My Bachelor Party Manifesto

I figured out a long time ago that when it comes to marriage plans, mine will be a voice of support, and not of decision.  No matter how much I'd like to see my future wedding reception take the form of a massive toga party with music, dancing, and a dozen Weber gas grills, I know that I'll probably be outvoted.

I'm fine with that.

As long as I get a good Bachelor Party.

Long experience, however, had suggested this may be no easy task.  With standard features like strippers, alcohol, and stolen zoo animals off the table, many faithful Mormon grooms-to-be default to lame gatherings that would barely pass for elementary school birthday parties.  A group of guys goes out to dinner, maybe goes bowling, and at some point in the evening someone breaks out a cheetah print speedo he got the nerve to score at Blue Boutique.  And that's if there's a Bachelor Party at all.

When my time comes, I will go out in style.  There will be food.  There will be firearms.  And at the rate I'm going, there will probably be Medicaid claims.

I have caught fleeting glimpses of greatness in the past.  There were the parties years ago that featured full-court dunk ball games behind J.A. Taylor Elementary School.  There was my old roommate Brandon, who brought his henchmen down to San Diego for an evening of BBQ and a viewing of "Hot Rod" before getting sealed the next day.  Then there was the event I attended last weekend, where the simple idea of a roast was transformed into a multi-media extravaganza, complete with slide shows, films, and enough incriminating poop stories to turn you off camping for the rest of your life.

When the time comes to cap off my life as a Menace to Society, I want to shoot guns.  I want to play football.  I want to have gluttonous taco eating competitions.  I want to strap a life-size effigy of myself to a handmade raft, float it out onto the Great Salt Lake, and fire flaming arrows at it for a proper Viking Funeral.  And I want to do the whole thing in a rented jumpsuit that would make Elvis proud.  Is that too much to ask?

I realize I may be getting my cart in front of my horse here.  Like I said, by the time I actually have to plan a Bachelor Party, I may have to call ahead to make sure the rec room at my assisted living facility is available.  But even then, we can have wheelchair jousting duels, cream corn fights, and high-stakes Bingo.

I refuse to budge on this.  This dream will not die.