...and Party Every Day

I knew my party was just about done when Kyle stumbled out of the room moaning and turning green. Nothing kills a party atmosphere more than a retching sound. It’s an amazing feeling to have a friend in need and have your first thoughts be of death and dismemberment.

“You threw up.” It’s a simple observation as I survey my kitchen.

“Yeah… I got… I’m a little sick, man.”

“Yes, I see. But you threw up… on my dishes.”

“Sorry man. They were in this sink.” Kyle burps “sink” more than he speaks it. The air smells of hot sauce and whiskey. I served neither this evening.

“That would almost be understandable” I am trying to mask rage with bemusement “but what you did… you puked on the clean dishes in the rack.”

“…oh…”

Hosting parties is awful. You may not know it now, but your friends are the rudest, most inconsiderate fucks ever spawned from the festering Love Canel of the anti-Martha Stewart. Oh, and they don’t give a DAMN about any of your belongings. They will gladly break stuff and lie about it. Spill drinks on books and carpets and then hide the damage. If they are enterprising enough, they might even misplace some half eaten food item in the couch cushions. These “friends” will go all out to make your life miserable the next day. I know this because that’s how I act when I go to parties. I guess Kyle was just living up to my expectations.

“Man I feel really bad.” I am not sure if he’s guilty for the mess he is currently making or if he’s ready to puke again. I am standing clear just to make sure.

“Kyle, can I help you to the bathroom? Or at least can you turn your head to the sink? You boot on anything else clean and swear I’ll make you sleep in it.” Even I’m not sure if I’m kidding.

“Dude, you don’t have to be a dick.” He can’t keep his head straight. Kyle bobs back and forth like a leaf stuck in a breeze. “I said I was sorry I busted up your fucking thing here. I know you planned a good time… and I’m, like sorry.”

He’s wrong. I didn’t really plan to have a big get together tonight. Some of these people brought friends of their own… and thus like a sapling growing into a might oak, the party is created. The organic party is almost always better than the planned shindig. Guest lists, invites, shopping and any actually effort really take the flavor out of the drunk gathering. I’ve always had more fun when my jerk friends bring jerk strangers into my home. It creates such an air of unpredictability. Now take this uniquely rowdy crew, add a splash (and several more splashes) of liquor, place in an unclean room and shake vigorously. BAMN instant party.

There may not be any food, planned entertainment, and there may be no real reason other than “Friday,” but it really doesn’t matter in the end. Nothing beats drunken revelry, random hook-ups and even some super awkward moments that make life special.

But it isn’t always sunshine and smiles. After a night of heavy drinking, emotions can run wild and some boundaries that should not be crossed are violated. And sometimes this negative aspect can manifest itself as a moron puking on your fine china.

Kyle is busy examining the drain on the bottom of my kitchen sink when I hear a crash back in the living room. I spin around just in time to see some asshole I’ve never met break through my card table like Chris Farley on a bender. Beer bottles and paper plates go flying in every direction. Some of his dimwitted buddies (and some of my close friends) laugh and clap in approval. I lose my temper.

“That’s it! GET OUT!”

The large gentleman who is currently residing inside my table begins to object, but I leave no room for error.

“Yes you too! Everybody grab your things and go!” I sound like the rudest stewardess ever to de-bark a flying saloon:

“Out! Out! Out! Take your crap… I’ll see some of you later… yes NOW… leave that, it’s mine… take your beer I don’t care… go with haste please… fuck you too… I don’t give a shit if you just got here… party is over people… I don’t even know half of you… keep walking tubs… move move move…. no stragglers… yeah, nice knowing you all… maybe next time I’ll go to your place and break your stuff… adios!”

Kicking the last drunken stranger out of my house with a vindictive boot to the ass puts an exclamation point on a crappy evening. The mess is staggering. I can barely even think about cleaning as drunk and as tired as I am. It can all wait till tomorrow when I’ll need lemon cleanser to help me battle my pending hangover. I’m about to pass out when I hear some stirring from the kitchen and realize I am not yet alone. Kyle never made it out.

I find him curled up under my sink hugging a Drano bottle (don’t worry, it’s sealed) and still leaking vomit out of the corner of his mouth. He fits right in with all the other toxic detritus. I pick up the stained and damp tablecloth off the remains of the table and cover the drunken mess that was once a friend of mine. In a final act of compassion I turn him to his side so he doesn’t choke and die.

My generosity knows no bounds. That’s probably why I throw parties in the first place.