I've decided to desist in viewing other people's ATM receipts.

Don't have the fundage to arrange a decently disgusting blow out of a bachelor party for my doomed homie. Wanted to get him out of country. Sleezy trip to Montreal. Confiscate his phone and any other possible leashes. Drop him off on his doorstoop with nipple indentations on his forehead, reeking of booty nectar and distillery run off. Have the bride despise me. Duration: life sentence.

Gonna be a stretch just to make sure his wallet doesn't see the light of day when we take him out for, groan, a casual evening of drinks. He should have fresh scars under his tuxedo as he marches down the aisle. There should be a distinct possibility of him heaving a technicolor yawn at the rehearsal dinner. He should have to feebly explain why all of his underwear is in tatters. Money should be in my possesion. Clearly I would do admirable things with it.

Steaming over here. Livin so far in a world of financial chumpitude at the moment that I can't baste a man, who desperately needs it, in sin. No last morphine shot on the battlefield before he is shipped off to the matrimonial veteran's hospital. Hornswagglin dag nabbit so and so!

So the festivities begin tomorrow. I will be deluged in wedding crap for the next few days. Doubtful I will sneak a chance to relay the wonder that is the sanctimony of wedded bliss. I'll have a stomach filled with bile to spew when I return. Hopefully, I shall return valiantly with tales of heroic triumphs over saving bridesmaids from the clutches of their dresses. Certainly I will have at least a quip over the drunkard toast I will unleash on the unsuspecting crowd, after marking a vodka bottle with my scent. A poster with my face on it: Do not invite this man to your wedding.