Friday, June 10, 2005

"Way to go Paula!"

Because of the sensitive nature of this story and its potential effects on the reputations of people who consider themselves legitimate, functioning members of upper social strata, I will omit all names. As for me, I’m Martin McFriend. You know how I roll.

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One of my brothers is getting married in August. We’ve been talking a lot about the plans for this Vegas wedding extravaganza (which will be his second), but I can’t keep my mind from slipping back to the last time the poor fucker got hitched. It was July of 2002. And we threw one hell of a bachelor party. A legend in its own right.

The night started off with the normal bachelor party fare – booze, strippers, fat Columbian guys and ex-baseball playing pimps. (By the way, has there ever been a stripper pimp who wasn’t some sort of ex-athlete? I swear I’ve never met one.) From there things got downright nasty. To start off the festivities, one man took a header on the balcony of the grand class suite at Hotel Bel Age in West Hollywood. From 10 floors up, the puking became forceful, and innocent passersby on the Sunset strip could not have been happy to discover this fact. The funny thing is that the incident escalated to involve beer bottles, urination and other debris expunged from the unruly hotel room.

When the rest of us decided to hit the bars, we split into several groups. My group, which included the man of honor, got into a vicious fistfight with a rowdy Persian sect in the street in front of the Saddle Ranch. Though it was bloody and I lost a shirt in the battle, by night’s end, the situation was more or less forgotten.

Another group, composed of at least some other combination of knockdown drunks, fell in with some Russian ladies, who kept the party going with incessant drug trips to the bathroom. After numerous bars, shots and unspeakable drug use, we returned to the hotel for a little late-night CCA-style partying. It wasn’t long before I looked around the room to see four men left standing, including me. It was late, and we are drunk people, so it was with joint surprise that we heard a knock on the door. Answering it, we watched, spellbound, as a young woman entered and asked if we wouldn’t mind sharing a drink with her. Umm, okay, come on in, we said, and handed her a beer.

It was with utter consternation and awe that we realized our unexpected guest was none other than Debra Winger, and that signified the start of a true Instant Classic. Now, I’m pretty uninhibited, but I do have a shred or two of class and wouldn't want to provide all the details. So instead I’ll just say that “BUKKAKE!” became a common chant that night, and after we pulled down the shades to block out the rising sun, Debra’s nude figure continued to dance on, and in fact, is still dancing in my head today. The four of us had separated into two groping, licking factions when the debauchery began, but we will forever stand together in the beauty of that perversion. May my big brother be married many, many more times. Here Here.

This story is dedicated to the Sheriff, a true prince among men, and a formidable party gag of a friend. May Zod bless you and keep you.
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