The house party is a fascinating beast. I speak not of a social gathering amongst friends; a situation in which you are familiar with at least 75% of the individuals in attendance. The unholy creature which I am attempting to illustrate reeks more of something out of lore–a somewhat biblical behemoth that devours the self that you had once thought to possess.
I am yet to have the pleasure (or bear the burden) of hosting a proper house party, but I’ve made valiant efforts. Perhaps my most honest effort for an all-out, strangers-invited, sleaze-fest was that which resulted in a solemn farewell to my past-due virginity.
The fucktual conquest is, in part, what makes the house party so epically sexy; however, once your adult life has taken precedence over the need to stick your dick in everything warm, this concept takes a back seat to the far more mature venture of drinking until you’ve found new and interesting ways to prove to friends and strangers alike that you’re an unapologetic cunt.
When forced to account for your evening, to the best of your recollection, you have the unavoidable tendency to break down the party’s turn-out to at least five distinguishable characters…and here they are:
1. The Greeter. No matter how you found out about this party, no matter how close your relationship is with the individual(s) throwing the party, this guy still thinks he’s got some kind of “winning edge.” The Greeter seems to think that this party is some kind of variable reality show of which he has unfailingly found himself in the initial rounds.
He won’t talk your ear off like some others, but he will make goddamn sure that everyone, in every room, knows who he is…whether you give a shit or not.
2. The Vanishing Act. Often this tends to be one of your friends; or the person you happened to actually know at the gathering. You’ll part ways for about five-to-ten minutes, at which time the ‘friend’ will completely disappear without a trace for the remainder of the evening.
As you ask around, you’ll learn that she “got drunk”…”was tired”…or “I don’t know who that bitch is.” In reality, no one knows what happened, and by morning, neither will she.
3. The Beer Pong Douche. First off, I know it’s “officially” called Beirut, but if you go to a party and actually call it that…you’re this guy. A house party is hardly a party (or a house) without the obligatory beer pong table. It’s a Frat Pack game, but everyone gets in on the action because they don’t want to be called a “fag.”
Like doing keg-stands, beer bongs, or shotguns…except, those things are stupid.
The most note-worthy characteristic of the Beer Pong Douche is that no matter who he is, he is somehow under the impression that the game belongs to him. He’ll keep score, explain his rules, tell you what you’re doing wrong, breathe down your neck while you play, and tell you that you suck at a game that’s more retarded than he is.
4. The Black Guy. Maybe I’m just going to the wrong parties, but typically there is a single black man who attracts attention like a pickled baby in a Freak Show jar. This black guy tends to either be someone’s gay friend, someone’s only black friend, or just a guy with dreads that happens to work at the Starbucks next door.
The Black Guy is almost always the best person to hold a conversation with because when he drinks, he gets more awesome, as opposed to everyone else at the party who drinks until they feel the need to relate to you a story about how they shit the bed at their ex-girlfriend’s house.
On the other hand, of course, there have been occasions in which several black guys have been in attendance; however they’re usually twice as old as everyone else and high as shit before anyone even starts drinking.
5. The Mom. Fortunately, not my mom, your mom, or anyone’s mom that you know of. It’s not fair that after several hours of binge-drinking, she still doesn’t quite become the MILF that you hoped she would.
No one at the party seems to know who the fuck she is, and she winds up being the loudest, most obnoxious person in attendance. The party will come to a complete halt when she manages to find herself doing a face-plant on the pavement outside…
…but if you try to help her, she’ll only wind up telling you to “hit her up on Facebook.”
…and if you do that, you’ll find yourself flipping through pictures of her embarrassing her awkward teenage son at a birthday party that he will be trying to forget for the rest of his life.
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