Welcome to another edition of the blog. This entry is a continuation of yup, you guessed it- 1,2 & 3 which you can read at
http://stevemcdevitt.blogspot.com/.
In addition to hangover severity tripling, lasting three days instead of three hours, when you hit thirty, wedding invitations, bachelor party invites, kid’s birthday parties and bar mitzvah solicitations start showing up at your door like a Jehovah Witness, trying to meet his end of the month quota. All of a sudden the next twenty years of weekends has just unveiled itself right in front of my very eyes and none of them include keg stands or Flabongos.
However, nothing stresses me out more than a commitment for a future event.
Case and point?
Save the Date cards. Pure misery in my book.
A wedding invite is one thing, but these magnets, balloons, and singing wedding telegrams performed by half-naked clowns at my door has got to stop. Everyone has seen these - they are the ones of the happy looking couple magnetically secured to fridges across America with a seemingly innocent request to clear your schedule, yet basically demanding you to make a firm commitment a full year before the day even occurs. In the past you’d receive something by regular mail that a loved one is getting married, but now for 400 days you have to look at this ecstatic couple and hate them more and more that they’ve locked down a day in your future, every time you grab a glass of milk. I mean, sure, I’ll probably be free October 16th, 2018, and since I barely make plans three hours in advance let alone three years in advance, what excuse can I give? Like clockwork, the date comes around and sure enough the Giants are playing game seven of the World Series, “The Hills, the scenes too hot for TV,” marathon is on, or Megan Fox shows up at your door wanting you to handcuff her and massage her body with coconut oil.
“Sure Megan, I’d be happy to; oh fuck me - This day was already planned for me back in 1972 by this prick wearing an Izod shirt his fiancé made him wear. “See Megan? I tattooed it to my ass thanks to the iron on, save the date tattoo they made me use so I wouldn’t forget…”
And I’m not against bachelor parties, by any means, but maybe more so, what they are supposed to symbolize; the last great night of freedom. Haven’t we all been partying like it is our last night of freedom for the past twelve years? Is it really necessary to give it one last go, just in case the sixty-eight Jell-O shots, ninety games of beer pong and twenty-two trips to strip clubs in the past year weren’t enough to get it out of your system? Furthermore, do these strippers understand we are in a recession? Gas prices are going down, GDP is down, more importantly, my fantasy football entrance fee decreased, but yet these ladies still feel that they are impervious to market conditions? How is a lap dance recession proof? Ok, we get it, you can dance and spray whip cream down my friend’s pants who is halfway to the altar, but for his sake and for the sake of my bank statement, do we really need one last night of drunken debauchery? Lets just call the game now due to darkness, or perhaps a ten run rule like back in Little League, while I still have some funds in my bank account…
Til next time and the final edition…
Cheers…
Part 5 coming soon…
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