Nine days since my last post. NINE DAYS. "Where the hell are you?" has been the most common question via email.
May 21st was my last certification (Defensive Driving Certification). From the 22nd to 26th I was at a bachelor party, then I used the 27th as a day of recovery, then closed on a new house on the 28th. Follow that on the 29th with a shitload of work emails that accumulated during my absence to respond to, and here I am today.
But damn, it's been one hell of a ride. And, on top of it all, I still managed to rake in 10 different certifications and licenses this month, including reaching the holiest of holies: Becoming a Reverend. Keep in mind, with the exception of the Florida Boating License, all of these certifications were completely free. Let's check them out:
The Final List of Certifications and Titles
- Reverend Don P
- State of Florida Boating License
- Beer 101 Graduate
- Intro to Wine Graduate
- Tattoo and Body Art Safety Certification
- Typing Certification
- First Aid Certification
- Infant and Toddler Behavior Graduate
- CPR Certification
- Defensive Driving Certification
The Bachelor Party
You might remember one my best friends, Hoser, from my book, "From the Bottom of the Bottle" — (If not, pick up a copy). Well, the son of a bitch is leaving behind the bachelor life of taking naps between sessions of masturbation and eating sandwiches to get married. Which means one thing to the rest of us: Bachelor party!
In all honesty, bachelor parties are the most stressful thing you'll face during your engagement. I mean, how are you supposed to concentrate on a life-changing walk down the aisle when you have that damn party to worry about?
Partying is what separates us from the rest of the animal kingdom. I know, some fuzzy creatures, like this bear, are no strangers when it comes to intoxication, but even the smartest of the bunch have yet to master the game of beer pong. And while dolphins are incredibly intelligent creatures, they lack the necessary thumbs for scrolling through an iPod.
Now, bachelor parties are social gatherings in which former college roommates, fraternity brothers, ex co-workers, current co-workers (as long as they can keep their mouths shut), and pretty much any guy you've ever met in your entire life who can drink coalesce into one giant destructive tornado of testosterone, booze, drugs, and bail money.
Wow! So you got invited to the bachelor party!? Congratu-fucking-lations! Did "Douchebag Mike" get invited, too? Yeah? Well, no shit! Like I said, everyone's invited because it's really not about you, the bachelor. The party is actually for us, the already married guys who need to escape their life for a weekend and the single guys who really just needs one MORE excuse to get drunk.
Single guys, don't forget you have the upper hand here because the rest of us are needlessly living vicariously through you. Don't show up early or even on time. Wait until you're sure everyone else is concerned that you're not coming at all, then you make your grand appearance!
The DC Rundown: What NOT To Do
Hoser's bachelor party was in Washington, DC and was as wild as you can imagine 12 dudes living in a one-bedroom apartment for the weekend with 7 cases of beer and several handles of whiskey and vodka would be. Oh, by the way, there was a weigh bench on the roof, a platform that felt like it was on the verge of utter collapse at any given moment.
There are very specific rules for bachelor party etiquette.
Rule One: You don't take pictures.
Rule Two: YOU DO NOT TAKE PICTURES.
Rule Three: You don't incriminate individuals by naming names or giving too much detail about exact locations. "Washington DC" will have to do.
The Strip Club
I'm used to Florida strip clubs where if you tip anything more than a dollar, you might accidently get a blowjob; the redhead with the fake tits is totally into you; and girls take it as a compliment when you shoot your fetus-frosting in your pants while they rub on you. Also, they totally drug you.
So what if you slept with Cinnamon from Mons Venus? That's okay, maybe nobody knows. Maybe your friends didn't notice you two jump in a cab together. Just play it safe and don't approach anyone saying stupid shit like "Did you know Cinnamon's teeth were as fake as her tits!?" Keep it simple and vague like "Hey, guys, crazy time last night, right?" and leave them the opportunity to open the gates to Gossipville. If they stare at you for more than a minute without blinking or saying anything, you might want to bite down on that suicide capsule you've been saving since ninth grade.
Well, DC strip clubs are a completely different animal.
First of all, the bouncer asked if we had reservations. Reservations... to a strip club. Once we said no, the bouncer disappeared for 15 minutes to get tables ready for our group. Tables? Why? Because you're not allowed to sit or stand directly in front of the stage for the customary dry humping and motorboating.
Everyone, and I mean everyone, was sitting at their table in the dimly lit room, like we were bidding on Maggie Grace in that scene from Taken. The people in the room were completely silent, the volume of the music was so low we could hear our "golf claps" when a dancer would pirouette up and down the pole in "an impressive manner." That's right, clapping.
We asked one of the girls how much a lap dance would cost for Hoser, the man of honor, who at this point was wearing a full-on Canadian mountie uniform (don't ask). You've probably already surmised by now that they don't give lap dances!
Despite the strip club being more reserved than a Utahan librarian and the disappointment that Bill Murray didn't crash our party, we still had an EPIC time — and trust me, "epic" is not a word I use very often.
On to next month!