The Bachelor Party

blowup“Greg, show up at Tony Boffa’s restaurant at 3 pm, the bachelor party will start at that time.”

3 pm?

3 pm???

“Chris, why so early?”, I asked.

“Got a long night ahead of us, buddy, gotta start early.”

 ……………………

Bachelor parties are great if you are 21….but I was 35.

Had zero interest in doing this.  As a matter of fact, I dreaded it.

12 hours of drinking? Had trouble downing three beers.

12 hours of perversion and debauchery?

Don’t get me wrong, I am as pervy  as anyone…I just don’t like sharing my perviness with dozens of friends and strangers.

And starting off at a family restaurant?  Won’t little girls in party dresses be passing by?  The answer, of course, was yes.

We are set up in a separate room in the restaurant, but the door was open, with all sorts of passersby able to view the idiocy….and yes, this included little kids.

So gifts are presented…devils head condoms, personal area pumps, enhanced speedos, stuff I might have laughed at if I hadn’t been so uptight about the whole thing.

And then…

AND THEN…

Chris, my best man, the idiot who arranged this show, steps into the closet and comes out with a…

..blow up doll

…a MALE blow up doll

…a BLACK MALE blow up doll

Raucous laughter was replaced with deafening silence.

And all eyes gazed at me.

And I could tell that all of the guys wondered if THIS BLOW UP DOLL was what I really wanted in a mate.

Two things happened…

1. A large family that included lots of KIDS passed by, all stopping to stare.

2. I turned to best man Chris and asked him what the F…. he was thinking.

Mopping sweat, I now assumed the worst was over. 

But I was wrong.

Time to head to the strip club…The Junction….out in the middle of dirt farm country.

Patrons were mostly angry as hell drunk redneck farmers who approached the viewing of nekkid women with scary, grim silence.

And for them to see a bunch of drunken, non farmer idiots come in from ‘the big city’….that was the recipe for trouble.

A few minutes into the show, one of the huge farmers, decked out in his best overalls, beer in hand, approaches ME and asks..

“Do you like (the N word)?”

Hmmmm….if I say yes, I might show up at my wedding in a body cast…or not show up at all.

“Why of course not!”

Farmer extends his bear claw of a hand and shakes mine with a death grip that I still feel on a rainy day.

 First girl approaches the stage…she was, according to a favored expression used by my now deceased father in law, “ridden hard and put away wet.”

Hard to tell the difference between this ‘young’ lady dancing around the pole from a quart of Crisco.  Much jiggling, still detected by seismometers today, occurred.

One of my crew, Woody, a very classy guy, stuck a folded five dollar bill in his zipper…dancer girl adjusted her coke bottle glasses, spotted the fin, and retrieved it with her teeth.

And who said America wasn’t great?

Woody wasn’t done.  He gave the princess a twenty to sit on my lap and play with my much beloved ‘little Greg’.

Now who wouldn’t want that kind of attention?

The answer  to that would be ME.

HAAAAAAAATED IT.

Conversation with her did not approach the level of the Algonquin Round Table.

Could not take it anymore.

Politely gave her a twenty to go away.

Mercifully, things broke up a short time later.

…………………………………………………

There is one item left from that night of stupidity.

The male black blow up doll.

He’s somewhere in my attic, undoubtedly riddled with mouse chew holes and droppings from God knows what.

Wonder what he’s doing tonight?

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