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Hell’s Bells

My cousin just got married. And if you know anything about that sort of thing, this can only mean one thing: bachelor party!

Yup, before my cousin professed his undying love to his betrothed in front of family and friends, before he vowed his everlasting love and devotion to his bride-to-be, before he embarked on a lifelong, emotional commitment—he and I and a bunch of friends got drunk, got stupid

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My cousin just got married. And if you know anything about that sort of thing, this can only mean one thing: bachelor party!

Yup, before my cousin professed his undying love to his betrothed in front of family and friends, before he vowed his everlasting love and devotion to his bride-to-be, before he embarked on a lifelong, emotional commitment—he and I and a bunch of friends got drunk, got stupid . . . then got drunk again (and stupider).

The battle plan: a two-night affair of booze, boobs and badass-ness.

Night One was a night out on the town in Palm Springs (thanks, Village Pub!). Things worked out great, we made it there by midnight and my cousin hung in there until about 2 in the morning . . . which is when he literally had to be carried out and taken home.

Night Two was the money shot: Chillaxing by the pool all afternoon, then a quick shower back at our hotel room before dinner. Next stop: the strip club! After a couple of hours constantly brushing glitter off our slacks, it was time to leave and hit up the nightclub back at the casino until 1:30 in the morning. As you would expect, massive amounts of alcohol were consumed before, during and after this weekend-long stretch of immoral self-indulgence.

And I learned a few things:

  1. Hotels don’t want you to drink your own booze in your room . . . not when they want you to spent $5.50 per bottle of Heineken. Seriously, these dudes will watch you like a hawk, scoping out coolers and smuggled beers.
  2. Strippers will talk about the weirdest things to chat you up. I mean, you’re hot and all, lady, but I don’t want to hear about how you paid all the permits for the electrical work you had done to your little clothing store. Save it for the guy that will actually buy a lap dance. (Note to my wife: See, I told you I didn’t get a lap dance!) Oh, and lap dances are like potato chips—try and have just one. (Note to my wife: don’t read this).
  3. The best time to hit the night club is about 45 minutes before it closes. Because that’s the time when roughnecks have already split to yell at their girlfriends, and it’s nothing but club kids and diehards on the dance floor—the folks that are actually there to have fun.
  4. I learned that drunk people repeat themselves. Often (Sorry, Alex).

And I also learned that bachelor parties are a lot like life. There are times to laugh (drinking shots at the bar). There are times to cry (running out of booze). There are times to say, “What the hell—why not?” (the aforementioned lap dances). And there are times—like that two-hour, bared-soul conversation I had with my cousin about how he had indeed found the one—when you are reminded that life is about making serious decisions as it is about reckless actions; it’s about taking good . . . and bad risks; its about cherishing the past—and being hungry for what life has in store.

So whether you’re single, married or somewhere in between, sometimes you’ve gotta take a break from the day-to-day and grab life by the G-string.

There is such a thing as harmless fun.

Just make sure you brush the glitter off before you go home.