The BP

Well, I owe you all a little something about the bachelor party. It's almost too much to put down here; it'd be like me trying to wrap up the Punic Wars in a bumper sticker. For the full details, I'll refer all of you to the reports on file with the Shreveport, LA vice squad, the National Forest Service, and the Vatican's janitorial crew. I will say this: you know you're living right when the entire party passes out, drunk and poor, on the hotel room floor while watching Home Alone. I've had a lot of wild weekends, but I feel like after this one, I qualify as an honorary member of Motley Crue. That is good, since I didn't learn the glockenspiel parts to Dr. Feelgood for nothing.

There are some weekends where the pedal is pushed to the floor the entire time; those are good weekends. There are other weekends where not only is the pedal to the floor, but the car has fallen off a cliff. And then there is a final classification, where the pedal is to the floor, the car is off the cliff, and you're plummeting towards to earth so rapidly, you create a rift in the space-time continuum and find yourself taking musket fire from Napoleon's army. Without question, an awesome time, but it takes a little bit out of you.

It was so rocking, when I got home last night, I couldn't move. I just resigned myself to being an invalid for life. "From now on, it's nothing but diapers, oatmeal, and the Price Is Right," I thought. And you know, I couldn't really complain about that, if only because it'd be really, really hard to relive this weekend from a gurney in a rest home. From now on, if I wet my pants and begin weeping uncontrollably at the mere mention of the words "bachelor party", you will all know why.

A note to my friends: let's not do that again until mid February.