I spent this past weekend in San Antonio for an associate’s bachelor party. I have no idea why he chose Easter weekend. I feel like a bachelor party during the holiest weekend of the year may take away from the holiday’s significance.

Now, I’m worried that during the wedding, the priest will ask if anyone has any objections to this union, and we’ll hear a voice coming from the back of the church.

Everyone will whirl around to see a bearded man with flowing vestments stand up.

“Uh, yeah, the Lord here,” He’ll say, looking around to the congregation. “Hey, everyone, thanks for dropping by the house. Uh, so I’ve got something to say.”

In my associate’s defense, we did discuss matters of theological importance during the event. He was declaring that some concepts of gravity are only theories and, thus, fallible, while the pope is infallible.

He would also touch on the importance of marriage as a vehicle to build wealth and ensure that the wealth is passed to future generations. Listen, this party was a rager and the guy’s an incurable romantic.

At one point during this excursion, we were treated to Sir Mix-a-Lot’s “Jump On it.”

As I thoughtfully pondered the lyrics, I declared at one point that I had been associated with many of the area codes mentioned in Sir Mix-a-Lot’s chorale.

“Why,” I explained. “Just last week, I was in all three of the cities mentioned in Ohio while covering the primary. And while we drove down here, we passed right through the (or “tha”) 5-1-2!”

I would go on to explain that during my episode trying to become a Major League Baseball umpire, I would have spent time near Miami and Orlando. Not in either of those two cities proper, I pointed out, but perhaps close enough to label myself as in the (or “tha”) 3-0-5.

But here’s where Sir Mix-a-Lot and I disagree: while he declares that he would make a U-turn to follow a group of young ladies to what, I assume, is a Bible study in Houston, I would have to decline the opportunity to revisit my history there.

The Scaia version of that song would include me smiling, waving and saying, “All right, ladies, well you have a safe trip! I’ll keep heading in this direction!”

Between a list of area codes where Sir Mix-a-Lot had asked me what was up and my associate’s lengthy explanation of the tax ramifications of a 401(k) or Roth IRA, I don’t understand why an Uber driver would, at one point, describe us a “middle aged” group of guys.

I mean, it’s not like our bachelor was yelling at the Uber driver about how his garbage remains his property even after he’s wheeled his dumpster to the curb, so his dumpster has a reasonable expectation of privacy.

That would be crazy. He had the good sense to yell that at people along the River Walk.