The First Rule of Bachelor Party is:

You don’t talk about Bachelor Party!

Tits McGhee, whom I’ve spoken about here before, is getting married in a couple weeks and her Bachelorette Party was last Saturday. She had told me about it on Friday and I asked how it went when I got in to work yesterday evening.

Whereupon, she broke the first rule of Bachelor/Bachelorette parties, turned to me and told me a good number of the juicy details. As she was running them down, I started a checklist in my head about all the rules her party broke.

At least, I thought they were rules. I appears that some folks never got the memo. Since we’ve already covered number one (you just enthusiastically tell people it was the best time you’ve ever had and no more), we’ll cover the rest of them that I can remember off the top of my head.

This is your last night/weekend out on the town as a free man/woman. You are supposed to cut loose while trying to not break too many laws.

2. No Cameras. Would you take a camera to a murder? Do you think the kids who videotape themselves stealing/looting/vandalizing are idiots? Just as they are idiots, taking a camera to a Bachelor Party is idiotic. BAD!

3. No Married People – Spouses have a way of getting anything out of the other person. If you have a married guy at your party, his wife will soon know everything you don’t want her to and it’ll get back to your new significant other. BAD! 

This is also known as one of the few incentives for guys to get married earlier than their friends. The last couple guys in the group to get married have some of the lamest parties.

4. No Co-Workers - Ever heard of “Water cooler chat”? Your party’s happenings won’t be secret for long. BAD!

5. No Relatives. Especially no relatives of the person you’re marrying. This one should be obvious. BAD!

OK, those are most of the major ones that Tits McGhee broke last Saturday. She not only had three co-workers with her, she had the groom’s sister. Only one of the girls who attended wasn’t married and two of the girls are married to the groom’s cousins.

Also, EVERYONE BROUGHT A CAMERA!

Shortly after Tits got done telling me the PG bits, she checked her emails to find the multitudes of pics from that night. Needless to say, her next hour was quite unproductive as she had to call the people who sent the pics and tell them to delete them. But too late, they had also sent them to the other girls (including the co-workers) who attended the party. And it went downhill from there. I’m sure I’ll be seeing emails and get pulled aside to be told about who did what where, etc., tomorrow when I get in.

The wedding is still on, but just like Lucy, “she has some splainin to do”.

If these rules sound a bit harsh, just think about the craziest shit you’ve ever done, double it, and then wonder why you’d want anyone knowing about it.

Since the statute of limitations is up, and you don’t know the guy, I’m gonna break radio silence on a friend’s party held a few months before I met the Analog Wife.

Picture a woman in just her thong running barefoot down the main street of a smallish suburban town, screaming, while being chased by three guys gressed in classic Paul Bunyan garb (you had to have been there) wielding 3ft feathers.

When the cop caught up to her, she was laughing her ass off and I don’t think he could believe what was going on. When the other eight or nine guys from the party showed up, similarly dressed, to see where the three of us wandered off to (they saw the lights from the cruiser go by and knew that we’d gotten in trouble) and I saw by the look on the officer’s face that he knew he might be in trouble. He put her in the car, ordered the late arrivals away and started questioning the three of us.

I was half lit by then and my smartass was ready for full tilt. When he asked just what the hell we were doing chasing her down the street at 3AM, we all shouted out, very proudly, “With Feathers!”. He agreed that the items in our hands were indeed feathers and then repeated his question. My reply, of course, was “Well, my chainsaw wouldn’t fire up.”

While this did the job of sending my friends to the pavement with drunken laughter, the officer wasn’t the least bit amused. He gave up on us and talked to her. After she informed him that we had hired her for the party, and just what kind of party it was, he escorted her back to her clothes, got her dressed and on her way and ordered us out of town since none of us were locals and there was too many of us to jail.

That was the second burg we’d been told to vacate that day. I won’t talk about how we managed to get the boot from the first one, or about the one we made our trifecta out of the next day. Let’s just say those churchgoers probably still talk about that morning.

The weekend culminated in the felling of a big-ass tree, mostly because of the clothes. Or it may have been the reason we were wearing the clothes, I don’t really remember. I do remember the tree was supposed to symbolize something, but I’ll be damned if I remember that either. I think the tree hit something on it’s way down because I remember running. Something metal. Maybe a set of outdoor showers or something.

That park had way too many damn trees anyway.