Bachelor Parties Suck
(...continued from last week)

I want to thank you, for letting me, be myself. Again. -- Sly and the Family Stone.

I can't stand bachelor parties. Nobody ever gets laid at a bachelor party. Unless, of course, it's a gay bachelor party.

Two weeks ago, I went to my brother Dan's bachelor party in St. Petersburg, Florida. The first hour wasn't bad. Some old friends from the neighborhood flew in from California to see my brother get hitched, and I got a chance to shoot the shit with them and meet the members of some of the rock bands my brother works with. But after an hour of drinking and bullshitting, bachelor parties turn into Super Bowl parties without the fucking game.

One thing's true. Every bachelor party features either stag movies or strippers. Give me a fucking break. Every stag movie I've ever seen eventually reminds me of the Zapruder film. A cock penetrates some orifice and I'm thinking, "This is where the third bullet enters the brain."

Strippers? Forget about it. Who wants to watch live naked women you can't fuck? You might as well drink near beer and snort baking soda and get the full faux effect.

And why do all strippers work a bachelor party EXACTLY the same way? They must have a union, at least a handbook. They make all the guys sit in chairs while they dance and rub their bodies on you. You can't touch them, of course. That's against the rules. Union rules.

Me? I'd rather tie a stripper up, put her in a chair, squat in front of her and bark like a dog.

"That costs extra," Johnny O. said when I told him about the idea.

Damage Report

I bolted wide awake at 9 a.m. the next day, even though I had gone to sleep at 5 a.m. My girlfriend's face peered at my bloodshot eyes and her mouth began moving.

"Where's your camera? You didn't bring the camera back to the hotel room. Aren't all your traveler's checks in the case? Where's your camera?"

I fell out of bed and threw on some clothes. Then I took the elevator to my brother's room and knocked on the door.

"Dan, it's me. Jasper." He opened the door and let me in. He looked a bit groggy.
"Do you remember what happened last night?"
"No, not yet."
"You tried to pick a fight with my friend Costanza."
"No shit?" I was shocked. My brother has a friend named Costanza?
"Yeah, and apparently you insulted Georgia's mother."
"I did? What did I say?"
"I don't know. But you said something."

Hmmm. That must have been during the wedding rehearsal dinner. I remember putting my arm around her shoulder and whispering something in her ear. Maybe I said, "For dessert, I plan to lick the twats of every women at the table." I could understand why that might upset her. My mother was there.

Likely, I just used the F-word. That's usually enough.

Or maybe she was mad because I told Georgia's ten-year-old daughter not to call me Uncle Mike.

"Hi, Uncle Mike."
"Roxanne, don't call me Uncle Mike anymore. Call me Master Jasper."
"Hi, Master Jasper."

I love that kid.

An Officer and a Gentleman Meets Austin Powers

The wedding ceremony went very well. Dan -- a commodore or something in the Coast Guard reserves -- wore his dress whites. Everyone gathered outdoors on the lawn and miraculously the daylong rain stopped just before the ceremony began. After being pronounced man and wife by a preacher who sounded vaguely like Dr. Evil from "Austin Powers," the newly-weds marched under the drawn swords of six Coast Guard swabbies in dress blues.

No injuries.

The only rough spot in the ceremony came at the beginning, when my brother stood with the preacher in front of the audience for an uncomfortable length of time. After ten minutes went by, everyone shared the same thought: She didn't chicken out, did she?

When the bride finally arrived, she showed up in style -- chauffeured in a 1967 Corvette driven by her father.

Unfortunately, the preacher tried to one-up her entrance.

"That was a pretty dramatic entrance," he said. "Reminds me of the time I did a wedding where the groom showed up with a Doberman pinscher..."

Later that night, Dan played us an answering machine message from the preacher. Fortunately, no one heard the message before the wedding.

"Dan. Pick up the phone. I needchya, I needchya. My car broke down. The transmission went out. I've got a call into Triple A. Help me. Help me."

I wish he had said, "Please, people. Throw me a frickin' bone here."

Don't Eat The Yellow Sunscreen

As to plan, most of the men wore Hawaiian shirts to the wedding. I wasn't informed of the plan, but I usually wear Hawaiian shirts to weddings anyway. Unless it's winter. Then I wear a trench coat.

Unfortunately, by the time I reached Florida, I looked like Darth Maul from Star Wars. Since the wedding was held in the Sunshine State, I decided to get a tan before I left Texas. To speed up the process, I bought a bottle of instant tan.

The concoction worked its magic right away. By the time I got to Florida, I was a deep burnt orange. Only the palms of my hands actually tanned brown.

"He refuses to use toilet paper," my brother explained to anyone who would listen.

Who Wants to be My Wife Next?

The wedding reception turned out as good as any reception I've ever been to (with the exception of that one wedding where the groom's Doberman pinscher went berserk and ripped the faces off three small children). The event was well-catered. Since the newlyweds were to honeymoon in Ocho Rios, they decided to serve Jamaican food. Knowing that, I headed straight for the brownies.

And the bar? Full bar, baby. None of this no-host bullshit -- free drinks! I thought about dedicating the night to Jack Daniels, but I promised my brother I'd behave. With Jack Daniels, my behavior can become unpredictable, which means I'm basically myself. I decided to drink Guinness beer all night.

No regrets.

I mingled with the guests, alienating the ones I had just met and apologizing to the ones I had met the night before. I got my brother to point out Costanza to me, who had suffered several indignities from me at the bachelor party. I figured I'd talk to him first.

"Man, I'm sorry about last night, although I'm not exactly sure what I said or did. Hope I didn't offend you."

"Naw, we were both drunk. Fuck it."

As it turns out, Costanza was born and raised in New York City, so there was really no need for an apology.

I met the bride's uncle next.

"So, are you in a band these days?" he asked.
"I sure am."
"What's the name?"
"Grudgefuck."

He stiffened and the conversation successfully concluded. I found out later that he used to be a big-time preacher. Do I have a knack or what?

My brother Dan works as a business manager for rock stars and the like (i.e., professional wrestlers, rodeo stars, mimes.) At the bachelor party the night before, Dan introduced me to several members of Noble Jones, a Florida pop-rock band. I saw the bass player across the room and decided to chat him up.

"Hey, Jason, I really like that one Noble Jones song. What's it called? 'Leaving' or something?"
"I don't have anything to do with Noble Jones," Jason said.
"Who are you with then?"
"Gunburner."
"That's right. You're the bass player from Billy's band. Well, I definitely like that song 'Wicked Tongue.' That's my favorite so far."
"Look. You don't have to say anything nice about Gunburner or Noble Jones if you don't mean it."

Arrogant fuck. I felt like bitch-slapping the little premature ejaculator, but then I remembered: Must behave at my brother's wedding. Must behave at my brother's wedding.

"Look. I like Gunburner," I said and excused myself.

I can't believe the guy thought I was phony.

I walked to the other side of the room and engaged in a conversation with a friend's wife. She seemed to be having a good time, and since she was out-of-the-box drunk she made good camouflage for me.

"Sheri, I'm glad you married Tom. Most of my friends get married to wives who don't approve of me. I've lost many a good friend to marriage. Glad to see Tom's got a good wife."
"I'll be your wife," she said.
"Ahhhhh, what did you say?"
"I'll be your wife."

What the fuck did that mean? Did she want to give me a blow job in the bathroom or did she intend to nag me for the rest of the night?

I decided not to pursue it.

It's Mini-me

I tracked down Billy at the bar. Billy's my new brother-in-law. He's also the guitar player and lead singer for Gunburner and generally a rabble rouser. Like me.

"Hey, Billy, I'm sorry if I did anything to offend you last night. I can't exactly remember who I pissed off."

He gave me an icy stare. "You're sorry? You're sorry? Who the fuck are you? You're not Mike Jasper. What the hell did you do with Mike Jasper?"

"I promised Dan I'd behave myself tonight."

"I don't even know who you are anymore," Billy said. "I haven't seen Mike Jasper since the bachelor party."

At that point, Roxanne ran up to me. "Hi, Master Jasper!"

I turned to the bartender.

"How about a shot of Jack Daniels."
"No more Guinness?" he asked.
"Naw," I said. "It's time to get real."

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 1999 by Mike Jasper.