Bachelor party post mortem
By George Labeouf
I’m hungry.
This is because I’m determined to lose weight. My
fatness gets in the way of my drinking. The more
tissue across which you diffuse the alcohol - the less
of it is brought to bear on the brain. No good.
Recently however, on May 3rd - I managed to overcome
my bloated lipid deposits through determined effort.
And, for the benefit of those of us who weren’t there,
I will provide a first-person account - replete with
personal observations - of the events of the day.
Friday night.
I decide it’s a good idea to follow Jack’s wife Sophie
down the Tequila-and-soda road. Now then, I’ve been
subjected to people drinking vodka and soda for a few
years now. Low-cal way to smash your brain.
Personally I never saw the point. Have a fucking
martini. If you want to go slower alternate with a
club soda with lime. Tequila with soda is a different
thing however, and it made me think about the
possibility of bubbles delivering the tequila payload
quicker. Who knows? Regardless, I like the tequila
with soda, a little lime - it’s an actual drink.
Saturday Morning.
The tequila and soda was maybe not the best idea. I
hate Jack’s wife. My brain hurts. I drink water.
Tommy calls. Blah blah blah - we need to buy booze,
come meet me, blah blah. Tommy and I buy a lot of
booze after I drag my sorry ass through the shower.
Then it’s off to the 9th avenue Pizzeria, which is on
9th avenue between 52nd and 53rd streets. Amazingly,
everyone except for Joe Fedora is there ahead of us.
Tommy and I get out of the cab and have a slice
courtesy of Geoff Wexler.
At this point, we encounter our first fuck-up of the
day. Somebody, who organized the Krav Maga segment of
the day, forgot to ask just exactly where the hell it
was. It did give everybody a chance to catch up and
whatnot.
We make it to Krav Maga, and we warm up a bit, and
then are treated to the following wisdoms:
“I don’t want to teach you anything except how to hurt
people. Quickly.”
“If you’re in a fight for 15 minutes, you aren’t
coming into work the next morning. I don’t care if you
beat the fuck out of the other guy.”
“Just snap your foot. You only need his balls to move
about two inches up.”
“Did I hurt you Joe? No? Okay, next time.”
Puts his hand on Tommy’s forhead “Okay push against
me.” Tommy pushes.
Puts his finger on Tommy’s eyeball “Okay push against
me.” Point taken.
After Krav Maga, came the gang showers. I could have
passed on that. But it was nice to be clean. In true
first-world gross excess, we left our K-Mart purchased
towels
in the locker room. I tell you, it feels good to take
cotton
from Turkey, woven in China, shipped to the US, wipe
your ass with it once and leave it on the floor
somewhere. Now that, my friends, is true wealth.
When you don’t even think about that shit.
Saturday Afternoon.
Life Drawing. I was late to life drawing too. This is
what we did:
http://www.drsketchy.com/blog/?m=200805
Except we had to score our own venue, which posed its
own problems, and there was a drink beforehand, which
Tommy and I missed because we were transporting booze
somewhere. Regardless, because of this experience I
am now determined to attend this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FtOUAkyCnEM
Which is one of the performances at the “Miss Exotic
World Contest” held annually in Las Vegas. Frankly,
there are a lot of chicks out there who want to show
me their junk, and I’m just the guy to look at
aaaalllll of them.
Post Life Drawing,
We went to an Irish bar on Houston. Where we had a
beer and a shot,
and decompressed. It was nice. I will go back there.
At this point Schuman joined us, and I had been
wrong about telling him where to go. Sorry it took us
a while to get over there Schuman, but hey, you lay
down with the bitches, you come up smelling like dog.
Or teen spirit. I forget which….
Then it was time to put the booze in the Hotel room
and to get the keys. That worked out well. I went to
drop off the art supplies and have a drink and a smoke
in my apartment with Jack. I met back up with the
gang somewhere. Was it the….?
Japanese Restaurant
Yes it was. There we sampled six different kinds of
Sake (None of which was called “Wandering Poet” -
which is my new favorite name for a brand of alcohol)
and ate some of the best Fried Chicken I’ve ever had.
Also drank a lot of Sake. Too much food. But
definitely had a good time. And learned. About Sake.
And how it affects your brain.
Then it was off to the hotel. I wanted to walk, but I
think we took cabs to
The Hotel Suite
Which was a good setup, but we had probably overshot
ourselves a bit. If we hadn’t done the physical
challenge first up, and we hadn’t drunk as much Sake
as we did (neither of which thing I would trade) we
might have made it deeper into the night. As it was,
we took our time, played some poker, enjoyed the view
from the balcony, and fucked two strippers in the
bathroom
(or Mike and I did anyway, we may have forgotten to
tell everyone else about that) (very drunk).
Eventually we wandered out to the bar, which took one
look at us and promptly closed down. Turns out only
one guy with a key was downstairs, so in the confusion
people started to drop off, and then Jack, Tommy, and
I
made the long walk home. Tommy declined to join me
and Jack for 4AM Shawarma at [redacted] (big mistake
by
the way, Tommy)
and missed a painted heifer bellowing at the top of
her lungs:
“Speak to me sir! I’m trying to resolve this!” while
her cohort barfs in the gutter and the bar manager
thinks to himself “I’m 40 years old - this is not
where I should be at this point in my life” he perked
up though when I started urinating on the heifer’s
leg. She was too busy mooing at him to notice, and I
was coming at her from about 11 o’clock, so she didn’t
have the best angle on my stream. Maybe she thought
it was her friend. Maybe she liked it.
Anyhoo, that was the long and the short of it. A good
time was had by most if not all, and Tommy was
surrounded by his round table, left at the end of the
evening to ponder the idea that maybe he should have
gone ahead and pounded the snot out of some mediocre
whore - but I can tell him that the vague empty
feeling of not having pounded the whore is less than
the vague empty, dirty feeling of having pounded the
whore. I say this not from present marital
experience, but because I’m a professional writer, and
it’s up to me to know the inner workings of man’s
mind.
Well, okay, not really - but I think we’ve all banged
enough mediocre whores to know that it can’t compete
with random afternoon sex about two months into the
relationship. Random afternoon sex two months into
the relationship, especially if you’re putting it to
her from behind as she’s bent over the kitchen counter
and she’s grabbed two steak knives out of the drawer
and jammed them into the butcher block so she’s got
something to hold onto with both hands while she
screams “Rape me harder!” and “You’re ripping me
apart!” and you can see that the camera is still
recording - we all know that it never really gets any
better than that. Although I’m told that co-worker
jealousy sex from your wife can approach it, but I
think that’s a fucking lie because I’ve gotta believe
the wife is waaaaaay more likely to just complain
about “your slutty co-worker” than she is to fuck you
into submission. Women nowadays shirk their duties
like crazy…….
But I digress. That is the summary. I got up the
next morning, missed church with my parents, had lunch
with them, fell asleep on their couch, went to dinner
with them, and then hoofed it back home - flew back to
LA the next day. As far as I know, Tommy spent most
of Sunday investigating Jane’s overnight bag with a
blacklight and cotton swabs.
If there’s anything I missed, feel free to chime in
boys.
love,
George
