I was recently invited to an event that I was convinced would change my life, an occasion that would surely require 48-72 straight hours of heavy drinking and terrible decisions. I felt like I had won a golden ticket to a once-in-a-lifetime rage fest, a bachelor party on steroids. We would be celebrating a wedding that will never happen.
A new friend of mine was supposed to get married on Saturday, but his ex-fiancé recently informed him that this would not be happening as she left him for another man. Rather than mope, he came up with a much better idea. He decided to take all the money he had planned to spend on the wedding and honeymoon, and instead throw an all-weekend party with his groomsmen and whoever else was lucky enough to garner an invite. I had only known this guy for a couple of months, and had never met any of his buddies who were flying into Austin, Texas for the weekend. Still, this weekend seemed foolproof.
If the ex-groom’s friends were anything like the guys who would be in my wedding party, then I imagined that they would be a bunch of pussy-hungry alcoholics that, drunk upon arrival, would demand to be taken straight to the closest strip club. I assumed the condo the groom rented on 6th Street would turn into a disaster site with casualties, hookers, and probably hooker casualties.
Though I wasn’t a member of the ex-groom’s inner circle of best buds, I could only imagine the rowdiness that would occur. If one of your best friends gets left at the altar, you are required to ensure that he has the best weekend of his life. Obviously the best way to do this is to get him retarded drunk and find him as many desperate women as possible.
You, as a friend, are obligated to make sure this weekend makes the Hangover movies look like the church group’s trip to Branson. You, as a friend, are obligated to make sure this event goes down amongst your inner circle of friends as the craziest, most fun, most frightening shit-show any of you have ever taken part in. Scorched fucking Earth. After all, you’re not only drinking for revenge, you’re drinking for freedom.
As an outsider, I figured they could have most of Friday to themselves. The first day of a prolonged event almost always seems a little disappointing. Everybody is excited, gets blacked out, and nightly goals are rarely accomplished (aside from blacking out, of course). I checked in with them after doing some bar hopping of my own. Sure enough, they were all blacked and incapable of following simple directions to the next bar. I left them there and assumed they would iron out some of the kinks for Saturday, which would presumably be when the real raging occurred.
Unfortunately, I was wrong. Dear God was I wrong. One of them was so hungover that he would not leave the condo until his flight on Sunday. FAIL. The rest of them spent most of the day at a sports bar with bikini-clad servers watching basketball. If you’re going somewhere to stare at women, they should at least be naked. Plus, in all my years as a deviant, perverted alcoholic, I’ve found that many strip clubs have surprisingly good food. I’ve also found that these particular types of sports bars often do not.
I called a couple friends who I thought would appreciate this sort of event and would be able to help turn this weekend around. I had yet to actually speak to any of this guy’s friends, because they were either unable to speak or hanging out somewhere I did not care to be, like the aforementioned shitty Hooters knock-off.
We get to the bar and the first thing I notice is that one of the guys is wearing the exact same Buffalo Bills hoodie he had rocked the night before. Luckily, he didn’t speak much and I wasn’t forced to try and relate to somebody that I would have rather shoved in front of a pedi-cab than held conversation with. Another one of the guys was told he dressed and looked like the lead singer of Rascal Flatts. He mistakenly took this as a compliment.
It was then that I realized this group was not going to be meeting any rage-related expectations. I was starting to understand why the nuptials were cancelled. I could barely take a weekend with this guy, let alone a lifetime. When I expressed my disappointment and encouraged them to rage, one of them actually asked me what “rage” meant. All hope was lost.
This group of amateurs followed us to the next bar, immediately grabbed a table, and casually sipped on some beers. I bought the groom-no-more a shot of Jameson and found a couple of drunk females that sympathized with his misfortune. After convincing him that this girl was willing to have sex with him, he agreed to talk to her. It was going well, and I figured if he at least got pity sex out of the deal, then the now sad, tame, free-of-evil-doing weekend wasn’t a complete fail. The girls invited them to some dance club that I wanted no part of, and my friends and I relieved ourselves of the wedding party’s presence, off to salvage what was left of our weekend.
I called him the next morning to see if they found some ounce of manhood or self-respect they had been hiding and to see how the sex with the sure thing went. He proceeded to tell me that her friend got too drunk, and they left shortly after making it to the club. He then told me that he and his boys were back at the condo by midnight drinking water sans women. The amount of disgust I felt was similar to that feeling when you turn on the news and there has been a national tragedy. I was at a loss for words. All I could do was hang-up.
As you’ve surely figured out by now, none of these clowns were ever in a fraternity. It just goes to prove that a group of GDIs, even post-grad, can literally squander and ruin anything. No matter how great or foolproof one of their ideas may seem, it will almost assuredly end in disaster. There aren’t many events in life that imply, nay, REQUIRE drunken debauchery more than celebrating a failed wedding. This guy and his friends all deserve to be left at the altar.
Plus, we all know that somewhere his ex-fiancée was getting plowed.