To getting married and shit!

So my friend is getting married next weekend, and the bachelorette party was Saturday. I was a bit worried about going since I’ve been on the thyroid roller coaster from hell recently, but I figured even if my stupid thyroid didn’t behave itself, it was a long weekend and I’d have two full days to recover. So I went, and by some miracle my body decided to be nice to me for once, quite possibly because I was plying it with booze, and I’m glad because I would have missed an amazing shindig otherwise. We ate delicious Mexican food, we drank our weight in alcohol through penis-shaped straws (which I understand are now mandatory at all modern stagettes), and we danced until our feet cried out for mercy.

And any and all conversation remained firmly planted in the gutter, where it belonged.

Most people take photos at parties. I write down quotes. As Ron White so aptly says, “I drink too much. Other people learn things when I drink.” And on Saturday night, the city of Vancouver learned that my friends and I have dirty, dirty minds. And also that we have more than a few screws loose. But we weren’t the only ones, not by a longshot. So in the spirit of enlightenment, here are a few educational tidbits courtesy of some of my best friends, as well as a few opportune strangers. Bachelorette Philosophy 101, comin’ at ya.

On taking successful group photos:
“I’m gonna take one shot with flash and one without, so be aware, there’s a second one coming. That’s what she said.”

On the importance of proper timing:
“I was gonna photobomb you with my eyeballs but I couldn’t.”

On the drawbacks of using your bra as a wallet:
“I don’t have enough room in the titty bank. There’s money everywhere in here. Don’t judge me.”

On true friendship:
“Thank you for making me feel like less of a drunk wreck than I already am.”

On karma:
“We’ll wait for them. I need to do something good to make up for all the bad I will do.”

On arranging transportation:
“All right, everybody look sexy, we need to catch a cab.”

On diplomacy:
“I’ve been offered three laps and now it’s offensive if I don’t pick one of you.”

On retaining evidence of poor decisions:
“I’ll show you a picture and then you’ll laugh and you’ll understand and then you’ll judge.”

On privacy in the Digital Age:
“Can you check if my naughty pictures are on Google Hangouts?”

On trichophilia:
“It’s a bunch of guys with beards, and I don’t have enough batteries in the house.”

On bondage:
“Here, take your tangled mess.” “That’s what she said.” “What kind of situations have you been in?” “Ones that involved handcuffs. Sometimes you need handcuffs.”

On being inebriated:
By the way, I have an announcement. I finally got drunk, just so everybody knows.”

On not being inebriated enough:
“I’m not in a state of mind to make bad decisions yet, and I’m not okay with that.”

On seeking out more dancing:
I wanna ntz ntz ntz. Where can we ntz ntz ntz?”

Oddly TMI questions:
“Did you go to the bathroom?” “Yes.” “Did you enjoy it?”

Dat ass:
“My butt was in someone’s face, sorry.” “That was me, and I liked it.”

The art of persuasion:
“Since it’s a Blow Job it has to be from a guy’s crotch. You could be that guy.”

A moment of honesty from a male pub patron:
*to friend* “Sorry, I was looking down your top.” *to me* “I was looking down your top as well.”

Sex advice from a stranger from Wales:
“Variety is the spice of life. So is whips and chains.”

Sex advice from a stranger from New Jersey:
Suck on his balls or something, I dunno.”

Pick-up lines with no hope of success:
“Howdy ma’am, wanna climb on my horse?”
“My name’s Puddin’, nice to meet you.”
Ohhhh show me the titties…”

Sucking face and space-time manipulation:
“That couple is still making out? How? They were making out inside and then they somehow beat us out here. It’s make out magic. MAKE OUT MAGIC.”

All penis straws, all the time:
Did you put your penis in my drink?”
“Yours is blue too! We’re blue ball buddies.”
Did you just dick boob me?” “Yeah, I titty fucked you. Balls deep.”
“I’m Dick Vader. I find your lack of condom disturbing.”
Don’t wiener poke me! Aw, right in my eye!”
I’m so sad, I dropped my balls.” “Shit just went down in the back of this cab.”
“Oh, that’s mine. Can you hand me my penis?”

And finally, one last heartfelt toast before the evening drew to a close:
“To getting married and shit!”

Hear, hear.


5 thoughts on “To getting married and shit!

  1. That was all kinds of AWESOME! – “Titty bank”?, penis straws? The last stagette (I’ve never heard that in NY) I went to had a MasterBaker’s dick cake which was almost a bit TOO realistic. I am happy at least someone’s having some fun and participating in some sexy shenanigans… šŸ˜‰


    • Yes, my friends are big believers in the titty bank. I’m not because a) my phone would overheat in two seconds if it was stuck in my bra, and b) even with our new polymer bills I will never be okay with sweaty boob money. Too many bad memories from being a cashier *shudder*.

      Anatomically correct baked goods are always a gamble, I find. Cake Wrecks is extensive proof of that. Once you start using chocolate sprinkles as pubic hair, I’m out.


      • Hahaha! It totally had the chocolate sprinkle pubes! It wasn’t until I looked closer at it to see all the candy components & frosting that I was even able to eat it… I mean, once you cut it (ok, EW for just a second…) all it looks like is cake… It was artistically done, I have to say.

        I was a cashier for Woolworth’s back in the late 80’s as well as a shampoo-girl in the early 90’s so I’ve had my fair share of gross, stinky, sweaty money. I do miss Halloween at the salon when my pockets would runneth over with tips based on the level of cleavage in my costume. There’s nothing like getting shampooed by a scantily-clad Betty Boop if you’re a broker-dude on a lunch-break. Plus I’m short so everything was eye-level. LOL


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