Ah, May. The month that heralds June’s wedding bells with that most pagan of celebrations—the bachelor party. But what to do when the bachelor in question (a) gives his pals two days’ notice due to the shotgun nature of his proposal, and then (b) invites yours truly as the token female? Head to the Lower East Side for some meaningful drinking and PG-13 nudity, of course. After all, Saturday nights on Orchard Street are reserved for rascally staggerers, and the larger your posse, the less likely you’ll be offended by similarly crude clusters of oafs.

Chances are your group resembles the freak-show display case filled with shrunken heads outside the SLIPPER ROOM (167 Orchard Street, 253-7246), so do yourself a favor and pay the five-buck cover to get into this surprisingly classy speakeasy. It’s a large, airy space with checkerboard floors, exposed brick walls, Chinese lanterns, and a stamped-tin ceiling, plus a DJ who spins a mix of lounge and house. And if your bachelor in question is, say, second-guessing his heterosexuality, encourage him to feast his eyes on the Bowie-esque darling propped against the bar. Otherwise, take your round of cocktails ($41 for seven assorted potions) to one of the small black tables by the velvet-swathed stage (which does not house a secret VIP room—trust me on this) and watch Anna “One Hand on My Titties, One Hand on My Mic” Montana of Holland sing and pirouette. It ain’t Scores, but it ain’t Wiggles either. One more thing: Before you hand over your fiver at the door, make sure there isn’t a guy standing outside the bathroom informing you it’s not in service.

With your bladder fit to burst and your bachelor sexually confused, you’re feeling not only impatient, but guilty, so make it up to him by dragging him to that haven of hipster hookups, GOOD WORLD BAR & GRILL (3 Orchard Street, 925-9975). The place is so packed, the young, fashionable, and multiculti crowd spills out of its Chinatown digs and into the street. Flash your ID and head for the snaking bathroom line, where every so often a few males and/or females emerge from stalls that double as tiny dens of iniquity. Thus relieved, grab a Heineken ($4), maul through the mob that shimmies across the makeshift dancefloor, and a good 45 minutes later, squeeze your ass onto one of the picnic benches out back. Whew! Now you’re chilling, except your party—awkwardly positioned in order to avoid tripping up the cocktail waitress and tired of yelling over Naughty by Nature and Busta Rhymes—already wants to take off.

Take the plunge and hop in a taxi heading to that desperate, prepubescent, sloppy-and-slurry hole-in-the-wall that eternally remains just as you left it, GRASSROOTS TAVERN (20 St. Marks Place, 475-9443). Line up pitchers of Brooklyn Lager ($11) on the “wuz here”-carved tables and toast and roast your man of the hour to the Clash and the Ramones. Then close the place down getting sillyass drunk with the guys. Hell, be a sport and flash ’em some tits. Isn’t this what got you all together in the first place?

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