Head Shop Limousine

Taking an impromptu poll of limo-driving colleagues recently, I asked which was better: the Bachelor Party, or the Bachelorette Party.

Surprisingly, the result was an even split. For my money, bachelorettes win going away. If I'm to spend a night driving eight or fifteen partiers around, make them ladies in LBDs. In their defence, bachelors are easier to deal with, because they most often have a plan, and communicate it.

That plan is always the same. From the first pick-up point, we drive around to collect all the revelers. Many of the weddings held here are of folks from out of town, so everyone is scattered at hotels and motels of varying quality, from the Ritz-Carlton to certain roach habitués on the road into town. Then we proceed to a liquor store. Then they want to find some action. That means girls.

Optimism is a characteristic of bachelor party limousine customers. The guys are all in the car, music cranked, drinks flowing, everyone smelling like they showered in cologne. When I ask them where they'd like to go they say "Take us to the bar with lots of babes, man."

This is in Sarasota, on a Tuesday night, in July. Guys, there just isn't that much going on here. Don't you understand that this is the best town in the world to be single....and over seventy? Of course I don't verbalize my thoughts, but I gamely suggest a few places which we dutifully try. Then we go to Cheetah, our premier strip club.

The most recent bachelor party I drove reversed the order. After collecting everybody and all the booze, they watched strippers take their money first. This inspired idea worked because the guys were relatively sober, and had the place (and all the strippers) to themselves. After they'd taken their fill of gyrating girldom, it was time to go to bars to "...find us some amateur pussy, Wombat."

I remember the night clearly because all but one of the guys smoked. That's unusual, especially in a preppy crowd like that. The Boss definitely does not allow smoking in his limos, the fact of which always disappoints lads and ladettes. Repeatedly they asked if they could have just one cigarette in the car while we drove, but I had no choice but to deny them.

They eventually won the argument. Upon leaving Cheetah, the divider went up, and after a minute, the distinctive sweet smell of burning Mexican ditch weed permeated my cabin. We were only going a few blocks, so I figured I'd leave them alone. Making a scene over one spliff on a bachelor party was likely to ruin my chances of a decent tip, so I let it be.

We never did find any girls.