurt Russell admiration: It stems from the fact he read an article when Dallas and I were in junior high about how Kurt Russell never took a drug in his life. For some reason Dad always seems to think every celebrity or strange person is on drugs. Case in point when we drove to my freshman orientation at Minnesota State University, Mankato a nervous fellow freshman got into a slight fender bender with Dad. Dad’s response? “I think I smelled liquor on his breath, and he was probably high.” Even though Dallas and I gave no indication he or I planned to use narcotics, as a good parent Dad continuously told us the evils or marijuana and crack. He usually told us this with a beer in his hand. Dad always cited Kurt Russell as a reason to stay on the path of straight and narrow. “The guy has had a consistently successful career plus he’s sleeping with Goldie Hawn.” Dallas and I would tell him neither of us found Goldie that attractive, and he’d tell us we were wrong. Over the years Dallas and I discovered that we both heard the Kurt Russell story about fifty times. It quickly became a running joke where we’d ask Dad about Kurt Russell and he’d become blissful in his retelling of Kurt’s clean lifestyle. Six years later we let him know that we knew and that Kurt Russell was the sole reason neither of us partook in drugs. Regardless, when Kurt Russell is brought up, he still gets excited—a little too excited.

…Dallas made fun of my ridiculously shiny forehead…I punched Hampton…the CD player broke and ate my Modest Mouse CD...Joe giggled…Dave tried not to fall asleep…Theo took four shots of Beam…Dad explained his Ace Card Theory…

Dad’s Ace Card Theory: In life, every person is given one “ace card.” When you get a DUI, you play your ace card. The first DUI doesn’t carry nearly the consequences the second and third DUIs do. His lesson: never drink drunk if you’ve used your ace card. Inexplicably, he’s never been caught using his ace card.

…I discovered Sour Cream and Onion Ritz chips are amazing…I lost $6 trying to win millions on Illinois lottery scratch cards…Hampton punched me…Joe giggled, a little louder than last time…Dad told us about his confusion about midgets…

Dad’s Confusion About Midgets: Dad is confessed that somewhere in this great Earth there is a hiding place where all the Little People go after Christmas. Why Christmas? Because for some reason Dad thinks that you see little people everywhere around the Holidays. Really you don’t, but I think he confuses the sacrilegious elf imagery adorning our shops with real little people. Either way, he thinks they go somewhere to hide each year when they are done playing elves in our local malls. That’s my dad.

…the driver turned the air conditioning off for us to cool himself off…we yelled at the driver…the air conditioning got turned back on…we arrived, cool and refreshed.

If you’ve never been to Miller Park and wonder why we chose Milwaukee over Wrigley field, here’s why. While we took out the grilling paraphernalia three things happened: We lost Joe. He told someone he was going to steal a football and left. We giggled in his stead. Dave danced in the street. He wanted to earn a dollar.

Dave is my artsy friend. Artsy means always looking a little out there and acting unusual. Today he wore a bizarre hat and a loose button-up shirt. He seemed confused why no one would give an honest man a dollar for dancing in the streets. Most likely it was because he looked homeless and no one thinks homeless people are honest. There were two parking lot attendants at the stadium. One had long flowing blond hair and enjoyed Dave’s dancing. I know this because he started wiggling his crotch and dancing himself when he parked cars. The other man, presumably a failed cop or former military grunt, did not enjoy Dave’s dancing. He kept yelling at the boy, “Sir. Please get out of the street.” Dave, who by this point had no idea what was going on, did not listen. The man both frustrated because he had never experienced any sort of real power in his life shouted and grew red. Luckily for him, Dave got bored and left the street. Grunt seemed happy. Life’s about winning the small battles.

Eventually it was time to go to the game. Right before the game, Brent accidentally called Kelsey on my phone and hung up. We’re not sure why he did this. Also right before the game, Joe came back with a football and went to pour the rest of his vodka into a water bottle. I told him he could get kicked out, expecting a giggle. He told me, “I’ve been to over 23 Dave Matthews Bands concerts. I think I know how to sneak a drink into a venue.” Amazed he could speak, I giggled and left.

The game itself was notable for several reasons. The first was Dad ordered enough beer to drunk an army. He sat in the row behind me to the left. Every time I turned to the left, a recently purchased beer would be passed by me. I even drank some. I hate beer. It tastes like stale goat pee. We also had one of those trans-racial women by us who thought she was infinitely cuter than she was. Boy did she like us, especially Jeff. Jeff did not like her though, because he had a girlfriend whom he loved and an aversion to loud-mouthed obnoxious women. Unfortunately for Dave and me, his aversion to loud-mouthed obnoxious women developed after college. The Mutt was there with two other women. The Mutt and one of the other women were married to men who were probably happy to not be there with them. They kept trying to hook up their non-married friends with any of us willing to sex a stranger. None of us were. Mutt said, “She’s not desperate or anything. We’re desperate FOR her.” I bet that makes her feel good.

At some point during the game, Joe, Dallas, Theo, and I decide to go buy concessions. While I dropped $100 on overpriced t-shirts and Brewers beanie babies, Joe picked up a light blue Brewers bat and walked away without paying. The concession women did not notice. Joe stood there looking at the stand he just stole from and pointed a bat at them. I then took the already stolen bat out of Joe’s hands and walked away. Joe giggled. We then walked back towards our seat when Joe saw an activity where small children could race as their favorite sausage. Yep. Joe thought the girl who worked the activity was cute, so he started to talk to her. He started to talk to her a lot. I heard him say more in three minutes of conversation to this girl than I’d heard him speak in eight years. Joe refused to stop talking to the girl, so the rest of us went and sat down.

Without going into detail, if Baltimore Orioles right fielder Nick Markakis ever commits suicide, I like to think our group had something to do with that. Up until that point he probably never knew his mother never loved him and that his wife used his money to fund the culling of orphans.

The game ended. One of the two teams won! Yeah! As soon as we got on the bus Joe, the same Joe who mentioned three words the entire way up there, explained to us all how he not only got a free hat from a, “hot blond girl,” but got the sausage race girl to agree to Facebook him. For those who don’t know, Facebook is a social networking website whose goal is to stop all direct interaction with real humans. Thus hypocrites the blogger. Because of his double score Joe stopped giggling and started talking. He started talking a lot. At this point he may not have stopped talking. He told us all how he was the greatest human being to walk the planet and that nothing could stop him. He told us how he was such a ladies’ man. Then, without my knowing it, he started to text his sister the following: Dad is pissed. Jay got arrested for stealing Starbursts. Etc. Combining these text messages with Brent’s inexplicable call of my fiancé before the game, Kelsey got really worried. It didn’t help that Kelsey was with her mother who then became worried about her husband, Kelsey’s Dad.

We started to get tired on the five hour ride home (longer because stupid Travis didn’t know how to get home and got lost) and people dozed on and off. I sat by Hampton and thought it would be a great idea to punch him. Instead of punching him in the side as per the rules of the Game, I punched him in the cheek. Everyone then forced Hampton to punch me back in the face. Everyone held me down and Hampton punched me in the upper cheek, right below the eye. The Game was over, Hampton had won. Hampton doesn’t win often, so good for him. We took our seats again and just as everyone started to get real quiet, Alan’s liquor kicked in and he started screaming, “Whoo!” and making fun of Dad. Dad later described Alan as “mouthy when he drank.” Luckily for us Alan used so much energy screaming, he fell asleep before his screaming turned anyone into a savage.

We arrived in Davenport around 1:45am. No one planned to go to a strip club all day, but Theo convinced everyone it would be a good idea. I could barely stand and didn’t want to be another, “that’s when I threw up on the stripper” bachelors, but I caved and got in the car. During the ten minute drive there during which I kept telling Hampton how useless he was for not knowing how to get there without my directions, everyone realized there might be a cover charge. No one liked that idea. Sure enough, when we got to the club it was $10 per person. There was an air show in town that weekend and my friends might have been put off by the pilot in the door that said, “come on in gentleman and have a little fun with us,” because they refused to pay too. One quick ten minute drive (during which stupid Hampton needed more directions) later, and we returned home and immediately slept.

I don’t normally get hung-over, so much to my surprise I had the worst headache of my life the next morning. I then threw up. I then brushed my teeth and looked in the mirror to see I had a black eye where Hampton punched me. I’d never had a black eye my entire life until two weeks before my wedding. I was a winner.