Complain as we might, it's time to accept that bachelor parties are now all-weekend affairs. Affairs that cost half your rent, involve a long flight, and generally leave you in need of another vacation (too bad you're using those vacation days on the actual wedding!). So, if you're going to put your friends through that just to celebrate the end of your bachelorhood, you should at least put some thought into the destination, right?
The country's full of cool cities where your crew can drink, ogle strippers, and eat massive amounts of steak, but for some reason, the basic bros always win out. And every destination bachelor party ends up in one of the same handful of places. Now we want to be very clear here: the cities we mention are actually quite amazing. And if done correctly (maybe consult our local editions!), they are fantastic places full of delicious food and cool places to hang. Problem is, you are on a bachelor party with 15 other guys, and you're not going to any of those places. You're going to do what all other bachelor parties do. To wit:
The perfect spot for guys who watched a few too many rap videos growing up and thought, “Miami is nothing but palm trees, sick clubs, and models! Let’s take our talents... ” And as soon as they thought they were the first guy to cleverly quote LeBron, they immediately became, like, a million other dudes who've also thrown their bachelor parties on South Beach, a cliché.
The first inclination that Miami might not be everything T.I. promised, however, is usually when LIV hangs up on you after you try to make a reservation for 15 guys. Or maybe after burning yourselves beyond recognition at a disappointing pool party. Or when you pre-game to at least three different LMFAO songs before heading to dinner at Prime 112, where you wait two hours for an 8pm reservation while the stars of “Real Housewives of Sioux Falls” traipse right in ahead of you.
Or maybe it's when you wait horribly sunburned outside a club dressed like you’re definitely NOT from Miami, while women in the league above the league that’s out of your league stroll right in. And even after the sad $100 you offer him (and your desperate offer to pay “whatever it takes” to get a table), the doorman still pretends you don’t exist.
Eventually, you give up and drop a few grand on a table at a second-rate lounge, where six Russian women will immediately drink half your vodka (and all your champagne) and then leave when you won’t order more. So you decide that if you’re going to get hustled, you might as well do it at a strip club. You think the cab driver is kidding when he says the closest good club is 20 miles away. He’s not, as proven when you watch the meter climb on the $80 cab ride to Scarlett’s.
But, hey, at least you get to sit on the beach and post pictures telling everyone: “I’m in Miami, bitch.” And if you follow our advice and go out on the water, you'll also post a picture captioned: “I’m on a Boat!” Plus, once you get home you can tell everyone about the smoking hot foreign girls you were THIS close to scoring with (until that third bottle of $750 champagne ran out). After all, even LeBron eventually ended up back in Cleveland.
For the guys desperately attempt to do something slightly different somewhere exotic, crazy, and totally not the United States. So... Canada! Dudes usually decide on Montreal after hearing countless exaggerations from other dudes who’d gone and claimed it was a hedonistic Shangri-La, but with more Labatt. But upon arriving, most people are crushed to learn that weed is, in fact, NOT legal, there aren’t any ladies of the night waiting for you in the hotel lobby, and the only strip clubs that are more-or-less openly brothels are all the way in Laval.
But who needs professionals?! This is Montreal, the capital of sexually liberated Francophone women, right!? There's no way they can resist the charming, perfectly executed 10th-grade French you'll drop on them in that club on Saint Laurent. High-school French that, mind you, gets even better (!!) after you’ve had a few too many Molsons and are wandering the streets post-closing time yelling “Oui Oui Oui” at locals. Who then introduce you to another great Montreal tradition: The 3am fistfight.
It’s cool, though. The exchange rate for your bail will be FANTASTIC.
Then after a weekend of tucking colorful dollar bills in G-strings and spending sums of money you don’t completely understand on admittedly fantastic bagels, you’ll go home spreading the same lies you heard beforehand, so as to not embarrass yourself. Even though the highlight of your trip was definitely a hockey game. So no, your group's not at all a cliché. Or, as they say in French, a cliché.
Austin used to be the bachelor party destination for the anti-bachelor party destination people. Its smaller feel, hipster scene, and myriad breakfast taco stands made it pretty much a no-brainer for anyone who didn’t just want to do the same old, same old. Who felt like they were a little bit cooler because not ALL of their clothing was from J. Crew. But then something happened, which is to say: EVERYONE STARTED GOING HERE.
Seriously. Austin and all its charms, which are many, is suddenly teeming with group after group of late 20s to early 30s bros who think they are above the bachelor party scene. But when so many of them are all doing the same thing: booking an AirBnB in East Austin so they can feel cool surrounded by bars that are too small to accommodate their whole group, standing in line for breakfast tacos from a taco truck in the morning all wearing board and/or basketball shorts and sandals, standing in line at Franklin for BBQ wearing regular shorts so they can Instagram it, going on party boats around Lake Travis or Austin so they can Instagram it, going down to Dirty Sixth or Rainey Street to drink a lot in giant bars so they can Instagram it, heading to the Yellow Rose after a nice dinner downtown at Lambert’s so they can... well, you know.
Austin might consider ditching their "Keep Austin Weird" shirts for ones that read, "Please bachelors: go check out San Antonio."
Now mind you, there is a way to do New Orleans right. After all, this city is absolutely packed with more culture and food and drink than just about anywhere else in the US. But, on a bachelor party weekend, while rolling 20 dudes deep down Bourbon St in July in matching T-shirts asking random girls to show their upper torsos for worthless beads you actually spent a decent amount of money on, you will not be doing it justice.
Oh well. Your first stop will undoubtedly be Pat O’Briens, because HURRICANES Y'ALL. And, of course, because no bachelor party is complete without a group picture with said Hurricanes by the fountain. Then, despite refusing to be seen in public drinking anything other than beer or whiskey for most of your adult life, you take the brightest, most frozen drink you can find and... go out in public! Because, hey, you can DO that here!
Within half a block, you’ll run into a bachelorette party and think it’s some kind of French Quarter kismet that you were all meant to spend the weekend together, failing to realize that there were roughly 16 other bachelorette parties within 100 yards.
After wasting way more time with them than you should have, you’ll stumble in for your reservations at Galatoire’s or Dickie Brennan’s and pretend like you’re holding it together. But they’ll know. And then, as you barely taste one of the most delicious meals you'll never remember, an extremely loud debate will ensue about whether strip clubs in New Orleans are full nude, full liquor. They’re not. After dropping your car payment at the Penthouse Club, you'll realize this and resume rolling through the French Quarter holding a bright pink drink and trying to pick up women using the never-fail line "show me your t*ts."
The next morning, you’ll wake up with a vicious glucose hangover, consider eating delicious beignets or delicious po' boys or any of the other delicious things New Orleans has to offer, then scrap all of that and go back to Pat O’Briens.
Vegas??? Holy shit, did the groom propose on the top of the Empire State Building, too?
Let me guess: your trip-planning group chat was called “The Wolfpack,” you all brought suits to wear on the first night, and you’ve already decided who out of your group is Zach Galifianakis. And after the fourth time any of you says, “Vegas, baby. Vegas!” you’re officially played. Like, in a 1996 kinda way.
You scoured the Internet trying to find deals on suites, realized the only people who get to stay in those suites are dudes who drop a million a hand on Pai gow, and settled on two-to-a-room at Terrible’s. Of course, that’s not what you tell the girls in front of you on the half-mile line at Marquee. To them, you’re staying at the Cosmopolitan. In a suite. Never mind why you still have to wait in this line, much less have a heated debate in the middle of a casino about whether dropping $500 a person for a table is worth it to “skip all this shit.”
And while one of you is pissed because the ATM cut him off just before his genius roulette “system” was about to pay out, another one won’t shut up about how he “hit it big” at blackjack (yet is still bitching about who had the more expensive steak at Gordon Ramsay).The only guy sadder than those two is the dude who met a nice single woman at the baccarat bar, only to find out once they got upstairs to the room that she wanted $1,000 -- and, like, please don’t tell his wife. He will repeat this story anytime anyone brings up Vegas for the rest of his life.
And as your last night in Vegas winds down while you desperately try to find SOMETHING to do that ends with a tiger in your hotel room, you head to Drai’s after closing time to see if you can round up some “stragglers.” Failing to realize that, much like the patsy at the poker table, the stragglers are YOU. The only “epic” thing about your weekend was the Sunday morning TSA line at McCarran. But, of course, that won’t stop you from answering every single inquiry about your trip with, “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas,” although really, it doesn’t need to.
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