THE FOLLOWING IS MY HAZY RECOLLECTION OF A RECENT HALLOWEEN PARTY I ATTENDED. FOR SARCASTIC PURPOSES ALL NAMES, DATES AND LOCATIONS HAVE BEEN ALTERED ONLY SLIGHTLY FOR COMEDIC EFFECT AND LEGAL PROTECTION WHILE IN NO WAY ACTUALLY HIDING ANYONE'S TRUE IDENTITIES.
6:32pm: I am picked up for a Halloween party by 3 acquaintences who have clearly grasped the concept of the holiday and dressed accordingly. My lack of costume is met with icy stares and the next hour is spent in awkward silence except for some of hip hop's finest crooners romantically serenading their bitches uncensored through the Sirius XM radio.
7:14pm: Route 65 narrows from two lanes to one, confusing western PA's finest drivers with the complicated merging process. As we sit at a standstill I am reminded of a saying I saw on Facebook that "you're not IN traffic, you ARE traffic" and as I reflect on the wisdom of that statement I contemplate the intense joy I would feel inflicting Tarantino-esque violence upon its author.
7:40pm: We arrive at the home of our benefactors, Bryan and Candy Prantz. A quick survey of the amazing decorations and efforts put into the party's presentation fill me with shame as I calculate they put more work into one party than I do into cleaning and maintaing my home in a year. I make a mental note to mow the lawn soon.
7:41pm: Our hosts have a bar built into their backyard, named 'La Turkey Tavern', after an obsessive fondness for a liquor of similar name. At first glance I believe Bryan to be dressed as a witch only to find out he's actually Deena from Jersey Shore. The resemblance is disturbing and slightly erotic. Candy is dressed as a nurse with full-blown syphilis and what appears to be pink-eye. Again, disturbing and slightly erotic.
7:42pm: I engage in a quick succession of greetings and introductions which are immediately forgotten as the polite memory part of my brain is being drowned out by repeated chants of 'WHERE'S THE BEER?' coming from my brainstem. Or my cerebral cortex. Or my id. Or my intestinal tract. I'm not really sure.
7:43pm: I have beer. Delicious beer. Delicious beer from a keg that has been artfully landscaped in the backyard. I have decided that Bryan 'Cake' Prantz is unquestionably the greatest man alive.
7:52pm: On my second beer I am approached by Bryan who hands me a bottle of Mad Dog 20 20 and says "handle this". I have decided that Bryan 'Cake' Prantz secretly hates me and under the deception of a friendly party invitation is actually plotting my death through low-grade college student alcohol.
8:12pm: I engage former coworker Thomas Christianson in work related conversation. Between discussing the Occupy Wall Street movement and his homemade foil belt buckle we agree that installing UFC style cages in our respective workplaces to settle disagreements between employees as well as employees and customers makes fiscal sense in this unstable economy.
8:59pm: I realize I have finished the entire bottle of Mad Dog, more commonly known as the nectar of the damned. For a long time I stare down into the bottle searching for my last drop of dignity and self respect. I do not find it.
9:30pm: I inform Bryan that I have finished the Mad Dog with the desperate hope that he will recall days gone by as well as our years of friendship and reward them with a respectable adult beverage. He informs me that he has just the thing before reaching into his cabinet and withdrawing...wait for it...Boone's Farm. It may have been a trick of the lighting or an after affect of the Mad Dog but as I looked into his eyes while he handed me the bottled antidote to high school virginity, I swore I saw the depths of hell in them.
10:21pm: As the sweet combination of liquid ghetto and white trash elixir courses through my veins I start to wonder why I haven't watched a single Tyler Perry movie and that I should also start setting my DVR to record Truck Stop Missouri. Somewhere, deep down, the sober, rational part of myself is crying for help but no one can hear him.
12:11am: I find myself engaging Cheech and Chong in conversation. They wax poetic on various social issues, discuss potential GOP candidates in the '12 election and dissect Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged and how its ethics of indivualism as the greatest good apply to modern times. Or they asked me to participate in recreational drug use. My memory is hazy at this point.
12:37am: I decide to expand my social circles even further and navigate my way throughout the party with a swagger that borders on 'stumbling'. Men are impressed with my heroic consumption of fruity liquor. Women are intrigued by my indecipherable combinations of vowels and consonants that can only loosely be described as 'words'. The vaunted Kulifay charm is in full effect. At least between numerous bathroom breaks.
Unknown Time Later: I exit the party. Lack of details can be directly attributed to the cast of characters mentioned prior. See Dog, Mad and Farm, Boone's for an explanation.
The author of this pointless blog would truly like to thank Bryan and Candy for a wonderful evening, as well as allowing me to deplete your liquor cabinet of various beverages no one else would touch. Additional thanks go to those who provided transportation to and from the event, allowing me imbibe said beverages no one else would touch without concern. To everyone I hadn't seen in awhile it was great to catch up again. To those I met that night, it was a pleasure. Next year I promise to put effort into a costume and in return, no Mad Dog. Agreed?
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