Whiskey.Tango.Foxtrot.

Alcohol’s a hell of a drug.

On the last Saturday of February, I set out for Dupa and TK’s place with a firm agenda for the night. Three separate birthday celebrations were taking place (Gaelic Gangsta’s, Hollywood’s, and one for my friend “Nitschke”); we had put together an elaborate game plan, wherein Dupa would drive all of us first to GG’s party in the South Hills, and then over to the South Side where the other two parties were to be located. It wasn’t until I awoke on a couch the next morning that I realized I hadn’t been to any of the three parties, or even to the South Side. What kept me from honoring the promises I’d made to the hosts of each party? Well…

When I arrived at Dupa and TK’s apartment armed with a case of Labatt Blue, the gents were playing a game of dominos. Their living room was sans-TV at the time, and to fill the entertainment void they were using dominos, cards, the radio, and—of course—booze. Dupa was drinking the last of a bottle of Belvedere, while TK mixed together tequila and Red Bull…

*sigh*

At his suggestion, I tried a bit of this new concoction; I have to say, it wasn’t quite as bad as I thought it would be. True, it tasted like gasoline, which is what I expected; but it was more of a midgrade 89 octane, instead of a regular 87. If a mixologist were to use a top shelf tequila, like Patron, I imagine the mixture might even push the 93 octane envelope. Halfway through a game of “Up and Down the River,” as the drinks and chugs became more plentiful, TK’s common sense finally kicked in; he abandoned his new booze blend for the cans of Labatt that Dupa and I were now polishing off in quick succession.

The card games—we followed “Up and Down the River” with several rounds of “Asshole”—were having an unforeseen consequence, though: Dupa, our driver, was losing at everything, and was therefore crushed. My car was wounded, and I was keeping the mileage to a minimum until it was fixed; as so, I had been quickly working myself into a stupor as well. And TK? Well, seconds after we called an end to the cards, TK announced that it was time for him to do a Stuntman Shot…

*sigh*

He even asked that I get it on camera, in hopes of making it onto Tosh.0. As the camera rolled, he snorted salt, tossed back a shot of tequila, and squeezed lime juice into his eye (these are my friends…). Dupa and I roared with laughter, as the realization that squirting lime juice in your eye really isn’t such a great idea seemed to come over TK, who nearly doubled over in pain. For your viewing pleasure, click here.

And all of this was just the pregaming. With all three of us sufficiently soluble, we changed our means of transportation: we hopped on the T (Pittsburgh’s light rail transit) with the few cans of Labatt left stashed in our pockets, and headed to Station Square, where a fourth birthday party was in progress—this one being held for our friend “Wildcard.”

We joined up with Wildcard and his entourage at Buckhead [a birthday party at Buckhead? It all feels so familiar…], where the birthday boy was already three sheets to the wind. Wildcard isn’t the largest guy in the world; in fact, he’s often one of the smallest in the room. So watching him bound around the club, drunk off his ass on birthday shots, he bared a striking resemblance to a leprechaun. He was hardly an imposing figure…which may be exactly why he came oh so close to sparking a fight.

Buckhead is far from a dive, and I don’t want to sound like a snob. That being said… A wedding party was there that night, complete with the bride in her gown and the groom in his tux. “Classy with a capital ‘K’,” as Dupa would say. The math on this one seems fairly obvious, especially if you know my friends and/or me. Drunken birthday boy + wildly-out-of-place wedding party = a bride getting freaked from behind by a leprechaun. Wildcard’s drunk had manifested itself into a bit of ADD, though, and shortly after he began dancing with the bride, he was bouncing off again across the bar.

Enter the night’s wannabe tough guy. “Wannabe” was a smaller guy with the wedding party, in his mid-to-late thirties, about 5’9”, and far from muscular. In fact, pudgy and wearing glasses, he more than likely would have been the least threatening male around, if it weren’t for the magical slurring leprechaun with ADD who was running around the club. And, as this was likely the closest he’d ever come to being the “Alpha male,” Wannabe decided to take advantage of the situation.

Unfortunately for him, though, his lack of experience in wearing tough guy pants was readily apparent, especially when it came to his tactics. If, in a club full of people, there is only one guy that you feel like you can intimidate and/or beat in a fight, you don’t wait until he has wandered off to talk shit. And, in his absence, you certainly don’t talk your nonsense to me, who is much more clear-headed (and, let’s not forget, much larger).

Wannabe accused Wildcard of saying something derogatory to the bride before he left. When I asked him what Wildcard had said, though, he couldn’t come up with an answer. All he knew was that Wildcard had somehow offended the bride and groom. Our words—his consisting of, “Fuck that” and the like, and mine consisting of, “Just shut the fuck up and get the fuck out of my face”—gradually got louder, and attracted the rest of the wedding party. While some of their friends pushed Wannabe back, the bride and groom themselves came over to talk to me.

Groom: “What’s going on?”
Me: “Did my friend do anything to offend either of you?”
Bride: “No, not at all.”
Me: “Thank you. Tell your friend that. Congratulations on the wedding.” *turns around and walks off*

While all of this was going on, my friends had found another source of entertainment in the forms of three older blonde women at the corner of the bar. All three seemed nice enough, though only two of them were truly MILFs. Of those two, the shorter one was a favorite of Dupa and Wildcard, especially when they found out that she was going through a divorce. While the boys applied their charms—Wildcard’s ADD was still in full effect, but he would stop to dance with “Divorcee” when he came past—I opened up a tab at the bar and ordered myself a drink.

As the bartender was handing me my gin & tonic, Wildcard swept by on one of his laps, and started randomly dancing in front of some girls who were walking past. Their lack of amusement was evident, especially to the bartender and me. I looked back at him, and could see in his eyes that he was calculating how much drunker he was going to allow my friend to be before he called over the bouncers. “You know what,” I said, rethinking the likelihood that I’d be in the club all the way to closing time, “I’m going to close that tab after all.” He agreed that it was likely a wise move, and brought me my receipt.

Amazingly, though, Wildcard managed to keep himself from catching the proverbial hook for the rest of the night (though he did catch a literal one when, spotting him making a beeline towards the bride on yet another pass, I reached out and yanked him over to the bar with the rest of us; he looked at me momentarily bewildered, and then ran off in another direction, grinning sloppily yet again). As the lights came up we were still chatting up the First Wives Club, I having found the taller of the two MILFs to be more my speed. I shared some of my tales of woe from my embattled relationship with The Ex, and she listened with a mixture of pity and astonishment. She showed no signs of wanting to stray from her husband, though—such a waste. She and her friend also gave me a quick heads-up when Divorcee was out of earshot: her soon-to-be ex-husband is a powerful man in the area—powerful enough for me to have heard of him—with serious mob connections. When I found a moment alone with Dupa, who was still entertaining thoughts of ringing her back into the world of singlehood, I quickly passed along this information. “So what you’re saying is ‘Don’t get myself killed’? Gotcha.”

As we departed from the bar and our new cougar friends at close, Tall MILF and the non-MILF gave me words of encouragement, telling me how I deserve a great girlfriend [Note: this is what my life has become; instead of taking women home, I get pep talks from them about how I deserve some OTHER great woman…*sigh* fml].

It being after 2 a.m. on a Saturday night, it was time for that great game played around the city of Pittsburgh each weekend: Can You Catch That Cab? TK, Dupa, and I spread out at Station Square’s main entrance, trying to optimize our chances of hailing a cab. After 5 minutes, though, I had already started having flashbacks to the end of my Saturday night in DC a few weeks prior. Frustration had begun to set in for TK as well, as he laughingly commented, “I need help!”

Enter “Blankman”. A random guy standing near us grabbed TK’s arm, and started pulling him towards the Sheraton. As I watched with a look of confusion matched only by the one on TK’s face, Blankman announced to some friends of his, “Hey, this guy said he needs help!” Dupa and I ran over to reclaim our boy, explaining to Blankman’s friends that we were just trying to find a cab. As we walked off to another spot to continue our taxi hunt, Blankman began following us all the more urgently, insisting that TK—who was now cowering behind us, afraid of his would-be hero—was in trouble. The other guys finally stopped Blankman and dissuaded him from his caped crusader ways as they dragged him back towards the hotel.

TK: “What’s going on?”
Me: *arm up, focusing on approaching cab* “He thinks we’re trying to rape you.”

Dupa spotted a jitney cab driver, and negotiated for him to take us back to the apartment. We were barely out of Station Square when we amended the terms to include a stop at McDonalds along the way. The next morning I awoke on the couch, staring at the scene in this picture (above right), which I took in an attempt to wrap my aching head around the total WTFness of the prior 12 hours. [Note: I just now noticed the question "What's the secret?" written on the side of the bag, which is just so perfectly appropriate.]

It’s been over a month now, and I still can’t quite figure it all out. Tequila, dominos, a Stuntman, a drunk leprechaun, a wedding party, a confrontation, MILFs, the mafia, TK being “rescued”, and stopping at Mickey D’s at 2:30 a.m. in the back of a jitney.

*sigh*

And this…is what we do.

Grown Man Business

Strippers and bachelor parties go together like gin and tonic water. The general presumption, at least amongst brides-to-be, is that their future hubbies end up in a dark back room receiving an endless string of lap dances and affections from beautiful women. From my own personal experience, however, this isn’t very accurate. I can count about eleven stag parties in which I have taken part over the years. Ten of them featured performances by exotic dancers; of those ten, the bachelor was too drunk at half of them to even make it into the strip club. And even when he does stay conscious long enough to see the inside of the club, it’s rare that the bachelor ever gets a sendoff anywhere near the fantasy scenario described above. Sometimes he just hangs out at the edge of the stage with his buddies, sliding the occasional dollar bill into a garter. Sometimes the best man takes him to the private room and buys him one innocent lap dance from the girl of his choosing. And sometimes he gets the will to live beaten out of him onstage by two dancers (who, invariably, experience simultaneous flashbacks of domestic violence, and as a result go all Tina-whooping-Ike-with-a-boot-in-the-limo on the poor, unsuspecting sap).

Unfortunately for Gaelic Gangsta, his bachelor party in Wheeling, WV last weekend fell along the lines of the third—and least enjoyable—scenario.

Most of our party crew began the night by pounding beers at the TGI Fridays in Washington while watching NCAA tourney games. I met up with them late, though, and had only enough time to chug one Miller Lite draught. We caravanned to a Hampton Inn a couple of miles away from Wheeling Island, which would be the night’s main event. The best man, “Mo-Fo,” had booked two rooms, but we had 11 guys congregated. So while he and three others went inside to check in, the rest of us played the old prom night game of “hang back in the parking lot.” We waited about 10 minutes and then finally went inside to catch up with them. Unfortunately, we didn’t know what the room numbers were, and had to try stopping on each floor. When we reached the second floor, the elevator doors opened to a temporary wall; third floor, same thing. The hotel, apparently, was doing some remodeling. “How much you wanna bet,” said GG, “that one of us is going to crash through those walls tonight?”

“I fully expect there to be a man-shaped hole in one of them tomorrow from you running through it,” I replied.

When the doors opened on 4, we half-expected to see another temporary wall. Instead it was Mo-Fo; he ushered us down the hall to the rooms, one of which had a large, full cooler of cold Labatt Blue cans and Smithwick’s bottles awaiting us. “Weatherman”, the bride-to-be’s brother, brought a bottle of Jack Daniels that he was daring to splash Coke at. And it was only about 7 pm. This night was not going to be for the faint of heart.

When everyone decided that it was time to head to the casino to eat, Mo-Fo called the front desk and asked about arranging for the casino’s shuttle to pick us up. The woman at the desk informed him that all he needed to do was push the “dice button” on the room phone, and he would be connected with Wheeling Island. “Wow,” Mo-Fo said impressed. “You guys are on top of it!”

At Wheeling Island we ravaged the buffet, washing down chicken, steak, and pasta with beers, Jack, and vodka. While gathered around a table at a bachelor party, the discussion topics typically have a more macho flavor to them. You’ve got plates with meat piled high, bottles of beer, glasses of whiskey, 12-14 virile young guys, gambling; it’s like a big stew of “manliness” symbolism. One of our friends sitting at the table (“E Bomb”—man, my ability to craft creative aliases is really starting to fade), though, is openly gay [which almost sounds like a sociological experiment: “Let’s throw as much testosterone-fueled, heterosexual overload at a gay man as we can, and then see what happens”]. But E Bomb long ago proved himself able to drink and joke with the best of us. When conversation eventually came to GG’s scrap the previous Saturday, E Bomb weighed in:

E Bomb: “If I had been there, it would’ve been great to knock him out and then look down and say ‘You just got your ass kicked by a faggot!’”
Me: *choking on my Red Bull and vodka*

After eating we hit the dog track to bet on a few races. While not busy raking in the free money (GG, Weatherman, and I all won at different times), some of the guys bought and passed around shots of Jack. After an hour or so it was deemed time to hit Godfather's Gentlemen's Club, which is within walking distance of the casino. Weatherman and I were among the first to arrive at the rendezvous point on the casino floor. He decided to throw a $20 on red at the roulette table; I followed suit, putting $20 on black.

Always bet on black.

I took my small winnings to the cage to get cashed, and Weatherman sat down at a slot machine. He threw in $5, and after a few minutes of automated whirling and beeping, it posted a $95 win. The rest of our group showed up as Weatherman took his voucher to the cage. He was still standing over at the window several minutes later, though, and the rest of us—eager to have naked breasts shook in our faces—began to get impatient. I went over to ask what the hold up was, but once I looked over his shoulder I understood. Being laid out in front of him by the cashier were ninety-five $1 bills. Weatherman looked at me with a big grin. “I’m gonna make it rain!”

Though I had heard mixed reviews of it throughout the day, I was impressed with Godfathers. The girls weren’t superstars, but they were solid 7s and 8s (I think that may count as a 20 in West Virginia). We pooled money to buy a VIP table and bottle service, and we poured ourselves vodka and Jack from a small lounge of leather couches stage left. One of our guys—who seemed to appoint himself Secretary of Strip Club Affairs as soon as we walked in—picked out two dancers, and worked out the terms of the show they would perform for the bachelor. GG was quickly being led to the stage by a tall, tattooed girl with jet black hair (“Tats”), and a petite blonde with a well-sculpted derriere (“WGWA”). He smiled like a little kid about to blow out the candles on his birthday cake. Oh, if only he understood that this was a show for us, not for him.

While he sat on his hands in a chair backed against the pole, Tats and WGWA proceeded to do their best to remind GG of every reason he loves and cherishes his fiancée. To the cheers of the rest of us, they paddled, teased, tickled, and abused him like two deranged cats slowly killing a mouse. A few minutes into the show, Weatherman handed out wads of his dollar bills to some of us. Together, we gathered around the edge of the stage and tossed a rainstorm of Washingtons across it while two borderline sadistic exotic dancers beat our drunken friend silly. The only word I can conceive of to describe it is “wondrous.”

For the grand finale, WGWA climbed up onto GG and stood on his thighs—10 inch stripper heels and all—and began thrusting her g-string covered crotch into his face, pinballing his head between her pelvic bone and the pole behind it. Having enough, he wearily raised his hand and tapped out on WGWA’s firm heiny.

We packed our trampled buddy into the shuttle to the hotel, and the bulk of the party called it a night as well. A few of us, however, decided we wanted to gamble some more. Mo-Fo and his boy stuck to the blackjack tables, and I headed downstairs to the poker room at about 2:30 am, where I repeatedly ordered cups of ice water from waitresses and watched my chip stack fluctuate. At about 9:30 I finally decided it time to tap out myself, down only $55 from what I had stumbled in with. I cabbed it back to the hotel, where 10 guys were packed into two modest hotel rooms like refugees.

As we all said our goodbyes before hitting the highway back to PA, GG showed us a lasting reminder of his last night as a free man: a bruise on his ass about the size of a coaster on a coffee table.

Yep—definitely not for the faint of heart.