Here's to you, Matty Witt! You're life just ended! How does it feel to be spiritually and sexually dead, at least on the inside? Just kidding. Kind of.
We'll talk more about that later, while drinking very strong whiskey and chain smoking cigarettes. But, for now, back to the bachelor party.
By the way, Erika, if you're reading this, nothing crazy ever happens in Vegas despite what Bradley Cooper might have you believe. And if your boy blacks out from too many Jager bombs and blow and ends up accidentally marrying a hot but kind of smart escort working on her masters in exercise science at UNLV ($117) who just happens to love fantasy football, we'll definitely do our damnedest to get it annulled immediately. Well, okay, at least right after we eat something and drink beer in the pool to take the edge off our hangovers.
Anyway, I'm voting for a high intensity sports weekend for the date, but not too intense that we'll get priced out of a decent hotel. My Vegas bachelor party fell on a decent weekend, almost exactly a year ago.
It was the middle of the lop-sided but still entertaining (because Kobe got his ass handed to him) Celtics-Lakers finals, the European soccer championships were in its early, games-all-day stage, baseball was heating up and the Mariners were already mathematically eliminated from the playoffs. It was also the U.S. Open. More on that in a minute.
Most of the weekend was a drunken blur. Here's another piece of advice: never spend more than two nights in Vegas. It's just not good for your health. By the third night, its a battle of attrition.
There's only two ways the third night ends.
One, guys come down with mysterious illnesses and coming up with incomprehensible excuses that sound something like "aaaaummmapuuusssy" for staying in the hotel room.
Or two, guys go way too hard, forget to take into account the fact they haven't slept more than 4 hours combined the previous two nights and are purely running on the copious amounts of oxygen pumped into Vegas casinos, end up drinking too much too quickly, getting in a fight at the strip club because a stripper with three kids tried to charge you for a lap dance you didn't ask for and you flip out like Madonna at a Malawi adoption agent who tries to deny her a new baby and then finally vomiting outside of Fat Burger while your buddy fleeces your Fat Fries.
Either way, it's not pretty. Two nights. That's it. No human being should ever attempt more than that.
I'll remember a few things from last year's madness. And that's it. The rest you'll have to read in the book, which I will fictionalize so I can deny everything to my wife. Actually, let's just keep this sports related.
1) My brother, who lives in Philly, put down $10 on the Phillies winning the series at 10-1 odds. Good call. Bad bet.
2) The Mariners lost every game they played. Okay, I don't remember any of those M's results, I'm just assuming that was the case.
3) On Monday, after three nights of heavy partying, my brother and I still had a whole day to kill. Luckily, one-legged Tiger had come back to tie big-assed Rocco Mediate in the Open, forcing an 18-hole playoff and giving us an entire morning of relaxing, easy to watch sports entertainment.
Which led to this epiphany: If you've spent one too many nights partying way too hard and drinking way too much in 115-degree Vegas, golf is the absolute perfect sport for viewing consumption. I recommend it with a cold Coke and 7 Advils.
This is why, whatever date we choose, may it fall on weekend where there's a major golf championship. And I don't even like to watch golf. Normally.
No comments:
Post a Comment