I realised with some trepidation yesterday that I’ll never have a loud, raucous buck’s night, seeing as I’m never going to get married. Y’know, that’s something I’d really like to do.
Sure, Adam and I could skip, uh, gaily down the twee gay marriage path. The idea doesn’t really get me going, though. I’ve been forced to attend a “commitment ceremony” once before via a guilt trip, and all I can say is that I don’t want my relationship represented by vomitiously matching pastel blue suits, a backyard BBQ and uncomfortable small talk between relatives under a retractable canopy.
No way. Adam and I have a goddamn commitment ceremony daily, usually when one of us threatens and/or acts out physical violence upon the other when they won’t do something. Additionally, as if you’d be able to get us to agree on the music at a commitment ceremony: Adam would be hissing “put the Gatecrasher CD back on now” under his breath to whoever was playing CD’s, which would subsequently lead to me bellowing “Get that fucking Hatebreed on again, stat!” Meanwhile, everyone who was simultaneously raving and/or slamdancing would end up looking like a collective pen of epilepsy sufferers trying to keep up.
So seeing as there’s nothing like this in store for me, I’ve come up with an idea for a party when I move to Melbourne. The Buck’s Night I’ll Never Have.
I’m sure it’ll involve female strippers, but it’ll all be ironic, yeah? We can all get decked up in tuxedos and wander around the CBD aimlessly being refused entry into every single pub. Then, whipped cream and criminal arrests!
Note that I’m not quite sure who “we” is yet, but I’m sure anyone in Melbourne who feels like it can turn up.
Pity buck, anyone?