My dad's best friend Carl Ally, a Mad Men-era skirt chaser, liked to hang around a filthy-mouthed womanizer who talked about women like Donald Trump talks about women.
My dad didn't swear, let alone hit on women. But occasionally he'd find himself in social situations with Carl's filthy friend.
"Carl," my dad finally said by way of telling Carl to keep the guy away from him, "when he walks in the room, all the air goes out of it for me."
That's how I've felt on occasions when a friend of a friend shows up at the bachelor party talking in ways that separate tits and asses from brains and souls.
The subject must be changed.
You don't want to hurt your friend's feelings—or, really, even the feelings of the poor bastard who thinks of women that way. Or worse, who thinks you'll think he is cool if he acts like he thinks of women that way.
So you smile politely and you find the first chance to switch the conversation to something, anything, else. Not in high moral dudgeon or righteous defense of your revered mother and sister and daughter, but because you don't want to spend another 30 seconds pretending this shit is normal, let alone fun or interesting.
To your relief, you find that changing the subject is not that hard to do. And the poor bastard usually understands what's happening, because it happens to him a lot. Because most men don't like to talk like this. So you're gentle with him, as you would be with anyone with something seriously wrong with him.
But you're firm—because you do have to breathe after all.
Donald, how 'bout these Cubs?