I went to a Pre-Bachelorette party on Friday. If there is one thing I could liken it to, it would be the margins of a high schooler’s yearbook. I wore a micropenis pin that read Bride’s BITCH. I also committed a cardinal sin by occasionally drinking beer from a penis straw. The straw itself was 90% veins, the balls rested at an angle I couldn’t recreate. I have a habit of chewing plastic so every ounce of willpower was invested in not gnawing on the tip (in a public place.) The gang was astounded when I said that micropenises exist and, instead of being attached to our shirts, are attached to the groin area of a small population of men.
The bride-to-be wore a tiara with a white veil and a pink sash. Congratulations were dished out in the form of sugary shots, ranging from distilled cinnamon to fermented cake. I had only known the gasolinish tinge of Pinnacle and the Cu Chulainn channeling strength of Jameson. Even the shots that girls order manage to taste good.
I was asked to take a picture and my hands turned to puddles. I took the phone, encased in a rubber cupcake, and attempted to remember everything I had been told about taking a girl’s picture. I held the phone above eye level and, sheepishly said “Say…something.” I took about ten to fifteen pictures. I think only two of them were usable.
We saw a couple people we knew from high school. Unless they were genuinely cool people or went on to be famous, seeing someone you last saw when you were 18 is like doing your taxes. They waved to our gang and gave the acknowledgment of “hey! One of you is getting married!” It seemed as though they were headed our way. We put on a feigned look of excitement in anticipation for their arrival. They never made it. I never have to interact with those people out of tired courtesy ever again.
A couple weird dudes made it over to our clique. They assessed that the girl with the tiara and sash is probably not single but the girls with the dicks clipped to their clothes were. A dude that looked like he was always ready for a slow pitch softball tournament swoosed in between me and my squad. I almost didn’t see him due to his skin tight camo t-shirt. Another guy followed him, who seemed to only know the word “hockey.” After a few minutes of polite nods, I was thrust in the middle of the party and the weird dudes. “These guys are fucking weird.” I was told. I said “What’s up?” but because I radiate an aura of meh, the weird dudes left.
We went to Sheetz and this might be hyperbole, but I’m pretty sure more people congratulated the bride-to-be there than at the bar. I drove everyone home to get a good night’s sleep before the actual Bachelorette party.
If I had to describe a pre-Bachelorette party in layman’s terms, I would probably say, “shit’s dope” even though my observations make it sound like I mostly hid in the corner like a scared dog. I got to cross “Drink from a penis” off my bucket list, I discovered drinks that are legitimately tasty and, most importantly, I was included in the celebration of one of my closest friends. And for that I extend my deepest thanks and I look forward to having my first married friend.