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I will never be you. -Or- I don't understand white people.
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I was recently stuck in a situation with a bunch of members of the normal, which are the most important vote for any presidential candidate: white, upper class, Christian males. As I sat surrounded by these people with my mohawk and hole-filled jeans, I couldn't get over the fact I hated them, I hated every word that spilled from their mouths. Let me share my story about my time at a bachelor party, for my metamour.

  A Bachelor Party.

Every once in a great while, I start to wonder if I should cut my damn hair and go get a desk job like everyone else. It does happen. I was in this head space for awhile when my metamour's bachelor party was approaching.

Metamour is my partner's partner. He is marrying my partner. It's a little more detailed than that but I would need to write a whole article on that. Oh wait! I did. So I am there with him and one of our friends, and his brother and two of his friends. Oh yeah we party hard. Anyway, his brother, who I'll call Bill, is of the upper class, six figure income bracket, as were his friends. White upper class males. They are all married to their high school sweethearts, clean cut, and well off. The people I am supposed to want to be.

Bill knows how our relationship works, and some of his friends (we will call them Don and Alex) start asking questions about our lives. This is fine. We are used to it and they are being fairly respectful about it as well. I want to point out that Don and Alex showed up at this event already drunk, and Bill has been getting there very quickly. The three nerds are not drunk, one of which is the bachelor mind you. The punk guy -- that's me -- is the designated driver...anyways. They learn as much about our relationship as they can while completely wasted, and they are fairly cool about it.

As the night goes on, there's more drinking, and a stripper. It's a bachelor party, you need at least one. The stripper takes these idiots for another six hundred dollars, on top of the five hundred it cost for her to just show the hell up. As the testosterone and booze flow, so do the honest opinions about my lifestyle. The how and why of me being wrong starts to come out hard, and honestly I don't care. I've been a bartender before, I can handle drunk. What I couldn't handle is that after the many failed attempts to get the stripper to sell herself sexually, these members of the U.M.C (Upper Middle Class. It's a Bob Seger song. Look it up) happily decide that driving to Reno to get the bachelor and themselves a hooker is a great idea. I'd like to make it clear I have nothing against hookers. Anyways the bachelor, the other "nerd" and I convince these morons that the idea is a terrible one. Reno is easily four hours away, and they are vastly too drunk for that.

So we go to a dive bar so these idiots can try and get laid. When that blows up because there is a fight when we get there, we go to a meat market for people in their seventies, cause, "Hey old pussy is still pussy right?" At this point, Don is so damn drunk that all his bigotry and racism is pouring out with every word he says, Alex can barely stand up for five minutes, and Bill is now the world's foremost leading authority on literally everything.

After that goes tits up, we settle on a strip club where the designated driver is left at the door unable to pay to get in, and is now fairly pissed. Bill is convinced by the doorman that all the girls inside are whores and will do anything. Bill doesn't realize he is being led as easily as a blind dog, cause hey, the place can make $120 bucks off idiots. They get a few dances while the bachelor and I sit and talk to one of the strippers the whole night while they try to convince the other girls to sleep with them for money.

While the three nerds got numbers, we rather quickly got lost. Alex and Don have taken a cab home without telling anyone, and we finally get to go home. That was the bachelor party. What a blast.

  Why this all bothered me.

Look, I don't need to tell you stupid shit happens at bachelor parties. They made two movies about it. Well, they made one movie and then the same movie (see the Hangover or Hangover 2, it's the same thing). Everyone has a bachelor party horror story. This isn't my first, it won't be my last. What bothered me the most about this one wasn't what happened, it's who I was with.

So all night long I got to sit and be judged by my "superiors," the cream of society, while I sat and watched how quick they were to try and cheat on their wives. I watched a man who makes more money in a month than I do in almost a whole year hide money from his wife. I had a stripper honestly tell me she was enjoying my conversation because it was apparent I've read a book and I wasn't a douchebag. Meanwhile, I watched three men who I was not good enough to be one of pointed to as the douchebags. I had an argument with a man about how hard it was to get laid, informing him I'd had sex three times already before the party.

As all of this went on, it stewed and dripped and seethed over in my mind. Here I was going, "Maybe, maybe you should be these people."

It was a wonderful eye opener. Why would I ever want to be these people? They are not happy. Happy people don't need to cheat on their wives. They can talk to them like I can with my girlfriend about adding more people to their relationship. Happy people don't get so shit faced they can't stand up, because it's the only way to escape the hell hole they have dug themselves that they call life. I was so gracefully reminded that, you know what Allen, you like who you are, and you don't need to be these people to be happy. I was amazed at how well the cool, popular people were incapable of the basic necessity of a relationship: communication. All these guys just assumed their wives would never be okay with these sort of things, never thinking to...I don't know. Ask?

I will be a leading man at my girlfriend's wedding. On that day she will be marrying a man I respect and love very much. That day I will put on a suit, hole-less pants, and a tie. I think I'll be keeping my mohawk. I'll remind myself that even when I'm on my third night of Ramen noddles, I am happy. So very happy. Even with their steak dinner, those people go to bed at night hoping their wives will touch them, and all I need do is ask. Money can't buy you happiness, but it can sure cause you a lot of grief.

I'd rather be an inferior, rotten, or worthless person. You can keep your six figure salary. I like being covered in saw dust at the end of the day from making a paddle for someone who will appreciate it, even if I only made five dollars. I love that my girlfriend and I can talk, and I never need to hide money from her or my sexual desires. She thinks my mohawk is sexy, anyway.


I can not believe this was featured so quickly.. and with so many errors..


I'm very sorry you've run into people that are quick to dive in with hookers when they aren't happy at home, but I can't help but feel that you're making some of the same generalizations about others that you bristle against.


I wish I could applaud this article. I would send audio of myself eagerly clapping, if I could. I feel like it sent a huge message about stereotypes and more importantly, judgements based on them. People are not always what they are perceived to be, for the better or for worse. It also implies to just be you. Just be happy. Have what you need and love it. I fully enjoyed this article like a short story, and thank you geekkink for that.


This is a good reminder than one size does not fit all. Haters are gunna hate, but don't let it drag you down. They're miserable and they want everyone else to be as unhappy in life as they are. Be happy, love who you are, and live for yourself and those you love.


If anyone is curious, totally was at the wedding with my mo-hawk, and it was neon green.



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