I’ve been a best man several times.
Because of that frequency, I developed a sort of signature bachelor party that involved going to the beach for a bonfire and attacking the groom-to-be with water balloons if he failed to correctly answer questions about his soon-to-be bride.
When I was engaged, my best men (I had two) threw a similar celebration/hazing for me, quizzing me on facts they’d learned via an interview with my fiancee. The emcee equipped the other guys with ammunition, made me stand a certain length away, and then began reading by firelight.
The first question: What was her favorite childhood toy?
I paused for just a moment, then replied: “It was, uh, this stuffed dragon.”
My tongue had hardly left the roof of my mouth to make the final “n” when I heard a rush of air. A water balloon less arced than rocketed into my crotch, where it failed to pop. It was just a solid projectile smacking me in the groin.
There was silence as I doubled over. But still I looked up and maintained eye contact with the emcee. The other guys, all in a line, held their water balloons—the attacker was obvious due to his empty hands. Even the nearby breakers seemed to pause as everyone waited for the judge’s verdict.
A pallet cracked as it was consumed by flames.
“Actually,” the host said, “he’s, uh, he’s right.”
I tried to plead some sort of penalty for the offender—I can’t be bruised and battered like that for the honeymoon, I argued—but nobody cared. They weren’t there to be impressed by my knowledge of my future wife. They were there to pummel me.
Since I have three children, I obviously recovered. And since that was almost a decade ago, I’ll make a confession here: Before my bachelor party began, my fiancee told me—just in case anyone happened to ask—about her favorite childhood toy. So maybe I cheated. A little.
My best friends in the world might not have cared about the condition of my guy parts, but I care about theirs. That’s one of the reasons I’m participating in Movember, which aims to combat testicular cancer, prostate cancer, and negative mental health issues.
You hear that, J.I.? I hope your testicles are doing well.
One thought on “Toy Week: The Truth Hurts”
Too funny. I had to read this to my husband. He thought it was hilarious! Bahahaha. 🙂