Diary,
I’ve never understood bachelor parties. I mean, isn’t marriage enough of a downer in itself without subjecting the prospective groom to a night reminding the poor guy what he would be missing?
“It’s also a good way to meet new friends, Tom,” my friend Lucas said as he dragged me to one. “You spend so much time with women I’m afraid they’re about to make you an honorary princess.”
“First of all, rude. Second of all, are there gonna be strippers?”
“What worthy stag party doesn’t have them?”
I stop by the Uber. “See? Another pointless male convention. Why go window-shopping without a chance in hell of taking anything home?”
“What strip joints have you been visiting, bro?”
The party on the roof of a prestigious downtown hotel was chock full of people who, like Lucas, found this borrowed tradition worthwhile. At least there was good alcohol, but the ensuing conversations were expectedly dull and pointless.
Pandemonium broke when a cake was wheeled in and a stripper clad in nothing but a thong and tassels on her boobs popped out of it. While I was not amused, the groom seemed completely dumbstruck.
“Such a waste of good cake, right?” I said to him, seeing as we were on the same wavelength.
“Dude!” he said, his eyes wide as marbles. “That’s my fiancé’s sister!”
“The stripper?”
“No, the man who’s blacked out on the piano. Of course, the stripper!”
“The one that guy is motorboating right this moment?”
“As if it isn’t bad enough that she’s here, I have to get a running commentary from you?”
I didn’t know if to be tickled or horrified. The latter won when the stripper, done entertaining every other man in the room, approached us and stood in front of the stone-faced groom.
“And that’s what you’re missing on, Moses,” she said. “Too bad you chose the wrong sister.”