misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

I've recently returned from our three-day celebration of Taj's decision to enter into the sacrament of marriage, also known as his "bachelor party" (the use of the word "party" is a bit erroneous, as in reality it was more like a "funeral" for the impending death of Taj's previous life, attended by Taj's oldest friends: cards, breasts, alcohol, nightclubs, and gambling ... when i get married, you are all invited to attend my "bachelor funeral"). Six years ago, we would have all met up in Las Vegas. But as four of the five members of the wedding party are now stationed in East Coast, we traded in Vegas for Atlantic City.

So as not to confuse anyone, I'd like to be clear on this point: Atlantic City is a steaming shithole of back tattoes, bad buffets, and architecture that was apparantly modeled after game show set designs from 1973. The brand new casino that everyone raves about, the Borgata, wouldn't make it for one day in Reno. Or CalNeva, for that matter. It rises above the New Jersey landscape like a large piece of molded shit that's been dipped in melted fool's gold. And, as usual with amateur shitholes, they charge more than anywhere else and have more attitude. It took six people and a trip to the security station just to approve my passport so that I could get into a shitty bar run by some bodybuilder bartender who had a head that seemingly grew in a vise for ten years. All so I could hang out with obese, diabetic, 83 year-old, cart-driving fat couples who have bussed in from the surrounding area to gamble away their social security checks in some digital slot machine called "Bealie's Wheelies" featuring a singing gopher and a chance to win 800 dollars.

Luckily, as the temperment of our group has proven time and again, the only thing we need to have a good time is cards, beers, and a table. It is also worth noting that the bachelor parties of seven years ago, when I often found myself eating cherries out of stripper's vaginas, have evolved into something a bit more .. acceptant. Acceptance that cards next to the pool can be as enjoyable as cherries next to the stripper. Acceptance that my dancing-at-club days are over (with an assist from my knees). Acceptance that ordering bottle service to your room and watching the basketball game can be better than watching that same game at a sports bar. Acceptance that going to bed at 6 am one night means you'll be going to bed at 10 pm the next night. Acceptance that all of these things I just said mean nothing after three shots, cause then you'll revert back to the days of cherries. In any event, we made the best of what Atlantic City gave us. That said, I can assure you I won't be within 100 miles of that shithole when my bachelor funeral comes around. Unless between now and then I grow a penchant for foot tattoes and overpriced fish.