Dear Brunch Clubbers,
First and foremost, happy summer! I hope you’ve all had at least a moment or two to lounge by a pool, drink out of a large fruit and/or skip through a field of daisies in the last few weeks. If so, savour those moments. Commit them to memory. Find a way to flashback to those feelings of freedom whenever you’re feeling blue, aka the majority of your worthless and miserable life. Don’t get me wrong - I’m not trying to make you feel lesser than. You and I are but mere mortals, living each day to the best of our abilities for the most part. One day, we will both be dead. They don’t call it the “great equalizer” for nothing. TLDR: Gurl, I feel you and I’ve got your back. Because I am you and you are me and we are God and God is a figment and this thing we call reality may or may not be what we think it is, or whatever. What I’m trying to get to with all this is: if you plan to marry someone this summer (who will also one day die, BTW), don’t ask a friend to plan your bachelorette party. Life’s hard enough as it is.
The art of throwing a quasi-decent/only mildly horrific bachelorette party is a hard one to master. Whether you stick with a more conventional formula or try taking a step outside the box, the odds of things going south are astronomical. Some stats, for your reading pleasure:
30% of bachelorette parties end in someone (typically the bride-to-be) passing out before 9PM
70% of bachelorette parties end in Facebook humiliation and/or other forms of cyberbulling
90% of bachelorette parties end in injury or death, and 100% result in projectile vomiting, often accompanied by incoherent apologies that are mistaken for straight-up demonic possession, Exorcist-style. You can’t truly call yourself an “adult” until you’ve woken up tied to a bed, covered in pea soup with a local priest hosing you down with holy water and yelling at you.
The aforementioned statistics may or may not be factual, but the following statement is: if you task a friend with throwing you a bachelorette party, there is a 90% chance she’ll have no idea what to do and Google “bachelorette party ideas”. That means there’s at least a 50% chance she will, out of utter desperation, take advice from a shitty blog post from 2005 that is 100% idiotic and chock full of things you’d never want to experience in your darkest of nightmares. This means there’s a 80% chance she’ll entertain the idea of hiring a male stripper and a 50% chance she’ll actually go through with it. The odds of him showing up and looking even a little like his profile picture are about 1/10 and there’s an 80% likelihood he will take his performance a little too seriously – you know, just enough to make everyone uncomfortable. He’ll dance to Pony, but his CD will start skipping half way through. He’ll also think it’s chill to continuously jackhammer his dick onto your ass, despite the traumatized look on your face. He will not know how to read a room. A half hour and 200 of your hard earned dollars later, he will enthusiastically ask if “you ladies want more” and will be met by deafening silence. He will then drop a deuce in your bathroom and 100% will not flush. Is that the kind of thing you want to be confronted with when you inevitably barf later that night? Didn’t think so.
So what’s a girl to do? How does one plan a pre-wedding party that won’t make everyone want to keel over and literally die of embarrassment? The answer is simple: bring your crew to OFF JFL’s Girls’ Night In with Iliza Shlesinger. Buy everyone drink after drink after drink. Laugh hard. Be assholes to dudes who try to crash the party. Try to recruit some amazing comedians to join your newly formed girl gang. Stab someone. Wear Louboutins in court and scream “THIS IS FOR YOU, ALEXIS NEIERS!” Go to jail. Serve a life sentence. Die of old age. Become one with the universe. Whatever! See you all July 29th at Theatre La Chapelle.
P.S. I saved you a lot of trouble. You definitely owe me a drink.