Quote:
Originally posted by Penske_Account
ITTID.
|
ITTIDT.
I mean, there's partying and there's *partying*. And then there's PARTYING!!! and also P-P-P-P-P-AAAAAAAAAAAAAARTYING!!!!!!! There's even:
P.
A.
R.
T.
Y.
I.
N.
G.
The latter generally happens when an all night bender goes awry, and you wake up outside, semi-clothed, covered in blood and vomit, only some of which is your own. You drag yourself home, do a couple of bong hits, vomit, shower, more bong hits, vomite again, and sit on the couch trying to figure out what has become of your life. Soon, you realize that the amount of pain you are suffering is unbearable, there is no way you can sleep, and you are not ready to die. So you give in to the inevitable, pull a 40 of malt liquor out of the fridge, do one last bong hit because it seems like a quaint thing to do, and call your "friend" with the crack habit. By noon, you are on your third 40, and your friend is screaming at you in between hits that the whole house is bugged, that the god damn feds are tightening the noose, and begins to smash your possessions looking for listening devices and hidden cameras. So you figure it is a good time to hit the road. But you have no idea where your car is, so your pal hot-wires your neighbor's Audi and you peel out, stopping only briefly to break into a friend's apartment to break in and steal his Demorol, which you alternate popping and grinding up to smoke with the crack. You put on ACDC's Back in Black, which causes your friend to sing along, but instead of singing, he is shrieking like a banshee with a broken pool cue being shoved up his ass, and instead of ACDC, he is singing the words from Billy Joel's Glass Houses. Then he gets a demonic look in his eyes and he starts stuttering in the same anally-raped banshee shriek: "Lett-t-ts g-g-get weird. LET'S G-G-G-GET W-WEIRD-D!!!!" So you drive to his apartment, "parking" the car on his neghbor's deck. It takes him somewhere between 30 seconds and a day to locate the vial of liquid acid, which you both begin to pour liberally straight into your eyes. Approximately seven weeks or a half hour later, it begins to kick in, and you just want to dance, but you can't because your pants are so wet, and in your last moment of quasi-lucidity, you realize you are complete incontinent. So you pull off your clothes and run outside with shit streaming down your legs, and now the cops are really actually after you, but they're not the cops, they are beautiful angels, and you think to yourself as you slip from consciousness that each baton blow to your head feels like a thousand blow jobs all at once.
I mean, that's partying.
This post has been co-sponsored by Sebastian.
