An unspoken code of secrecy surrounds bachelor parties. I think it’s to keep women on their toes, and to spare them the grief of the details. “The boys got together and went to a strip club,” is a heck of a lot less upsetting than, “We got trashed on cheap whisky, went to Hooter-Nannies, and I lost myself in a lapdance given by a tall, lithe woman who called herself Luscious Linda. Oh, and she smelled divine!”

Before I go on, let me just say that I am so happy that The Beard did not have a bachelor party. Even though I know that his friends – who are also my friends, for the most part – likely would have planned an evening of PBR and Wii, I’m still happy. Why? Because after reading Bachelor Party Confidential by David Boyer I now know that all it takes is one sleazy friend with a phone book handy to turn a relatively mild evening of male bonding into a sex crazed evening that could be considered grounds for annulment.

Maybe.

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