Hey good looking American’s. Another yachty weekend is in the books and my gosh was it a doozie. I’d like to thank a lot of people, but most of all, I’d like to thank my friends Ryan and Kerry for falling in love and having a wedding so we could turn Chateau Elan into a jungle gym.
The weekend started out great. We did the whole “Let’s go out for a beer or two on Friday, wake-up early and make an early tee time.” That never works.
Once the good times start goin, we said “F the tee time”, and the next thing I know I’m waking up on my buddies couch with a crick in my neck and a mouth dryer than Lake Lanier circa 2007. Fast forward to 3:30pm and we’re arriving at Chateau Elan, barely missing our 10am tee time. After taking our time and drinking a few cold beers, we were ready for a fantastic night of drinks and dancing with old friends… and their Moms (ow ow).
I walk into the wedding ceremony smoother than Bill Clinton at a single mothers fundraiser. Everyone is all smiles and enjoying the old friends and faces that we haven’t seen since high school. Right after being seated, I get a phone call from a randar number. The person on the other line sounds like a female crying, and I’m thinking to myself this can’t be good. She claims that she is my ex-girlfriend and that she had something very important to tell me. I step out of the room and the girl on the other line that sounded like recycled death tells me that she is pregnant. As you can imagine, my face turned white and my jaw smacked the floor. I apologized repeatedly as I racked my brain wondering how the hell this happened. I assured her that I was willing to do anything to help and told her I called her back immediately following the wedding.
I got back to my seat and told two of my best friends the most devastating news of my life. My anxiety is higher than Jack’s beanstalk and I’m sweating like Chris Farley on a 3 day bender. I was contemplating how f*cked my life is and how the hell this happened because I hadn’t been “talking” to her recently. I then get a text from a certain asshole named Matty Barnwell reading, “Call me now. It’s bad. Everyone knows.” As you can imagine, my anxiety jumped ten fold to the point where I was shaking and about to puke in the middle of a wedding ceremony. FML.
After the “I do’s”, I run outside the room and call the dickhead back that had texted me. He answers and says, “You got punked.” WTF!
I don’t know who the fuck raised this kid, or whether or not they even showed him where “the line” was, but he most definitely crossed it. I wanted to be mad, but I was so damn relieved all I could do is laugh and feel the sensation of my anxiety come falling back down as if I had eaten 13 zanzibars. Honestly, those ten minutes seem like an eternity and probably the worst sixth of a hour I’ve ever experienced. Fuck you Mat, that may have been funny in your fucked up little brain, but I was pregnant for 10 minutes and I didn’t like it. Kudos for the planning though, you knew when the wedding started and where I was at the time. Bad choice of subject matter.
The rest of the night was a reward. We went on to the reception where the yachtiest band in the world was playing. Yacht Rock was there to keep the wedding A-squad, and boy did they keep things smooth. Everyone was dancing like madmen with class, and I managed to drop about 6 Crown and gingers on the dance floor, which always means things are going well. Shout out to Chateau Elan staff for swiftly cleaning up the glass everytime. No one was phased though, they just kept on dancing like they were born to do. It was just like the closing scene of “Slumdog Millionaire”, minus the Indians and the choreography.
Post-reception, the wheels really started turning. The bride and groom sped away in their “Just Married” golf cart, with soup cans following closely behind. My genius self, and one of my most esteemed high school friends, decided it would be totally legit to steal the golf cart. We managed to high-jack the vessel and boy was that a good decision. We ripped up the Chateau like Lindsay Lohan at a table piled with cocaine. We were giving joy rides and we managed to get the golf car on two wheels multiple times. All the while the cans were jingling and the Chateau staff was chasing. I even managed to throw off one of my friends that I really don’t even like that much. WIN!
We marched on to Paddy’s Pub where Jager bombs and freshman year of college antics ensued. We all thought it would be a great idea to go nuts– and we did. One friend of mine puked all over himself and his beautiful girlfriend. She was about as glossy eyed as Latrell Sprewell and was letting us all know that he’s ok “because she’s a nurse”. One friend got escorted home in a wheel chair. Another one of my good buddies even broke his nose, compliments of Don Francois himself. I would go into detail, but all you need to know is that it was in good fun, and that the littlest of paps in the nose can break it. We then put a night cap on the evening by ordering room service– to the lobby. It was like a scene off of Planet Earth where a pack of lions are tearing into a wildabeast carcass, except for it was a group of young men in their twenties hovered around an appetizer sampler. Classay.
I think a text from my friend, whose nose now resembles Owen Wilson’s, sums up this past weekend. It read, “I woke up in my car, I pissed myself, and I have a broken nose…. but I had a great time.” That a boy, way to keep shit positive.
Weekends are for winners, and we won. If you take away anything from this pointless story, I think one might benefit from learning how to pull a prank that is appropriate. Pranks about death, suicide, pregnant ex’s, or rape are probably crossing the line, so prank accordingly.