How To: Throw A Bachelor Party

Cliff here. I’ve seen a lot of supposed “men” burn up trying to enter a fine little piece’s atmosphere. By “burn up” I mean get married, and by “atmosphere” I mean body. Taking my manly astronaut analogy a little further, here’s a little gem for you to write down: the planet where you’re trying to crash land your rocket is inhospitable to fun.

Just because a woman will sleep with you doesn’t mean she’s The One. As a matter of fact, you will never find The One. You’re not charming or rich, and no woman can lactate beer. If she could, she would be with someone who’s charming and rich. My point is, don’t go running to some crappy mall jewelry store to buy your Hag of the Week a tiny rock chip because you want some guaranteed nookie. Ask any married man if they think you should propose to your average looking girlfiend with an acne problem. The blank, soulless stare they give you should be enough to convince you that you’re slightly retarded.

Marriage is like a meth habit. It’s great at first, and basking in the afterglow of a hot night might feel like it’ll last forever, but one day you wake up penniless and depressed, and find out you’ve scratched your skin off. You never see your buddies anymore, and never go out drinking because the booze makes you remember that there are cheaper, less destructive ways to get off. Marriage and drugs steal your soul, and the only way to get it back is to reestablish control.

Now that you know the dangers, there will inevitably come a time when your one friend in the world asks you to be his best man in his wedding. Attempt to talk him out of his temporary insanity. If he insists, follow these few simple steps to make his bachelor party as memorable as possible, if you both survive.

Your stupid friend is obviously a giant kitty-whipped douche. With that established, consider his bachelor party to be the world’s best funeral. You’ll never see him again, so he may as well be dead. I’ve got a list of things I have made my fellas promise to use and exploit when I die, and if my funeral party blows they can count on me coming back from the dead to man-haunt their asses with my other dead menfriends (William Wallace, General Sherman, and Casanova).

Here are required elements of a manly bachelor party. Listen up, Massengill.

1. Explosives. If you don’t have some laying around your house already, put your faggy tea party on hold and go get some. You should have no less than the equivalent of 37 sticks of dynamite in your house at any given time. For this party, the cover charge for the guys is a case of beer, a handle of liquor (as long as it’s whiskey), and enough firepower to topple the Rwandan government, if they had one.
2. Fire. The party should begin and/or end with something ablaze. This ‘something’ could be a police car, fat person, or cat. Be creative, dumbass.
3. Chicks with low self-esteem. If I need to explain to you why this is essential, email me at dirk@straitpinkie.com, with your name and address so I can come to your house and cut your balls off, while I rail your wife and drink your beer.
4. Wildlife. I’m not talking about your gay ass labradoodle Puddles. The wildlife must be wild, huge, and most importantly, funny. Goats, camels, bears, and buffalo are acceptable. Squirrels are not (see last weeks article).
5. Your Richard. By this, I mean your penis. If you’re going to sit around at your buddies’ trailer drinking Twizted Tea and playing Scattergories, there’s no need to bring your wiener, except to flirt with your other queer friends. Stop referring to your house parties as “epic”.  They’re not, and you sound like a frat party tool. Stop kissing boys and try to show your soon-to-be married/neutered buddy what he’ll be missing by settling down with the girl you refer to as “Pork Chop” when she’s not around.

Your stupid friend needs your stupid help. Combine these essential bachelor party elements with copious amounts of alcohol, and your unmarried, unwashed friends will toast in your honor long after you’re gone. Plus, if all goes well, your buddy won’t be able to walk down the aisle, since he was paralyzed after getting bucked off a flaming bison when you blew up a cat with a landmine. His paralysis should make Christopher Reeve look like a Nancy. He’ll thank you for the kickass party, though.

That’s a promise from one man to another. See you next week.