The Party Bolsheviks Throw A Party! (Bolsheviks)

So, throughout the history of the Party Bolsheviks, we’ve taken you through vast expanses of out drunken shenanigans. We’ve given you manifestos as to how to live your partying life. But as of yet, we haven’t told you about any of the parties that we ourselves have thrown.

If I may reference my original post, I expressed a strong distaste towards throwing a large gathering, citing that “I’m not trying to have a bunch of random-ass people all up in my house drinking my booze and making out with other random-ass people on my couch.” My roommate shares this sentiment with me and earlier this summer, we made an agreement to never ever ever have a huge fucking party.

Allow me to be the first to say, friends, that last weekend we reneged on this oath. We reneged like a motherfucker.

We decided that last Saturday night was the perfect night to step up and have a little get-together, as there weren’t any parties happening to really speak of (that we knew of at least – readers who wish to point out that there were like thirty parties we didn’t know about last weekend may do so in the comments). So we fired up the old Facebook, created an event for the party, and got to inviting our peeps.

Choosing who to invite via Facebook to your party is one of the most challenging tasks one can ever be faced with. You’ve really got to reconcile how many people you feel comfortable with having over with how many people you feel obligated to invite just as a nice gesture, even though you secretly hope they won’t come. You hope to attain a happy balance where all of your close friends come, along with a few other people whose company you enjoy but may not get to see all that often.

In order to achieve this certain golden ratio, we invited a hundred and seven people. Thirty-seven accepted our invitation, thirty-five said they might come, fourteen said they weren’t coming, and like twenty-one didn’t say shit back to us with regards to their presence.

Being the rational, sane humans we are, my roommate and I assumed that only thirty-seven people would show up to our little fiesta, and bought alcohol accordingly – we got two handles of vodka, from which we were going to make a bastardized version of cherry limeade.

Since the party wasn’t supposed to start until Saturday at 10:30, the Party Trotsky, Old Major and myself decided to embark upon a little experiment – day drinkin’. Trotsky and I started at 3:30, drinking Old Crow like it was our job, until around 5:15 Old Major and his posse rolled on up, (naturally) stolen liquor in tow. We knocked back a few brewskis acquired through extralegal means and deemed it time to do something stupid. Old Major and I decided that this could best be accomplished via playing Frisbee. With a record. As those readers who have seen Shaun of the Dead know, record-as-projectile actually works pretty well, assuming both parties are throwing the record with a measure of accuracy and catching said record competently. And. . . guess what? Competent we were not. Because we were drunk. As Old Major launched 20 Great Rock Hits of the 70’s! at me, the wind caught it and blew it off course, and despite my best lunge to put my body in front of the album, it hit the ground and shattered into a million pieces. Game over. Kids, this is why you don’t drink.

After wasting the dollar I spent on that shitty record at Backdoor Records with some drunken ineptitude, it was to go get some pizza. T’was delicious, and to my infinite pride, dear Old Major set the high score on the joint’s Ms. Pac-Man machine.

Old Major and his crew parted ways with us post-pizza, and Trotsky, my sober roommate, and myself returned to our abode, for Trotsky and I to sober up, as well as my roommate and I to clean. Clearly, I had some mad multitasking going on up in this bitch.

Around 9:45, Old Major and company turned back up, this time bringing an amount of people with them that could best be described as “a fuckton.” That was great, except for the fact that we hadn’t gotten around to making the punch yet. All further plans for cleaning were scrapped and pretty much the entire group of us set out to pouring a bunch of shit in the punch bucket. Here’s an inventory of what went in this shit as best I can remember:

-One gallon, Mr. Boston® brand vodka

-Three gallons water

-One gigantic thing, red Kool-Aid mix

-Four can-sized things, Limeade Concentrate

-One Jar, Maraschino Cherries

-Two Limes, sliced

Anyhoo, we hung out and drank, the party growing at an expected rate, for roughly an hour. Many Party Bolsheviks contributors showed up, including Caesar and Ethel Rosenberg, though sadly Madame J couldn’t make it as she’s currently “studying” abroad in France, trying to bag herself a Frog. Good times were being had, your gracious hosts were hosting graciously, etc.

About an hour after the punch had been made in its original iteration, Ethel Rosenberg and her friend, in their infinite wisdom (read: they were bein’ bitches), decided that the punch would be better serviced by a gallon of Squirt, and told me so. To which I, intoxicated past the point of tact, responded, “Whatever.” Ethel was none too pleased at my apathy, and her friend and she set about to providing the punch with a gallon of Squirt, which I guess in retrospect was a good thing because it spread the punch out and allowed it to last a lot longer.

And why was it necessary to stretch the punch out? Because motherfucking everybody showed up. You know how it works – an invited friend tells a friend, then that friend tells a friend, etc. which is how by, like, midnight, roughly fifty people were inside my house.

Being a good communist, I was cool with the amount of people in attendance, figuring that the enjoyment of the masses was the enjoyment of me. The only thing that really got my goose so to speak was how the hell were we supposed to get all these people drunk? Our Squirt-augmented punch quickly ran out, but it turned out that there was no need to fret at all, as people stayed bringing beer up in my house.

Around 2:00 in the morning, the place thinned out considerably, and I took it upon myself, now free of hosting responsibilities, to black the fuck out, which I’d been threatening to do for a few hours at that point.

The next morning I woke up with a splitting ache at the base of my neck, a searing need for a banana, and the satisfaction of a party well thrown.

I realize it took me almost a week to write and post this, but have no fear. The Party Bolsheviks is not dead, not dead by far. Inspired by It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, we plan to drink wine out of empty Diet Coke cans tonight. Surely a worthwhile blog post will ensue.

Love,

The Party Castro