Not long ago I hosted a gathering for my birthday, which was a few days ago. I think the last time I had a “birthday party” was when I was 10 years old. I was a little out of practice. The odds of this turning out successful were slim. Could I really pull it off?
The first thing was to choose a venue. This was easy because I don’t like going places. If it were up to me my party would have taken place under my bed sheets or inside a woman’s womb. I think I have abandonment issues. I chose The House of Brews in New York City because this is the only place I like to drink. The staff is usually attractive too. Unfortunately on the night of my shindig the Middle Eastern manager with the unibrow was nowhere to be seen.
Next I picked the date and the time. There’s nothing interesting about choosing those so let’s skip over my thought process.
I invited everyone I like and a few people I don’t like, just to add to the numbers. One person I don’t like actually showed up. I’m actually kidding. Or maybe I’m not. I want them to wonder.
The party was supposed to start off at 6, but I got there late. Let’s not get into why I was late. It involves bodily fluids and lonely screams of passion. I somehow did get there only 15 minutes after the first person and after navigating through the New York City tourists like a swallowed Lego through a congested colon, I caught up to two of my other friends just as they were entering. Yes. I am bragging about having three friends.
We went upstairs after the hostess downstairs asked a dumb question about needing a table or sitting at the bar. I lied and said we were sitting at the bar. I saw her later on in the night and I think she sneered at me. Women hate being lied to. That is precisely why on my way out I told her she was a 4.
The first four to arrive sat at a table near the bathrooms because when you gotta go you don’t want to have to walk a long way. We did nothing more than look over the menus as the rest of the crew sat awkwardly not really knowing what the others were capable of since they didn’t know each other too well. Eventually someone else showed up and as each did I had to introduce them all from where I knew them. The first guy there I knew from comedy. The two I entered with I knew from kindergarten and 7th grade, respectively. By respectively I mean in the order I respect them. The third was another comedy friend, the only non-white among us. He’s Filipino so it’s like he’s not even a real person anyway. The last one I met off Craigslist. The worst thing about this is he wasn’t the only person I met off Craigslist that was invited to the party.
Sausage Fest 2013 underway, we were able to keep a conversation going well by this point. The others saw how everyone at the table was an antisocial loser incapable of being loved. This was our bond; our hatred of the world. We chatted about things men our age chat about. You know, like Breaking Bad and being 15 years away from needing required prostate exams. I had 8 beers in total, and that may not even be correct because the waitress didn’t think to give us separate tabs. Why would a group of 6 men all have one tab? She made no sense at all. I should have stuck a booger to the place where you write the tip.
My friends began to leave because they had work in the morning or forgot about the rotting body in their apartment. When it came time to leave there were four of us and we were pretty far gone. We all had to walk in the same direction home to our trains so it was easy. I couldn’t stop focusing on eating something because I am a big fat pig. Whenever I feel any pain, this time from drinking too much, I stuff my face. I literally think eating will cure pain. And it does. But it never got my parents back together.
I got home sober enough to operate a motor vehicle, drunk enough to kill a lot of people without realizing it. I woke up the next morning covered in sweat promising myself I would never drink again. My hangover didn’t last long. I ate a cheesesteak and even had enough energy to workout later in the day. Not that the working out helped anything other than it made me feel good about myself temporarily.
The moral of the story, I had to take a lot of poops all throughout the next day. There was a lot of painful cursing, but you know what, I might contemplate doing it again.