The Southwest - Part 5

August 21 - The Bachelor Party (Rated PG-13)

Okay so this was my second bachelor party.  Once again Hollywood had deeply misled me as to what a bachelor party looks like.

Now, according to my extensive research (read: Girls Gone Wild) the USA does in fact have naked girls.

There were, however, no girls.  And little to no wildness.

Now before you get all concerned let me lay your fears to rest.  Yes, there was some nudity.  Mostly my own.  I'll let that image nestle into your brain for a moment.

So thoroughly buzzed on black bean burgers and decidedly un-spiked punch, we left the barbecue to go celebrate my brother's last day as an unmarried man.

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Interlude: No, Bridgehead.  I am not going to buy another coffee just for the privilege of using your internet for another hour.  Deal with it.
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First stop was the Orvis Hot Springs.  Just what this party was missing: sweaty dudes.

This (clothing optional) facility was actually pretty nifty.  The sun had just set, so here we were floating on our backs looking up at a night sky replete with stars: the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, the Big Dipper, George Clooney and Alderan.

Of course, no clothing optional establishment would be complete without Mr. Rotund-I-should-be-ashamed-of-my-body-but-I'm-not-so-now-it's-your-problem-not-mine.  Luckily, once you moved away from the lights, his portly form was mercifully shrouded in darkness.  You couldn't see him, but you knew he was out there.  Somewhere.

In some kind of vague tribute to my brother's new-found love, I decided to take off my swimming trunks.  What? you don't have to look.  But I like it when you do.

On a completely unrelated note, can you still blame a hot spring for shrinkage?  I'm asking for a friend...

At 10:00 they gave us the boot.  Apparently the springs were now for "overnight guests only".  I can only imagine what scandalous things go on in those pools after hours. 

Thoroughly regretting having put my head under the water, we headed back to the house to play "cards".  As it turns out, "cards" was actually code for "cards".

We ended up playing a game called Dutch Blitz, which, I shit you not, is literally Amish.

That's right, we partied like it was 1899.