Dear Guy at the Bachelor Party

We're all friends with the groom. That's why we are all here at his bachelor party. We are all, however, not friends with you. Maybe that's the problem. You've spent the entire night injecting yourself into every conversation like you were heroin at Lindsay Lohan's sweet sixteen party. You've tried every off color joke you know, and tried to make up several on the spot. Unfortunately, you are terrible at telling jokes, and have so far made sure that any lesbian, black guy, homosexual, Polish person, giraffe, and male from Nantucket would kill you had they heard what you said. A couple of people here would gladly play Noah and round up two of each of those to line up and take turns donkey kicking you in the taint. All this because you were trying way too hard to fit in.

Here's another tip. The words "nipple" and "pussy" are welcome at a bachelor party, but they should not be used in the name of the shot that you are ordering for everyone. They taste horrible, and it doesn't help that you yell out things like "Yeah, wrap your lips around that pussy!" when we drink the awful Pink Pussy shot you were stupid enough to buy a round of. You make me glad I am the designated driver.

The worst thing you did all night was order a Yagerbomb for everyone. This was wrong for several reasons, a few of which are as follows:

1) We are not in a Fraternity
2) We are not even in college
3) I have not had a recent head trauma to where I can no longer taste horrible liquids
4) Red Bull tastes like piss. Yagermeister tastes like licorice piss. Put them together and they make dolphins cry out in horror at the tragedy of what the world has become.

And the worst thing about Yagerbombs is that they apparently change the chemical composition of everything else in your stomach into Yagermeister and Red Bull. I know this because the guy I gave a ride home to projectile vomited onto my windshield. Even though he had several beers, other shots, and food, the only thing I could smell was Red Bull and Jagermeister. It was as if his body only rejected the Jagerbomb. I might have marveled at that fact if it hadn't been the third worst thing to ever happen in my car.

I hold you to blame for this. One day, maybe when your first child is born, maybe when you are sleeping, or on your deathbed, or when you are making an impassioned plea to a jury of your peers, I will make sure that my friend runs up to you and vomits a Jagerbomb into your mouth. My only worry is that you will enjoy it.