Open Letter to Myself from the Future

Dude, on Saturday, Neal's going to call. And you know what Neal wants to do. He wants to go to the strip joint.

This message is to tell you do not go to the strip joint with Neal.

And whatever you do, do not get drunk before you don't go to the strip club with Neal.

Because you know how you get when you walk into the strip joint and your alcohol-soaked brain gets filled up with that perfume and music and thongs and those boots. For starters, you get that look in your eyes -- you know, that glazed-over, fattened tongue, "Man, I haven't so much as touched a girl in a month" thing you do. And the strippers can spot that a mile away.

So don't talk to the strippers. When they approach you, simply tell them that you're here for a bachelor party and it's currently raging downstairs in the "Shower Room" and you just stepped out for some air but you have to get back and thank you very much. Because once you let them get you into the corner and put their arms around you and get all up in your face with those lips and that perfume and those boobs, you're toast. So don't sit down. Not there. Dude, especially not there on that corner sofa. Because then you're cornered and she's going to sit on your lap and once she does that... oh, fuck.

Alright, we can still work ourselves out of this. Again, use the bachelor party story. Even better, say you don't have any money. Because that will get her off you quicker than setting yourself on fire. But it's tough, isn't it? Because there's this gorgeous 19-year-old stripper sitting on your lap and rubbing your neck and you'd rather swallow a cup of crushed lightbulbs than move right now. And you're gonna say to yourself "How much can one lap dance hurt?" and before you know it, you're sixty bucks in the hole and all this girl has done is rub her curvaceous and hot damn! ass all over the crotch of your jeans for five and a half minutes. And then, like Keyser Soze, she's gone, and you're sitting there with a ranging hard-on, an horrific case of blue balls, and a hangover that's rapidly staking out property across your forehead.

At that point, just leave. Don't even look for Neal. Because you know where he is. He's downstairs, in the wrestling area. And he's watching the strippers wrestle these drunken buffoons and they're all covered in shaving cream and slipping and sliding across each other and you know what Neal's thinking. He wants in. But he's not going to do this alone, you see, which is why it is absolutely imperative that when Neal asks if you want to wrestle, you say no. And when he calls that girl in the American flag short shorts over and starts asking her how much, don't look at her, and especially don't look at her ass. Because then your jaw will drop at its sheer awesome-ness and she'll key into this and get all Superfly Snuka on you, dropping down on the bar, wrapping her legs around your head and pulling your nose right up against her buttcheeks. At which point you'll surrender, throwing down cash and credit cards and social security numbers and whatever else she's trying to shake out of your wallet.

So when you're back there, in the changing room, getting into a grimy pair of wrestling shorts and waiting for the "ref" to call you out to the ring, I suggest that you just run. Don't look back. Don't even collect your clothes. Just bolt out into the Sunday morning air and be done with this madness. Because once you step into the ring, you're going to realize that these chicks mean business. And it's almost like they're trying to fuck you up. And when one of them flies off the top rope to elbow you in the chest, you swear that six of your ribs just splintered. And Neal's next to you, face down in the shaving cream and getting pumelled by that redhead and you're not sure if he's even still alive, but you can't worry about that now because holyfuckingshit here comes your girl off the top rope again and all you can do is shield your package and pray god she doesn't pierce your skin. And when she actually does sit on your face, it's only to grind a couple pounds of shaving cream up your nostrils and into your eyes and down your throat. Then, just to add an exclamation point of humiliation to it all, she stands you up and pours a pitcher of ice down your shorts, painfully extinguishing whatever semblance of a hard-on you could muster at that point.

Don't even look at your credit card invoice. Because when you realize how much you just paid to have your nuts slung up, you'll want to drop some arsenic. Better to just scurry backstage, wash yourself up, and slink back to Boston.

Better yet, when Neal calls, don't even answer the phone.