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Like a swarm of locusts or a flock of shitting geese, the bachelorette party is the most loathsome sight in the club. When I see them stumble into my favorite bar holding hands like a train of circus elephants I don’t think “Oh, here comes fun!”, I think “If they ask for my underwear I’m really going to give it to them, skid mark and all.” All I want to do when I see the girl wearing the white veil is shoot a load of my hot spunk in her hair until she’s crying that I’ve ruined her $300 wedding coif.
My friends secretly hate me for getting married first.
Bachelorette parties come in two varieties: The bride-to-be is really ugly or she’s the hottest chick of the bunch. There never seems to be an in-between. You can tell which one you’re dealing with without even looking for the one in the veil. The friends of the ugly bachelorette will have a look of genuine happiness and relief on their faces for the good fortune that the least marketable of them managed to snare a guy. (My buddies and I are left to imagine just how beta the unlucky bastard must be.) They have inflated egos because joy has filled their hearts with the thought that their own chances must be very good if their incendiary warpig friend beat the odds.
The friends of the hot alpha bachelorette smile just like the friends of the ugly bachelorette do, but their smiles are masks covering their seething envy and resentment. Their yearning to be seen as desirable means that you can make some headway with one who is a little less attractive than the bride-to-be.
In my experience, bachelorette parties are dead-ends for pickup. (Bachelor parties, on the other hand…) The girls are too drunk, too insular, too bitchy, and wracked with too much Freudian drama to bother with. And have you ever been mass cockblocked? Try hitting on a girl in a bachelorette party and watch in wonder as five girls swoop in to make your life miserable.
In a righteous and virtuous world, bachelorette parties would be shunned, and those girls who participated in them would be shamed by other women. There is no good reason for a girl who is about to vow sexual fidelity to the man she loves for the rest of her life to suck from a veiny penis-shaped straw and dare horny drunk men to bite candies from the necklace nestled in her cleavage. (The bachelor party is perfectly acceptable because men sacrifice a lot more when they get married.) This insipid, low class cultural trend should be used as a litmus test for men who still have a shred of dignity – if he finds out she cavorted around town sloppy drunk and wildly flirting with every guy within shouting distance he should call off the wedding immediately. No self-respecting man marries a closet slut.
Here are a couple of stories to give you an idea of what I mean.
A bachelorette ran up to Zeets and implored him to bite off one of the life savers glued to her white t-shirt. He obliged and, naturally, targeted the life saver perched over her left nipple. Like a hungry bear mauling prey, he ripped off the life saver and took a swatch of her t-shirt with him. She shrieked, her left boob exposed for hundreds to see, while Zeets had a piece of cloth dangling from his mouth like a hunk of meat, and a shit-eating grin on his face. What a touching photo to add to the wedding album!
This past weekend a hot blonde from Texas in a slinky black cocktail dress came up to me and started dirty dancing, rubbing her crotch on my thigh and turning around to grind her ass into me. We flirted and laughed for 20 minutes while my hand was on her back, hips, and ass, feeling around her thong strap. She pressed her tits into my chest. I leaned in and she was about to kiss me when her drunk friend wedged herself between us.
“She’s about to get married! Look!” She held up Texas girl’s left hand.
I squinted in the dim light and saw a barely noticeable silver ring on her finger, turned around so that the very large diamond was inside her palm, out of sight. I asked her why she had her ring like that. She looked ashamed. “Oh, it gets caught on my dress.”
Word to the wise: $20K on an engagement ring won’t banish the inner whore from your dearly beloved. Save your money.
Recap for girls who love love love romping through town in a bachelorette party and think it makes them famous for the night:
There is nothing cute or charming about you.
You and your bridesmaids are annoying, which is the opposite of fun.
Your bachelorette party games are retarded.
You take up space better used by girls who actually want to hook up.
Your fiancee is a sucker.
You don’t have that bride-to-be “glow”. It’s just drunkenness.
You’re still fat in a tiara.
If most “men” (and I use the term loosely) weren’t such tools they’d stop giving these dorky bachelorette party girls the acknowledgement they crave. Ignoring them is the only way to end the plague.