Adventures in Bachelorhood

This weekend was my roommate's bachelor party, which we held in Chicago. While I won't go into all of the details of the night, I feel there are some noteworthy moments out there.

We began, oddly enough, with drinking. Then after building up a decent buzz, we went to play Whirlyball. For those of you who have never heard of it, whirlyball is a game that combines lacrosse with high speed bumper cars. It was pretty much the greatest thing I have ever done. But let me tell you; you get enough head on collissions at thirty miles and hour and the whiplash actually starts to hurt.

Afterwards we went to dinner and one of my roommates friends, who had too much to drink, took a glass from under the bar, and filled it from the tap when the bartender wasn't looking. Some chicks at the bar took notice and threatened to report him-one claimed to be a canine cop. However, that was defused when he noted that her accent was Australian, and we would never tolerate a foreign cop in America. He had her there.

Then my roommate said something I took great offense to: He said that he didn't want to drink anymore and just wanted to enjoy "a quiet night on the town." Immediately, I began to label him with various parts of the female anatomy and encouraged everyone to join in. What a dumbfuck. So we took him to a bar (It rhymed with "plyote fugly") and began to pressure him heavily to drink. By "pressure," I mean we actually forced the first few beers in him. The night rapidly evolved into various displays of drinking one upsmanship and eventually I was one upsmansmashed.

Eventually, his brother got hammered and began petitioning the various hot women around the bar to sign his shirt. One of the girls was someone I postively identified as a patient I saw on Dr. 90210. For the record, they looked real. Anyways, I mentioned that I had seen her on the show and she confirmed this, then said something to the effect that she was tired of being approached by strangers because she is "a celebrity." I kid you not, she described herself as a celebrity. Soon thereafter her boyfriend (whom had a serious Napoleon complex) came over and asked my roommate if "he wanted to die" for having his girlfriend sign his shirt. The three of us that were there at the moment, being much larger and armed with the power of being raging drunk, threatened to smash his testes on the bar with a sledgehammer. He said he would call "his boys." Don't worry, when he said he was calling other dudes, I got the first gay joke in. We then mocked him relentlessly about the fact that 1/3 of his body weight was composed of hairgel. What a douchebag.

Finally, we ended the night elsewhere and got back without one person throwing up. Considering the heroic drinking that went on that night, I'm calling it a win.