You probably don’t remember me. In fact, I’m betting that you don’t. Last night you were so trashed that if you’ve even managed to crawl out of bed by now, jackhammers and angry monkeys inside your skull notwithstanding, I’d be amazed.

But I felt the need to write to you because I just wanted to let you know how grateful I was that you let me and my friends crash your bachelor party. Well, we weren’t really crashing, considering that it was a public bar in Shaver Lake. But from the moment we walked in the door, we could tell this was no ordinary roadside dive in an itty-bitty mountain town. People were having a great time. Everyone was hugging and dancing. Badly– even for white people. But they were all having fun. And it was all for you, brother. If you don’t recall, your buddies were wearing shirts with your face on it, but you had on a green shirt with icons of a bride and groom and the words “GAME OVER” underneath.

You were already a little tipsy when we arrived, halfway through the band’s reasonably good cover of “Crossroads.” Clapton is still better, though. When we figured out that it was a bachelor party, we decided to buy you a drink. I mean, shoot. We don’t need to know you to be happy for you, and hey–this is a dive bar in the middle of nowhere, so there was no cover charge, beers were only $4.50, and the joint was jumping. I asked what you were having. “Jack and Coke.” Jack and Coke it is for my man Doan.

I shook your hand and told you I was happy for you. I said that committing to marriage was a wonderful thing. “Oh yesh,” you explained to me as your drink arrived. “Izz albouwt comunikazhun.”

We made the rounds, shook some hands. Most of your friends are awesome guys, by the way. You’re a lucky guy to have such good buds. Kitty especially. Homeboy’s got your back. And by back, I mean backside. That’s right. To prove to us how shredded you were, he reached right over and pinched you on the ass. You never even noticed. By the way, thank him for the round of Duck Farts he bought us. They were DEEE-licious.

However, I think that it’s in your best interest for me to warn you about Brent. He seems nice enough, but it’s generally considered a faux pas to remove your shirt in a bar and dance like you’re having a seizure, especially when you’re whiter than Larry Bird and your chonies are so low that your hairy butt crack is on display for all of the now no longer horny drunk chicks to see. Just sayin’. I know you’re getting hitched, so you won’t be out on the prowl any more. But just in case you ever act as a wing man to brother Brent, please fill him in or he will never get laid again as long as he lives, let alone find a wonderful girl like you have to marry.

Also, I’d just like to say that Mr. Freaktastic– that’s right, the guy who got his dance moves from “In Living Color” circa 1991– needs to go. Gripping the doorway and humping the air– not a turn on. Flailing around like a moron– not cool. Knocking into one of the groomsmen and spilling his beer– a crime worthy of capital punishment. Never found out his name, but that’s because I was too busy diving for cover.

A real highlight of the evening came when you realized that you were the new lead singer of the band. The musicians were super nice and humored you, probably because it was your special night and hell, it was really funny. You were completely out of key and didn’t know the words. Luckily that didn’t matter very much because you were so incoherent we wouldn’t have been able to tell blues lyrics from reading from the dictionary. But we cheered for you anyway, because you were just so darn happy to share your talents with the world.

I had a good time dancing with Some Guy with Spiky Blonde Hair. I yelled over the music to him, “how do you know the groom?” He yelled back, “I don’t!” Huh. “Me neither!” I responded with a smile and a shrug. Some Guy just laughed and said “Yeah, but this is the best bachelor party I’ve ever been to!” He was right.

Finally it got pretty late, so it was time to go. We came to find you and shake your hand. I leaned in and said, “Congratulations on your wedding, Doan!” Your eyes, barely able to focus, scanned me, and you spluttered, “Dude, you’re so flargin’ hot.” The friend I came with gave you a hug and said “Goodbye and good luck!” You gave her a squeeze and replied, “You’re bangin’!”

Have a wonderful wedding in September, man. Best of luck, and may you be part of the half that never divorces. And thanks for letting me be part of the best bachelor party I’ve ever been to as a guest, and not as paid entertainment.

Best wishes,

So Hot