Ah, weddings; such blissful occasions. Sacred celebrations of love and commitment, they bring out the best in us as humans, revealing each of us to be a creature in search of affection and long-term companionship. …
…Well, maybe for the two dupes standing at the altar. For everyone else in the room, the event means two things:
1. Drink ‘til you fall down.
2. When you fall down, try to make sure you land on something—or someone—soft.
Nearly four years ago, on a sunny Saturday afternoon in July, my friend Mo-Fo married the love of his life. And their ceremony, as beautiful and revered as it was (choreographed entrances by bridesmaids in bright pastel-colored dresses and groomsmen in dapper black tuxes, a picturesque stretch of land alongside a pond in a large park, and a pretty bride resplendent in her white gown—which, for once, was actually appropriate), also ushered in one of the craziest 24 hours of drunken shenanigans to ever be logged by my friends and me.
And, to add to the back-story, let me just include this fact: The bars at the reception served only beer and wine. The bride and groom had purposely prohibited liquor from being supplied to guests; both had stopped drinking it in years past due to the effect it had on them. In other words, they didn’t want wedding guests to consume liquor because they didn’t want us to get too wild. [Try to keep that one in the back of your mind as the tale progresses.]
I arrived at the ceremony with my date, and quickly surmised the storm brewing: Dupa was rolling stag, having left his grating girlfriend at home; T.C. and Eric were the best men; most of the guys and gals in attendance (including my date) were high school buddies of theirs, and were all as talented at the boozing game as we were; my date and I were going to be sharing a hotel room with Eric and his date; and, though I hadn’t yet been shown his full capacity for craziness, Gaelic Gangsta—brother of the bride—was also in the wedding party, his signature laugh ringing through the hills of the park while guests were being seated. Somewhere inside my liver a siren blared, and the word “BATTLESTATIONS!!” came screaming out of loudspeakers.
The reception was simple yet graceful. The bride and groom danced into the hall as T.I.’s “Bring ‘Em Out” bumped over the speakers. T.C.’s little sister—who was 20 years old at the time—threw back cups of beer at our table, but only after checking to be sure her parents weren’t watching from across the room; not so much because they would have been upset about her drinking underage, but because she was their designated driver (and they needed one—both of them were getting twisted). My date, meanwhile, was going through glasses of wine at an impressive clip, matching the pace of her friends “Curls” (a cute, tall brunette) and “Red” (an attractive redhead). The only problem was that Date and Red had been maintaining their tolerance levels as of late, while Curls had been slacking (who lets something as minor as training for a job with the FBI interfere with their partying?). So although Date was slurring by the time the reception ended, both she and Red were still fairly well-composed. Curls, on the other hand, was wiped out. She poured herself into the backseat of Red’s car, which Date and I then followed from the reception hall to the hotel. Halfway there the car unexpectedly pulled over to the side of the road. Curls’ head came out of the rear passenger side window, and her night’s dining was projected out onto the ground.
Once we had reached the hotel, Eric checked in at the front desk. Date, Red, a few guys, and I, however, “escorted” (read: carried) Curls to the room where she and Red were staying with their friend, “Ice Cream Maker” (ICM). …Now, you may be asking yourself, “Why would he possibly christen a young lady ‘Ice Cream Maker’?” The answer is very simple: During Mo-Fo’s bachelor party the week before, a story about her was offered to our intrigued ears. It seems ICM, who was to be a bridesmaid in the wedding, had once indulged in a little afternoon delight on top of an ice cream making machine while working at a Handel’s. My fellow bachelors-in-arms and I all knew right then and there that she would be a prime target at the wedding.
When we got Curls to the room, we “placed” (read: dropped) her onto a bed. In doing so, however, her breasts fell out of her shoulderless dress. The guys and I, considering it a fair trade for transporting her to the room, laughed and left as Red and Date rushed to cover her and tuck her into bed.
After changing into more casual attire, everyone assembled in the hotel bar, loudly passing out shots and clinking glasses. The moratorium on liquor ceased once the reception ended, and some of us quickly made up for lost time (Jack & Coke? Yessir…). At about 11:30 we were told that the bar would be closing at midnight. Loud protests—after all, we had just left the reception at 10—and a sizeable pooling of money, though, led to an hour’s extension to last call. And that was just the first of as many as four such extensions, depending on who you ask. I, however, can’t be asked to provide an accurate number, because I was easing into a lovely blackout.
As it neared, I found myself one-on-one at the bar with none other than ICM. Sensing my window of opportunity to be the night’s trophy winner, I began driving towards the end zone. Funny joke – 5 yards; compliment – 14 yards; charming story – 10 yards; pretending to listen to…whatever it was she was saying – 25 yards. I was in the red zone, but the clock ticked to “0:00”; I was fully blacked out. I came out of it an hour or two later, back in my room hanging out with Date and Eric (his date had left during the reception). I have no idea what happened, whether I threw a Hail Mary, fumbled, or what. I do know that I landed on something (my bed), not someone.
That can’t be said for everyone, however.
ICM, perhaps decimated over not adding me to her resume (I know, I know…), eventually found herself a new friend. One of Mo-Fo’s boys took her back to her room when the bar finally, mercifully, closed. Curls, awaking after her wine-induced nap around 3 a.m., opened her eyes to find ICM’s booty in the air on the room’s other bed, as Mo-Fo’s friend went to work on her in plain view. She rolled over in shock and disgust, and pretended to go back to sleep as the night’s victor got his spoils. The next morning, “Victor” rolled out of bed and began getting dressed. When ICM made a comment hinting that she wanted to see him again, he said, “I don’t think my wife would like that too much.” ICM was mortified as Victor strolled out of the room chuckling to himself.
He has never been married; he didn’t even have a girlfriend at that time.
The hotel pool saw a fair share of its own action. Although it was well past posted swimming hours, GG led a group of adventurous souls on a raid. They splashed and frolicked without much opposition from hotel staff for some time. That is, until GG decided that he should do a cannonball from the pool bar’s roof. In calculating the stunt, however, he neglected to account for a tree that stood nearby, with overhanging branches situated between his launch point and his destination. He smacked into the branches, scraped himself up, and floundered into the pool. And thus concluded the evening’s water events.
Meanwhile, Dupa had caught wind of the pool party, and decided to join in the fun. He headed to T.C.’s room (where he had made arrangements to crash on the floor) to change into swimwear. On his way, he found a girl who he recognized from the wedding reception and the bar sitting in the hallway. She had changed into her swimsuit, but had subsequently gotten locked out of the room. Ever the one to help (himself to) a damsel in distress, Dupa offered her asylum in T.C.’s room. When he began to change into his trunks, he decided—in true Dupa fashion—to get naked right in front of her, instead of using the bathroom. When she didn’t flinch, he knew things were going to get good. They returned downstairs just in time to learn that the pool was now closed, thanks to GG’s impromptu “Jackass” audition. Running low on options, and with this lass still locked out of her room, they walked back up to T.C.’s room, where T.C. and Mrs. T.C. were sound asleep, post-coitus. Maybe the day’s wedding had put love in the air; maybe, with the multiple hookups going on, sex was in the air; or maybe both Dupa and this girl were both just drunken sluts; whatever the cause, they were soon doing “God’s work” on the floor of the room. Amen.
The sun arose on a broken and battered lot of lushes that Sunday. Slowly but surely, we all dragged ourselves into a nearby Eat ‘n Park. T.C., Mrs. T.C., Dupa, Date, and I piled into one booth. Since we were near the entrance, we got to talk to each pocket of survivors as they entered and/or exited. GG stopped by and showed off the large scratches that stretched across his chest where a tree had reminded him of the laws of physics. Mo-Fo and Mrs. Mo-Fo walked in gingerly, having consummated their relationship for the first time; Mo-Fo couldn’t stop grinning, while Mrs. Mo-Fo looked like she had crawled out of a running clothes dryer.
T.C. mentioned hearing Dupa and his new acquaintance’s activities going on at the foot of his bed, which led to Dupa telling his tale. One thing was tripping him up, however: he couldn’t remember the girl’s name, and his description of her was so lacking in detail that none of us could assist in figuring out her identity. This had been par for the course, though. When the slap-and-tickle was over, she asked Dupa if he even knew what her last name was. Unflappable, he shot back, “What’s my FIRST name?” She had no response.
Curls soon showed up and joined us at our booth. She had only been seated a short while when her phone rang. It was Red, who was playing the same game of catch-up as the rest of us. As the five of us discussed some random topic, Curls broke away from her phone conversation to grab our attention:
Curls: *laughing* “Oh my god…Guys—[Red] said she ended up hooking up with some random guy on the floor of a hotel room last night, and she doesn’t even know who he is!”
Dupa: *raising his hand in exuberance* “THAT WAS ME!”