Strove to find a way to punch people in the face by using the Internet.


Bachelor Parties Suck
I can't say I've never had a good time with strippers. Because, frankly, I have. A really good time.

But for the most part, strippers kind of depress me. Something about the hollow, saccharine tone of voice strippers use while feigning interest in you and trying to separate you from your money... Brrrr. That, and the fact that utilizing their services is pretty much inherently an admission of failure... Combine this with the traditional bachelor-party setting, i.e. 12 gnarly dudes sitting around watching porno, and you've got a recipe for the kind of overwhelming black-hole soul-destruction I usually only associate with records by the band Jethro Tull.

Jay Kogar's bachelor party, which took place Tuesday night, wasn't so bad. Well, in some respects, at least. It was fun watching Jay endure the ritual humiliations these things entail. The strippers were legitimately attractive, and the one with the boob job wasn't sporting hideous Frankenstein scars and immobile, alien beach balls. So all that was a plus.

In one other respect, though, it was the worst bachelor party ever.

You see, after the novelty of nudity wore off, I was mostly ignoring the strippers and planning my next move (going to a bar where you don't have to pay girls to talk to you). Somehow, though, I got goaded into considering a lap dance.

"Was it fun?" I asked a few recipients.

I've had lap dances before, of course. They've noticeably varied in quality. So I was reluctant to part with my dough unless this was going to be a good buy.

The responses were encouraging: "Dude! You gotta! It's tradition!" Etc.

Alright, I thought. It's the end of the party, things are winding down... What the fuck. I will succumb to peer pressure. I will be one of the dudes. I will purchase a lap dance. I take these things too seriously... The lap dance won't kill my soul. It will be fun!

Psyched up, I started looking around for the girls. Where the fuck did they go? Oh, here they are — they were in the bathroom. I waited for them to pose for a few pictures and approached them, clutching my shiny, coveted $10 bill.

"Ahem. Excuse me, um, 'Jasmine,' but I'd like a lap dance. Please."

The girls looked at me, then looked at their chaperone. Jasmine crinkled her nose and shrugged.

"Sorry," the chaperone said. "We've really gotta be going."

Well. Fantastic. A new low, even for me. Turned down by a stripper. Money in hand, for a goddamn lap dance I didn't even want. But denied.

The girls left, and I stood there with mixed feelings; specifically, shittiness, loserdom and an all-pervasive gloom. These feelings mingled up and swirled around in the charred husk of my self-esteem, kind of like a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup where somebody accidentally got a glacier of chilling despair mingled up in there instead of the chocolate.

I've never, ever heard of a stripper turning down ANYONE for a lap dance. Fuck.

All was better soon, though, when I saw this picture, taken earlier that evening:

That's me in the front, and the happy groom on the throne. Clearly, this is the greatest, and most gay, photograph in the history of mankind. In fact, it might be so gay that it laps homosexuality and comes all the way back around again, turning straight. Totally straight. You know what I mean, right? ...Right?



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