Saturday night's bachelor party conformed to every basic guideline I have written about these celebrations.
The roster of highlights included:
~ a certain aloofness from some of the passengers to start.
~ a couple of them who are friendly.
~ lack of pacing their drinking, including Jagermeister in the first hour.
~ increasing friendliness towards me from even the most haughty of the guys.
~ losing money at the casino.
~ losing even more money at the strip clubs.
~ being the group's best buddy when I find an open liquor store.
~ vomiting, see below.
~ a sleepy trip home.
~ nice tip. Thanks guys.
The puke happened in the car park at the strip club. Chilling out, finishing their drinks before heading in, I sat at the front reading my book. The "Door Open" annunciator lit up on my panel, so I jumped out to attend. What I saw was a fountain of puke, a literal technicolour yawn pouring from one of the guys. As we decided later, he was a pro, making sure not to spew inside, keeping it down until he could reach the door.
Checking to make sure he was okay, I quickly returned to the front, and reversed up twenty feet or so.
When the groom exited, he said to his buddies:
Hey, there's an extra twenty for Wombat's tip right there. He made sure we didn't have to tread in that shit.
Another feather in my cap.
Yeah. Great.
Pic from here [link]
