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