Santa Maria Sun / Humor
The following articles were printed from Santa Maria Sun [santamariasun.com] - Volume 13, Issue 21
The naked truthSilence is golden
BY ROB KRIDER
My little brother decided to get married … again. Which meant that I would be the best man … again. Which also meant I would be required to throw him a bachelor party … again. I’m only bent out of shape about it because what this all really means is I have to get my wallet out … again.
As far as what the bachelor party would entail, I told my brother, “If you want me to
My brother’s response to that statement was, “Surprise me.”
I quickly responded, “There will be no surprises, Bro. You’re getting a backyard barbecue and a keg of beer. Your high school friends can come over and we can all tell stories about how ugly your first girlfriend was. Period. That will be it.”
He laughed and said, “OK.”
The girls were planning on having the bachelorette party the same night as the bachelor barbecue, and my wife was invited to attend her soon-to-be second sister-in-law’s night out on the town. The girls were going to hang out in downtown Sacramento, and the boys were going to have the barbecue at a friend of my brother’s house about an hour away. Since we were out-of-towners, my wife and I grabbed a hotel room by the river in old town Sacramento. I told her I wouldn’t drink at the party, so I could drive back and we could have a nice evening at the hotel without the kids once the bachelor/bachelorette night was over.
When I arrived at the location for the bachelor party, it was just as I planned for it to be. We had a keg of beer, the radio was playing, and the grill was ready for some barbecue. As the big brother/best man, I gave the owner of the house $200 to pay for the keg and the steaks. He took the wad of cash, counted, and said, “Thanks.” Then when I asked for the steaks so I could get started cooking, he handed me a stack of frozen hamburger patties. I couldn’t believe I just paid $200 for frozen hamburgers. Instead of making an issue of it, I just got busy making a fire and telling stories to anyone around about how ugly my little brother’s first girlfriend was.
Then I heard a knock at the door, and suddenly there was electricity in the air. All the guys started acting like 13-year-old boys again, and everyone funneled into the house. Then the whooping and hollering began. The strippers, yes plural, had arrived. I was in the backyard alone. I knew that my wife was at the bachelorette party with wives of a number of husbands who were inside the house going goofy for the entertainment. I knew with advanced technology and text messaging that it would be only a matter of seconds before my wife found out there were strippers at the bachelor party and that a bounty hunter would soon be looking to cut off my genitalia.
I walked through the side gate, got in my car, and started heading for Sacramento. I needed plausible deniability. I needed to guarantee to my wife that I was not “enjoying” the show. I covered the 60-mile drive in about 45 minutes. I arrived at the hotel and texted my wife this simple message: “I left early. I’m at the hotel room. Everything is OK. DON’T TELL THE BRIDE! I don’t want her wondering why I’m back early.” It was one thing for me to flee the scene of the crime to save my own ass, but I didn’t want to be the snitch in the group, getting everyone else in trouble with their own wives. I really didn’t want to be the one to ruin the bride-to-be’s big night out.
Nothing gets by my wife. She saw right through my text and replied, “You’re back super early … strippers?”
“Yes, but don’t tell the bride.”
“I’m glad you’re not there. You will be rewarded later. :)”
So, for once in my marriage, I did the right thing. But in doing the right thing, I did make one small error; I gave my wife a secret. She can keep a secret like a strainer keeps water. It only took about 15 minutes, and then the cat was out of the bag, and it will forever be known as my fault. While the girls were at dinner, one of them looked at her phone and said, “According to this text there is a stripper at the bachelor party and she is shooting ping pong balls out of her … .” My wife let out a big sigh of relief, “I’m so glad it’s out. I’ve known for a while now and I’ve been feeling guilty for keeping it from you. There are strippers at the bachelor party!”
There was silence at the dinner table. The girl, completely deadpan, told my wife, “I was just making a joke. I didn’t get a text message. Are you serious? There are strippers there?!” Then every girl at the bachelorette party started to text her significant other at the bachelor party. The naked truth was out. Husbands were in trouble, wives were furious, the bride-to-be was angry, and it was all my fault.
The boys blame me for squealing. Of course, I blame my wife for telling the ladies after I specifically told her not to. She blames the girl for making a bad joke, which caused her to spill the beans. Texts were flying, accusations were leveled, but in the end, I was safe at the hotel room patiently waiting for my wife to arrive to reward me.
Even though Rob had nothing to do with the strippers at the bachelor party, his $200 did pay for the entertainment.