Punch Drunk 

A bartender's life in Richmond.

Phallic Farewells
Penis cakes. Penis-shaped shot glasses. A deck of penis cards. Big inflatable penises. A hat with a giant penis protruding from the bill.

It's difficult to comprehend the meaning behind so many faux phalluses at a table compromised of only women. What the hell is going on here? Why are all these ladies wearing sashes with phrases such as “#1 Bitch!” and “Last Night of Freedom!” scrawled across them? Are they really pantomiming the “Rum Runner” while they sip their rum and diets through penis-shaped straws? Why do they all shriek in unison every time a T-Pain song comes on? Did one of those girls just try to reach across the bar and grab my crotch?

Yes ladies and gentlemen, this is the state of the 2009 bachelorette party. Soon-to-be husbands, be scared when your future wife heads out into the night with 10 girls and a bunch of fake peckers. Be very, very scared.

As a barman and someone my manager once referred to as the restaurant's bachelorette party specialist, I think I can speak with some authority on this spectacle. When you see three or four of them a weekend, you begin to see patterns. A bartender's matrimonial predictor scale, if you will:

• When the bachelorette makes out with some random schmo on the dance floor, the marriage will not last.

• The more penis-shaped objects in the party, the less chance the marriage has of lasting.

• If the party of ladies is older than 35 and there are still many penis-shaped objects at the table, the marriage is a second or third one, and it definitely will not last.

• Single girls in a bachelorette party will lay down like the French in 1940. Or it's like shooting fish in a barrel. Or it's like any other ridiculous metaphor that implies ease.

• Tears and bachelorette parties go together like peanut butter and jelly. Girls are drinking, girls fight, girls want to get married, girls are jealous. A bachelorette party exposes all of these things and brings them to the surface. Got any tissues?

I'm not sure how this all correlates but through my research I've come to one conclusion: My wife will not be having a bachelorette party. In fact, I'll be calling from Las Vegas to make sure she's not out with a stainless-steel phallus tied to her head, getting plied with free fruity shots from some jerk bartender.

Richmond bartender Jack Lauterback routinely plies bachelorette parties with free fruity shots. He also writes a surly blog at www.jackgoesforth.blogspot.com.

Have a question or comment for the bartender? Send an e-mail to: bartender@styleweekly.com.


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