The stag party. A right of passage for all gentlemen about to walk down that aisle into a new life.
The bachelor weekend. A weekend of debauchery and lewdness the likes of which the world has never seen.
I have just had my stag party, my friends. Me and three gents hopped aboard a plane for a weekend in Las Vegas we will never forget and never speak of to anyone – until now. Vegas is a wonderful place. A place I have vacationed and performed and I have enjoyed it almost every time. One time I got drunk on champagne and threw cream puffs at my wife to be. Not to instigate a fight, just drunken excitement. “Hun! They have cream puffs!” aaand toss.
This trip was different. There was drinking. There was gambling. And there were strippers. On one of the first mornings a challenge was accidentally and innocently made by one of the guys.
“It takes me a lot to get drunk … I’m a Fu**ing MACHINE!”
After a morning beer, we headed to the pool and I slipped off to purchase “The Machine” a beverage called 4 Loko. It’s basically malt liquor and caffeine with a hint of fruit punch, and also illegal in several states. Turns out the pool doesn’t allow outside alcohol, so The Machine had to chug his 24 ounce can of 15 per cent hooch. We were given 2 for 1 coupons from scantily clad girls for vodka and so the four amigos floated around the pool with a free poured pina colada in each hand. A half hour in, The Machine cautiously told us in a slurred speech: “Guys … I think I’m drunk.”
We floated in the pool and drank in the hot sun then two hours later we got out, The Machine loudly proclaiming : “Guys! I peed A LOT!”
While most of us gambled, some of us were luckier than others. One of the guys, let’s call him the Austrian Cowboy (He kind of looks like a an effeminate nazi, and he always had a mickey of whisky in his pocket like an alcoholic holster) didn’t seem to have much luck and I could tell that he and The Machine were itching to go to the the gentleman’s club.
“Gentleman’s Club” is the most ironic name to call this place as the men inside are far from gentlemen. In fact, most appeared to be aggressive heterosexuals, despite the fact that there were likely more erections than women in the club. Anyway, I will be honest with you and say that I had little to no interest in going and I didn’t stay for long. We walked in the VIP entrance, one after the other in a line and immediately a woman was on The Machine’s arm, and then a woman was on the Austrian Cowboy’s arm. I saw a woman coming for me so I put my hands in my pocket and looked the other way which meant that she draped herself off my best man instead.
We made it to the centre of the club to sit down and I looked around at this sea of people, the smell of old booze and coco butter filling my nose and that was it. I left. I was in the club maybe a total of a minute.
As I left, I saw on one of the stages a girl dancing with dollar bills coming out of her g-string. It looked like her bum had a money mohawk. I made the right choice. And that was it. That was the weekend. We saw a few shows, lost some money and 75 per cent of us got lap dances.
So what did I learn? That if you leave a strip club and go back to the hotel, only to fall asleep watching Bette Midler’s Hocus Pocus at 11pm, it doesn’t mean you are a wuss, just probably going to be an okay husband.
What did you learn? Hopefully that if you go to Vegas anytime soon, maybe don’t swim in the pool at the Monte Carlo.