So, Kylie & I are two of the most anti-social people you’re never likely to meet. Will Rogers famously said “I never met a man I didn’t like.” Well, Will Rogers was an asshole, and fuck him, too. We have parties about once every… uhm… well, never, actually.

We used to host orgies, but got tired of them because we never got to play. We were too busy spending 14 hours playing host instead. Every time we had an orgy everyone would tell us what a fantastic time they had while we just felt… tired.

Last year our friend Kari asked if she could have her birthday party at our place as a gift, since we have a big loft and a dungeon and our place is essentially the pervert’s answer to Chuck E. Cheese (this assumes that you understand the essential deductive implication that, while all pedophiles are perverts, not all perverts are pedophiles… the pedophile’s answer to Chuck E. Cheese is Chuck E. Cheese).

It was fun. Even though it wasn’t an orgy, a lot of people got naked, a lot of people got laid, a lot of people had orgasms and got spankings and when we were cleaning up at 6 a.m., an hour after the last girl had climbed off the Sybian, we were tired, but it was worth it.

So, when Kari asked us to do it again this year, we said “sure.” We invited a bunch of our civilian friends (most of whom came, thank you) and a bunch of our porn friends (most of whom didn’t, fuck you). Kari invited most of her same crew from last year, including the delicious Renee who did a fire dance, and two of her friends with bands. The first was her S.O. Frank, who, with his partner, makes up a band called MasterSlave.

I don’t actually get along with Frank, but it’s nothing personal… we just rub each other the wrong way. His band is actually quite good, though they were (yes, I’m old) too loud within the confines of our warehouse, so I had to listen from outside. (Stop that laughing!)

The other band that was playing was led by this asshole. He was the big floating turd in the party punchbowl; the spolied green cherry on top of a shit sundae. Horace came in with his snotty little entourage of snotty little artfags (understand that I couldn’t care less about your orientation… in high school, I was a drama fag and I’m straight) and proceeded to treat out place — our home — like it was a punk club.

He rolled his eyes at me and huffed when he realized I wasn’t going to help him load in his gear (I’m the fucking host! I’m talking to fucking guests!). His posse — more of a passé, really — of 10 ‘tards or so, showed up to a one empty-fucking-handed, and then started to get shitfaced on the booze everyone else brought, and kept their shitty attitudes right up front like a bitchy little badge of honor.

When we discovered that a bottle had gotten smashed on the concrete floor in front of Horace, where he was singing, I decided to sweep most of it up because it was getting ground into the floor and, y’know, we have NAKED people here on a regular basis. As I was sweeping up glass, trying to stay out from in front of Horace’s set, two of his fucktards came over to slam into me, I’m sure because I was in the way of their bleached-blond buffoon-in-charge.

I didn’t want to ruin Kari’s birthday, so I restrained myself from starting a fight, even after more unacceptable shit happened later. But Horace, someday, I’m gonna meet you after a show and beat you fucking bloody as payback for the salsa stunt. That’s a promise.

The moral of the story is that we don’t have parties often, and when we do, we remember why we don’t. So the next time we invite you to a bash out our place, you best get your perky li’l ass up off the couch and get down here ‘cuz you never know. It might be your last chance.

Whatcha think?

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