Boo Bachelorette Parties!

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Bachelorette parties are worse than the 17-year cicadas that cover the south in crunchy cicada carcasses and their screeching mating calls that annoy all the day long.

Like locus, they descend upon the city of Nashville on Friday, clad in tacky and ridiculous outfits for a girl’s weekend, in a fabled attempt to relive their sorority days. Imagine every time you went anywhere on the weekend there were packs of hyenas crowded around trying to have “the best weekend ever!”, and screeching out the desperate “Woohoo!” mating call.  It’s like a version of Jersey Shore, except not entertaining and not far away in New Jersey. (no offense Jersey)

We do not care if it’s “Stacey last Ride” or where the hell you’re from. We are just counting the seconds till Sunday when you will be forced to leave, and we can enjoy our city in relative peace again!

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                                                                        (Locals on Sunday)

Bachelorette parties are comparable to having that annoying family member who unexpectedly comes in from out of town and ruins your weekend plans. They are like getting a speeding ticket on a lazy Sunday drive or learning you have an STD right before the weekend hits. You know you can still have fun, just not as much fun as you were expecting.

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Pink sashes and cowboy hats with veils scatter around Broadway prancing from one Honky Tonk to the next like they own the place. These selfie stick toting hordes are often rude and obnoxious. That gentleman you and your “posse” just mowed over to get to the bar (and become more annoying) was probably a regular and he hates you now!

Oh look, now the bride-to-be is swapping spit with some guy on the dance floor. Pretty sure that’s not the groom! Oh, we judge you and take bets on how long your marriage will actually last. As a form of entertainment, we will wish you a “Happy Birthday” audible enough for the whole party to hear. This timeless joke never gets old, and y’all just can’t help to correct us in a snooty tone, “It’s her Bachelorette party!” with a scowl on your face. FYI, we know. The pink cowboy hats and 8 stumbling cackling drunks is a dead giveaway. That’s why it is funny, and you scowling us only makes it funnier.

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These swarms of mosquitos are easily identifiable. As mentioned above, they are usually sporting some sort of uninformed top with a cliché Nashville Bachelorette theme such as “Bride’s last ride”,“Nash Bach”, or some other crappy saying. They are typically wearing Daisy Duke shorts or sundresses with boots. Boots in the middle of summer. It’s freakin’ hot outside! This isn’t Hazard county, damn it! (if you don’t get that reference then you do not deserve to wear Daisy Dukes until you learn the complex history of the shorts and why they are a staple of southern living!)

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For the life of me, I do not know how this became Nashville’s problem. I think it is because we are mostly welcoming and let things slide. We have “fed” the proverbial bear, and now our southern hospitality is being taken advantage of.

We have let this slide so much, there is a bachelorette industry in Nashville. An industry! People make a living catering to these horrible packs!

If you have never been to Nashville, you can’t grasp the degree to which these abominations have infiltrated our community. For instance, my friend who works for an airline and travels quite often had the misfortune of having a flight back to Nashville on a Friday morning. Upon meeting up with him later in the day, he asked me how many bachelorette parties I thought were on his plane.

Any guesses?

Four. Not four members in the party. There were FOUR separate Bachelorette parties on one flight! They are literally being flown in by the plane load.

It’s all fun and games until they stumble their way to a local street. When they parade into a local joint, expecting the same kind of royal welcome they received on lower broad, almost every local patron has a defeated look on their face as if to say, “Crap, they found us.” Be warned, these local establishments don’t appreciate your crap, and the patrons will “Boo” you if you bring your entitlement with you. So, check it at the door or leave it on the pedal tavern that you strolled up on!

This has been Shwackd with your Public Service Announcement.

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