Dodging an Army of Belushi's Is Even Harder Than It Sounds

Some of you may not know that I have four roommates. Yes, four. You are probably picturing a frat house, complete with toga parties, panty raids, maybe even a kidnapped mascot of some kind, and that is most everyone’s first reaction. I swear it isn't like that, but it is what people picture. My roommate and I have a new addendum to our description of our living situation when we meet girls, and it is as follows: . . “but I’m looking towards getting my own place.” Trust me, girls over 25 or so don’t like the sound of four roommates.

Well, last night actually was like a cotton-pickin’ frat house up in here. A friend, who is more a friend of a friend really, who had moved to California with his lady, is back in town for his bachelor party. You have to understand that if it was a close friend I would follow whatever itinerary that they had come up with, but as long as it is a friend of a friend, I just assume do my own thing and skip the nudey bar, etc. I saw him Thursday night, so I figured I’d toast to him then, and that would count for my contribution to the bachelor party weekend. I think I could have pulled that off, but I didn’t bank on like 10 guys taking Friday off and drinking all afternoon, which made them a little more persistent in their attempts to suck everyone into their vortex. I was in the bathroom when a representative was sent upstairs to oust my roommate Andy and I out of our rooms. Luckily, this guy, who was the bachelor’s brother, who neither of us knew, did such a bad job trying to get Andy out, that he gave up on me. I could hear it turning into an argument, so I knew I was safe for a while . . .

After I was all changed and ready to make my escape, I peered down the balcony thing and no one was in the front room. They were all in the kitchen. It was the perfect time to make my get-away! I darted downstairs, but I heard footsteps coming in my direction! I tried to make my way to the second set of stairs without looking back, but I was relieved to see, out of the corner of my eye, that it was Andy. Despite it being a very dated phrase, I said, “I’m outy.” Alas, Andy, who had been sucked into the vortex, could only meekly say, “I don’t blame you . . . “

When I got home, everyone was still out, except for the bachelor, who I saw sleeping soundly on the couch. Apparently, he had thrown up a few times, dowsed himself in his own urine, and didn’t even make it out. I guess 10 guys taking the day off, drinking all afternoon, and a non-stop regiment of shots all spelled trouble for the poor bachelor. Well, he does have another night tonight to try to pace himself better, or more accurately, fight off the vortex better. Wait, that means another night of me having to sneak around and crawl under the barbed wire. Wish me luck . . .