Pistol Toting Bachelorettes

Now that I have your attention, let me inform you that title is true. Last night I went out for a fine time at Chili's (that's how I turn it down a notch when I so am on fire). After that my friend and I hit the bar scene. Mistake one, we got there way too early. Mistake two, we spoke to a bachelorette party.

Why? It was a bizzarro world. For the first time in my life the ratio favored men at this oft-sausage hut. I had choices. CHOICES. Choices are dangerous. There were so many of them that I was able to literally know that abc plan route before we walked over there.

Within first minutes B was all about being friendly. Cool right? You bet mainly since I had my friend run wing man all night. So once I established the great relationship with B I asked her about A. Apparently, A was an immigrant and I shouted "no f---ing is she an immigrant!" Oh that was true. A looked like the middle child from 7th Heaven without the annoying need to talk so much. When I got to say hi to A she was leaving. She gave me her name and I thought she was clearing her throat. Broken English is cute/hot, but teaching the damn language is too much effort for bar love.

So back to B. Locked down. Full connection and she was cool, older but still digging me until he next drink was taken care of. Suddenly B was out of consideration because she got soaked up in the games of the night. Enter C. Yikes. The whole time metaphors went rampant. Eating vegetables I hate but know are good for me, batting cage practice, asking for more dental work. All of those options were how talking to her became.

The irony of these miscue's of romance are that we claim they are shallow and lack character to compel us to stay. Then we represent exactly that. She was a nice girl, just a complete mismatch again.

We were invited to the post bar party. That was so far away I began to thing an oasis would appear on the road. When we arrived at the house of what I thought was the house of one of the bride's friends I realized it was the fiance's house. Wonderful. He, mind you dressed in a wife beater, had a neo-Nazi shaved head with tattoos all over him. His friend was sporting his tattoos on the back of his neck, surely to commemorate his parole. Somehow we were welcomed in, that's right because it was a lion's den.

The next ten minutes I became acquainted with an albino pitbull. Now pitbulls are fierce, an albino is worse it feels it needs to prove its toughness. So we watched them (the girls too) wrestle the dog. Apparently this dog enjoyed being punched in the face. Something I think is a miscommunication between pet and owner. So much drama lead to a smoke break for many.

After walking back in from watching people smoke I was baptizes into the pits of hell. The bride was waving a .45 caliber pistol around while sitting at the kitchen counter. I would love to recall what she was hollering about but I was too concerned for their floor needing to be mopped. "It's not loaded." They claimed. Wow, that's good because I almost thought you were a freaking nut job. Actually, you are. Now, the party never hit the highs it could have since the fiance mentioned over and over that he didn't even have his shotgun with him at the house. Didn't he know that the guests would be coming over and would love to see the mental malitia's inventory. Could it still be in the evidence locker? Maybe.

It was at that point I was in Lord of the Flies mode, ready to let all the idiots kill themselves. All of the bachelorette parties I have seen at the bars have been memorable. This one was a dramatic interpretation to Pulp Fiction.

Bring in the Gimp.