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What Not To Do At A Vegas Bachelor Party

What Not To Do At A Vegas Bachelor Party

 

If there’s one thing all bachelor parties share, it’s the moment where one guy from the party posse goes berserk. It’s usually the dude you least suspect — and it’s almost never the groom. I have seen it ­first-hand, people, and it ain’t pretty. Case in point: my cousin Bobby’s weekend bacchanal in Las Vegas last year. It started out innocently enough – drinks and gambling at Caesar’s, a nice steak dinner and then onto the main event of seeing as much gyrating naked flesh as humanly possible to make the groom regret taking
the plunge. It was during this segment of the first night that we watched one of our crew, a
mild-mannered, happily married 38-year-old teacher and father of two, morph into Frank the Tank from Old School within a matter of nanoseconds…..READ MORE

 

This gentleman, whom we’ll call “Frank,” obviously didn’t know what he was getting himself into. Vegas strip clubs are comprised of some of the most staggeringly well-endowed dancers in the world. But beneath the glossy silicone surface of every pole-climber lies a ruthless businesswoman trained to get horny guys to pay through the nose. For a stripper, working a bachelor party is like hitting the mother lode. And when a sucker like Frank shows up, word spreads fast and the dancers gather like buzzards circling a fresh kill.

 

The moment our party stepped into the first of a series of strip clubs that our
cab driver personally endorsed, Frank’s eyes lit up a little brighter than the rest of us. We ordered drinks, sank into our plush lounge chairs and began  elding o­ffers from the ladies. Proper bachelor party etiquette dictates that groomsmen pool their money to  nance lap dances for the groom. Frank obviously didn’t get the memo. As the rest of us tried our best to de‑ ect the clawing hoards of money-hungry dancers towards the Man of The Hour, Frank forked the road in his own direction. Before the first round was finished, Frank had  five girls polishing his belt buckle – at 30 dollars a pop. Between dances, he was throwing back shots, catcalling and whistling like the wolf in a Tex Avery cartoon.

 

I noticed that every time Frank bought a drink or a dance, he would pull out a large white envelope containing the cash he planned on spending that weekend. This is a common error in judgment among Vegas newbies who think that putting all their disposable income in an envelope will cause them to spend less — an idea that makes about as much sense as an alcoholic showing up at a bar with a cork in his mouth. It just doesn’t work.

 

Seeing how fast Frank was going through the entire sta­ff at Club Sparkle, we knew it was only a matter of time before he ended up in the dreaded Champagne Room, ponying up a hundy-spot for a dry hump and some at Korbel. Sure enough, as the rest of us were making sure Bobby was being properly entertained, Frank was being reeled in. I quickly intervened, waved the stripper away and told Frank that Bobby wanted to head back to the casino. Though Frank protested vehemently, I had rescued him from a most miserable fate. Or at least I thought I had.

 

Back in the cab, the driver produced a photo album of local escorts that he could hook us up with. Bobby gave him a polite “no thanks” and told him to take us to The Mirage. Frank, however, turned pages of the album slowly, fascinated. The seven of us rolled into the casino, doing our best Swingers strut, and we headed to the tables to spend money on something other than the silicone industry. After an hour of drinking and gaming, we realized that our party had mysteriously shrunk to six. Frank had gone missing. One of the guys cracked that he probably took a cab back to Club Sparkle, but I sensed deeper trouble. After a few minutes of scouting the casino for Frank, Bobby and I volunteered to check the room in case he went upstairs to sleep off­ the Jager.

 

We went up the elevator and headed to our suite. As we stepped inside, we were greeted by the sight of a naked Frank, nose-deep in the ass of some chick lying facedown on one of the beds. A quick glance at the nearempty vial on the bedside table told us all we needed to know. Frank looked up at us, wide-eyed, and turned whiter than the powder he was snorting off­ the chick’s caboose. As he starting gathering his clothes, the naked girl, an escort from the pages of cab driver’s album, looked at us blankly, pulled on her bra and informed us it would cost extra for a “party.”

 

Needless to say, we declined her services. Non-plussed, the girl threw on her dress then grabbed a stack of bills lying next to the vial of coke and headed for the door. Then she made an abrupt U-turn, grabbed the vial o­ the nightstand and bolted out of the room. Before we could utter a word, Frank burst into tears and crumbled to the ‑floor. As he began wailing drunkenly about how much he loved his wife and kids, I realized that this was a scene you never saw in any of those Rat Pack movies.

 

We attempted to put Frank to bed so he could sleep o­ his stupor and his guilt, but it resulted in the poor guy doing a spectacular face-plant onto the carpeted ‑floor. I looked at Frank lying‑ at on his face, barely dressed. Then, as I noticed his empty, white, envelope on the dresser, a thought occurred to me. This was only Friday night.

 

Turns out Frank wouldn’t see Saturday. While the rest of us slept off­ our night of debauchery, Frank slipped out in the night and caught an early ‑flight home. Before leaving, however, he did the one thing you never, ever, do at a bachelor party – he hit the groom up for money. I don’t care what kind of trouble you get yourself into in Sin City, never hit up the guest of honor when you’re in a tight spot. It’s just not cool. Even though Bobby had no problem bailing him out, word got around fast that weekend — and Frank henceforth became known as Fredo. And we all know what happened to that guy.

 

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