I like to party, because if I didn’t then the anger of knowing 9/11 was an inside job would tear me up inside. If I didn’t enter a club with a stripper on my arm and a suitcase full of blown in my hand that would be rammed up my nose within a few hours, then I’d be all bummed out about 9/11 like all the time. So, it’s safe to assume that I know how to throw a prettying rockin’ party that will relieve all kinds of stress and probably give you herpes, an arrest warrant, and your very first suitcase that was once filled with cocaine but is now filled with dead hooker.
That’s what I do. I’m an extraordinarily rich actor that stars on a sitcom that owes its high ratings to people that keep the TV on at night as they overdose on heroin. The Neilson ratings people don’t take that kind of thing to account, thankfully. To them, you’re all just a bunch of numbers, man! Some of which are loading up their systems with mind-altering substances that make piss poor sitcoms bearable.
Ha Ha! What was I talking about? Heroin? Yeah, heroin and coke. Let’s throw a party.
Step 1: Cry
You know how the old song goes: “it’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to!”. But in my book, rule number one is no crying at your own party. Do it before and after. Do it before just to let all of the soul demons exit your body so the alcohol and inhuman amount of drugs you will consume don’t force them out, which can lead to some rather careless gunplay and prostitute beating. Do it after to mourn the loss of your that little part of you, that little part of us all that makes us human. That part is dead now. Cry about it. I’m crying right now, but for completely different reasons. I tried to snort cocaine through my eye. It did not go well. It looks like I was trying to bake a loaf of bread in my head. But, never fear, for I am fine.
Although, now I’m crying real tears of sorrow. I find smiling through it helps. And reminding myself that my life is a dark abyss of shame also helps.
Oh, wait, no it doesn’t. Whatever. That’s why Colmbia invented suitcases full of cocaine.
Step 2: Invite The Right People
A party is only as good as the people that attend it. If you’re throwing, say, a prescription medication mixer — where everyone is expected to bring their favorite tube of medication, pour it in to a bowl, then we all reach in to the bowl and take fistfuls of whatever we grabbed — but somebody at the party has a severe allergic reaction to Percocet that renders their brain useless, then that guy is just a big bummer that can bum everyone out. Sure, you may be able to have some fun at his corpse’s expense, but corpse flogging can only keep a party going for so long before people start looking for a fresher corpse to flog. That’s when the party goers turn to on the host and flog his or her corpse until they turn on each other – friends and family members all seeing one another as potential stiffs to bludgeon with large rods that the host handed to each guest upon arrival in the event that someone dropped dead.
So, I guess the main point of this passage is this: only invite people that A) know how to hold their deadly cocktail of prescription meds, and B) look like they’d make a great body to beat with rods.
Wait…I think – yeah, I think I’m sobbing again. But maybe not. If I am, I sure as hell can’t tell. These horse tranquilizers really do a number on reality.
Step 3: Get Down With Your Bad Self
If you aren’t enjoying your own party people will be able to tell and they will in turn be bumed out by that. As I mentioned earlier, I’m crying right now. Really hard. Yet, I am still managing to type this to you, even though I’m having a crisis of consciousness as I type these very words. I don’t know if I’m living my life, or if I’m living within a rerun of my own life, like I’ve seen the episode of my life before and I know it by heart. If the latter is true, then I should be able to predict what I’m going to do next.
I could not have predicted that I would have done nothing for several minutes, or maybe just a few seconds. Shit, man, these pills that zoo keepers give to pandas to give them mating boners are really kicking in and dilating time like crazy. Now it’s like I’m watching a rerun of my life in slow motion.
I just looked in the mirror for a second and it felt like I was looking at a clown lazily masturbate while laying naked on a new Persian rug. I had no idea my face looks like that. Now it’s melting. Now it’s crying. Something tells me that last sight is the only real one in the trio.
Damn, I really know how to party. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a pile of money to vomit on and a porn star to propose to with an engagement ring made of the shredded remains of highly incriminating personal financial documents.
Party on, Dudes!