The secret life of a bachelorette 

One last hurrah

Puking in the bushes behind a Mt. Pleasant veterinary clinic was not how I had originally intended to spend Saturday morning. And yet as I stood there watching the bits of Chic-Fil-A waffle fries cascade out my mouth I realized, this was hardly the weirdest moment of the weekend. Sure, having a honking carload of 10 squealing women welcome me at the Charleston airport Thursday night seemed a little random. And no, I hadn't expected to break it down J.Lo-style circa In Living Color when the band at Trio pulled me up on stage shouting "WE'VE GOT A BACHELORETTE IN THE HOUSE!" on Friday. Can't say I'd expected to have a man in an army uniform arrive at my hotel room Saturday night and tell me that, no, I was wrong, in fact he did have the right room number, then immediately put his dog tags around my neck and strip off his pants. No, all of this seemed rather tame compared with the haunting moment when midway through his striptease, girls screaming, music blaring, a second knock on the door arrived. It was none other than a Kickin' Chicken delivery man holding our order of deep-fried deliciousness. The smell of stripper and chicken. Mmm.


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