I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell Page #3

Richmond passed

this stupid no-touch policy.

Since the ladies

can't seem to keep their hands off me...

it'd be irresponsible

to go to clubs here.

-How thoughtful of you.

-You don't mind, do you?

I'm not stepping on any toes, am I?

We have all the final wedding

appointments tomorrow.

No.

Dan.

You didn't say anything.

Why didn't you tell me, man?

That's not cool. It's your wedding, man.

Listen, we'll just go out in town.

We can do Salem after your honeymoon.

Sound good?

Kristy, that way you can come too.

-All right, that's cool.

-All right.

He won't need this anymore.

I'll have him back

before you even wake up.

Kristy, you look hot as always.

You are so full of sh*t.

Salem, here we come, man.

-Yeah.

-What?

Come on.

Do you think it's possible

to keep me from something I want?

The more important question is...

are you ready to get shitfaced

and grab some titties?

That's not a Red Bull.

Yeah.

Here's what I don't get.

Why did you have to lie to her?

It's not like I wasn't gonna go.

Please. When I walked in,

you had so much surrender in your eyes...

I thought your apartment

was Vichy France.

We need to stop for food.

My blood sugar is getting low.

I just hate lying to Kristy, man.

You didn't lie to her, I did.

That is bullshit.

But somehow I'm going with it.

If I don't get a pancakewich,

I'm calling the authorities...

and have you arrested

for kidnapping and conspiracy.

I don't know how you eat pancakewiches.

They look disgusting.

I can only assume

from your cavalier attitude...

that you have yet to partake in

the wonderment that is the pancakewich.

Let me enlighten you.

What happens is the one true god

grows pancakewiches on trees...

in the Elysian Fields

using a mystical incantation.

He then proceeds to magic them down

to your local eatery...

where whatever societal reject

Griddleworld has rescued off the dole...

gently wraps them in cellophane

and passes them along to you...

the fortunate consumer.

You proceed to ingest this finery...

in the vain hope that

your overmatched taste buds...

can somehow comprehend the delectable

intricacies that face them.

Is that egg? Why, yes. Yes, it is.

And bacon too.

But wait, did they--?

They didn't. Yes, they did,

they did indeed.

They added cheese.

And then, then, my friend...

they wrapped it

in a sumptuous pancake bun.

As your taste buds try to process

that amazing piece of information...

it hits them.

The syrup nugget.

The motherfucking syrup nugget.

It announces itself

with a burst of confectionery grandiosity...

the likes of which your palate

has never seen.

So you like them?

Allow me to rephrase.

If you ever speak ill

of the pancakewich again...

I will personally come to your home

and force-feed you one...

while I f*** you in the ass

with the wrapper as a condom...

and then donkey punch you when

the infused syrup nugget explodes.

We got a motherfucking Griddleworld

coming up at the next exit.

Thank God.

Come on. Who farted?

-I don't smell anything.

-My God.

What is wrong with you?

It smells like you got buttfucked

by a garbage truck.

Hey, Griddleworld was your idea, man.

Do not disparage the pancakewich.

Could you just unlock

the f***ing window, Tucker?

-You get a bit back there?

-F*** yourself.

Where are my law books?

This must count as a felony battery.

-Dude.

-All right, f***.

You guys have such weak constitutions.

I bet those girls wouldn't

complain as much as you two.

-I can taste that.

-They wouldn't. They're hookers.

They subject themselves

to anything...

-for the right price.

-Not every woman is a whore.

Tucker, where are we going?

Where's the strip club?

It's not even 7:
00 yet.

The club doesn't open till 10.

-Let's get some drinks first. Pre-game.

-Wonderful.

Now I can hate

all these people from up close...

instead of baselessly judging them

from this metal fart coffin.

Last time I was here there was more p*ssy

than you could shake a stick at.

Unbelievable hot chicks, wall to wall.

All right, dude.

Can't you see...

Yeah, this place is crawling with trim.

Shame I'm taken.

Let's see some IDs, guys.

Looks like Lane Bryant and Jenny Craig

had a knife fight in here.

You know what a soft-off is?

No, what is it?

It's the opposite of a hard-on.

And that's what I have.

I will pay you $10...

only if you can erase this visual atrocity

from my memory.

Go down to Whiskey Bar.

That's where everybody's at tonight.

And by everybody,

you mean all the dudes?

I wish, man, I wish.

No, I gotta stay here.

-Let's give it a shot.

-Come on.

It can't be worse than this.

[B.A.S.K.O.'S "THIS IS NOT A GAME"]

All right, now this is what I call

a target-rich environment.

I agree.

I wanna shoot

every one of these b*tches.

-Not her.

-Nice.

-Her too.

-All right, fellas.

A little over 2 hours

until Avarice opens up.

Let's see if we can't get

girls to go with us.

Wait, wait, wait.

You wanna pick up sluts

to bring them to go see whores?

If things go well.

Look, a menagerie of sluts.

Who would have guessed?

What are those drinks? Not the ones

with the penises in it. The other ones.

It's called a Flaming Dr. Pepper.

-Looks amazing. Throw 3 more on there.

-We're not paying for those.

Don't worry about it, sweetheart.

It's okay, we got this round.

My name isn't sweetheart, it's Mary.

Okay, good to know. Thank you.

Drew, not all girls are sluts.

-Just most of them.

DREW:
I hope this sets off the sprinklers.

-Nice.

-Sh*t.

I've seen better.

That tastes like ass.

Holy sh*t. It tastes like a Dr. Pepper.

Hence the name.

Thank you. Again. 8 more of them.

That will be another $120.

Sh*t. Just get us 8 vodka shots.

You guys aren't worth that much.

Our company is priceless.

If it lacks a price,

it is probably worthless.

-Any particular kind of vodka?

-Well, please.

Thank you for asking. Down there.

If this is a real bachelorette party,

who's the designated slut?

Don't call us sluts.

You didn't even know us.

No one here is a slut.

Come on, come on.

The slut at a bachelor party

is kind of like the sucker at a poker table.

If you can't pick them out,

it's probably you.

Here we are ladies, one for each of you.

Palm greaser for you.

-Panty dropper for you.

-Not cool, you know.

Making fun of girls to impress your friends

is so immature.

You're such a jerk.

Your friends are laughing

more than mine.

-I'm not laughing at all.

-Why are you guys laughing?

Don't laugh. It's not funny.

I think a toast is in order for my buddy Dan,

who's also getting married.

And the bachelorette

and all her beautiful friends...

even the bitchy prude.

Here is to the people we've met.

And to the people we've f***ed.

And to those of us

who have had no such luck.

Here's to beer in the glass

and vodka in the cup.

Here's to poking her in the ass

so she won't get knocked up.

Here's to all of you, and here's to me...

together as friends we will always be.

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