I THINK WE HAVE A SITUATION

In this world, there are very few Drinking Holidays, days where you are not only permitted to consume, but are societally encouraged to. You’ve got the 4th of July, Halloween, whenever the Pistons win an NBA Championship, New Years Eve, Veteran’s Day. . . and that’s about it. These structures of imbibidity are deigned to us by the INSTITUTIONS prescribed to our society before our birth. We have no choice in when these days fall. It is mandated that we must drink on such holidays by forces bigger than ourselves, bigger than the government, bigger than the world. We are presented excuses to drink, and we (pun intended) drink 'em up. The Secret World Government controls us. We are complacent. We are sheep. We have always been at war with Oceania.

(This is what happened the last time the Pistons won an NBA Championship.)

The only way to combat these insidious, shadowy forces that govern our blood-alcohol-levels is to say, “Structure can go fuck itself,” and create New Drinking Holidays.

This is where the hair gel comes into play.

Two days after New Years Eve, the Party Brezhnev and myself created a little Drinking Holiday and celebrated it at our de la casa by throwing a party. The cause for merriment, you ask?

Jersey Motherfucking Shore.

Those of you who know me – probably most people who read this because our readership is as of now in the high single digits, not counting the people who write for it – know that I’m obsessed with Jersey Shore. Shit is like The Wire crossed with the experience of watching zoo creatures run around out of their cages. It’s just beautiful. I shudder to think of what would happen if the aliens that are monitoring Earth were to watch the show and assume that this is an accurate portrayal of how humanity functions on a day-to-day basis. They would immediately destroy the planet. The very fact that we haven’t been blown up already is proof that the aliens also have access to such delightful fare as the Alec Baldwin/Merryl Streep romcom about growing older while rekindling old flames and also smoking pot, It’s Complicated (aka DIVORCEFUCK: Electric Boogaloo!).

Anyhoo, a Jersey Shore party is really just an excuse to dress up like a douchebag and yell a lot, as long as you’re dressed the part. To accomplish such aims, you have to go to TJ Maxx and buy a shirt that’s really shiny. I got one that was a couple sizes too small and had a bedazzled cross surrounded by green flames. It was hideous. Brezhnev got an Ed Hardy tie, and in a minor coup, Trotsky, who spent a significant portion of this break sleeping on our couch, got hisself a black sparkly joint that came with a free pair of headphones. Woo-ha.

This was a dedicated-as-fuck theme party. A lot of people covered themselves in bronzer, and Old Major even went so far as to slick back his hair and turn himself orange. Many, many people had blowouts and faux-hawks, and some people even got into character, giving their new, bronzed selves alter egos. Perhaps the ultimate in this came with Ivana Trump, who went by the remarkably subtle and tasteful “Tits.” Additionally, I thought one girl in attendance was literally not wearing a shirt, but it turned out she had just cut her garment's back out, because if there’s one thing that the rich, illustrious history of Italy has taught us it’s that entire shirts are fucking stupid.

Oh, and there was a DJ who played house music all night. We fist-pumped a lot. My arm was tired the next day. Somebody smashed a pumpkin in our yard. If you couldn’t have guessed, I can’t remember a lot of what happened, but the next day our house was covered in sunglasses and Heineken bottles. Sorry to whoever left the Gucci shades on our kitchen table, because Trotsky reappropriated them shits.

- The Party Castro

A BITTER NEW YEARS BY A BITTER MAN

Ahhh, New Year’s Eve. The annual celebration of insidious Occidental cultural imperialism, of the way in which the dominant Western ideology has become manifest in the very way we keep track of time. It’s enough to make an Old Major vomit. All of you who saw me on New Year’s, I WAS vomiting from disgust, not from alcoholic excess.

Still, when in Rome, do as the Romans do (this aphorism is especially pertinent, as the Roman calendar is the one we use today, and Rome was America before America was America). And so begins my tale of some str8 up Party Bolsheviks doing what it is we do.

Since, in addition to a celebration of Christ’s 2010 and 6/365th birthday, the festivities on the 31st were to welcome home the expatriotic Party Lenin, we all knew we were in for a blackout. We began the night over at Castro and Brezhnev’s de la casa. There were people there. We played a drinking game called Pin the Tail on the Capitalist, which is to flip cup as dong pong is to beer pong. This may have made the female contingent uncomfortable, but, in the spirit of being oppressive, white, bourgeois imperialists, we didn’t give a fuck.

So now we’re walking to the Big Party, rolling str8 up fourteen deep. I’d like to say that we brought the party, but the party was doing just fine without us, and even if we hadn’t come, it still would’ve been great. YEAH FUCKING RIGHT. We immediately began distributing a handle of Wild Turkey which, in addition to a keg of what I think was Yuengling (America’s bougiest brewery—still, though, very tasty), provided the fuel for our alcoholic fire. I’m especially proud to report the communal smoking of a legit Cuban cigar which spontaneously appeared, a manifestation in tangible goods of the Bolshevik spirit. We lit it with a car exhaust.

The main activity for the night was, understandably, waiting for midnight to occur so we could all yell and recall fondly what a good time we had on New Year’s. People coupled up in anticipation a moment of societally-mandated promiscuity. To the dismay of many a member of the fairer sex, I spent midnight in the bathroom taking a piss. Sorry ladies, but principles before hoes.

After this comes what was my personal favorite part of the night: the cadre of drunken frat boys who showed up trying to fight. This was The Situation we in the Party Bolsheviks had been waiting. After the main frat guy, who I’ll call the Party Bernie Madoff, called the Party Castro the F-word (and I don’t mean Fuck) one too many times, it was time to take things outside. Since it is impossible to simultaneously participate in and remember a fight, I cannot provide details. Suffice it to say that the invaders were soundly beaten, with our only casualty being the brave Professor Jonathan Ringlewater. He will be missed.

And that’s that, as far as I’m concerned. I walked the 2.5 miles back to my house at around two in the morning. The festivities may have continued, but I did not.

OLD MAJOR