Party Foul

“Who is this person again?” I calmly asked as I adjusted my unruly boxers for the twentieth time. “A friend from college, I told you, a sorority sister. We went to their wedding, remember? The one in Italy?” Of course, how could I forget? Star-crossed lovers from the Midwest opted out of a thirty-minute drive to their local church so they could force three hundred people to buy a 1500-dollar plane ticket, yeah I remember. “And Jason remember, her husband, you and him hit it off?” We in fact did not hit it off. I clocked Jason from a mile away, slick-backed hair, Oakleys hanging from his pastel color shirt. Speaking with him only affirmed my assumptions: trust fund baby with a high seat at his daddy's company table. I was shocked he could even talk with that silver spoon in his mouth.

A half-hour into the drive, my skin began to crawl. We were almost there and I had to switch to the all-taxing and strenuous party mode. My girlfriend placed a hand on my own just to stop it from tapping on the middle console, she knew how I got. “Honey, don't worry it's gonna be great. You'll have a blast.” I was in fact not going to have a blast. My cumulative neuroticism assuredly made it so. Not to be cynical but to save my hyde I've run my irrational fear into my mind algorithm, populated with the pros and cons, and a risk-based assessment scanned against my idiosyncrasies, which include, eye floaters, ibs, heart palpitations, feeling trapped, spontaneous headaches, and an irrational fear that my breath smells horrendous at any given time. I'd say conclusively with a margin of error of about two decimals I'm not going to have a blast. So I suppose you'd ask why, why would you even bother going? Clearly it was not worth it. Well, the simple answer was because of the special person sitting next to me driving.She saw the real me despite my flaws. If that wasn't a keeper I didn't know what was.

It was easy to get lost in Jason's newly furnished mansion, plus people were mostly swept up in themselves. We were close to the bewitching hour, the partygoers were thinning out and the stockade of cars began to slowly roll out of the cul de sac driveway. That's when he said it. “Hey team it looks like there's only a few of us now. I can finally give you a proper tour of the new digs.” My girlfriend and I fell in line with the other victims.“Oh hey,” Jason’s wife said enthusiastically, holding a tray of what I could only assume was cat food. “Here, take one before I have to put it away, it's catfish tartar. You'll love it,” This amalgamation of raw fish and spicy condiments on a cracker would absolutely wreak havoc on my sensitive stomach, to what would lead to be an absolute bowel induced armageddon. “Thanks, I'd love one.”

After downing the fancy feast, the tour began. “I'm sure you've all seen the fountain out front, but wait till you see it lit up. We’ll save that for the end then. Alrighty, this way!” The first room was simply known by its contents, the art room. Our chipper guide flipped a Frankenstein-like switch that illuminated the small room with the intensity of a thousand suns. my eye floater defenses engaged a deep eye squint with a hand canopy. “These are actual samurai swords from the Ashikaga clan, a real prize.” As he ranted about the vintage one-of-a-kind French paints that's when it hit. The rumbling of a finite masterpiece, a real symphony of destruction formed in my lower bowels. Just say no when someone asks you to eat raw fish you fucking fool.

I wasn't overly religious, but at that moment I prayed to whoever would listen. Which religion had the most Gods? I needed probability on my side, Father Zeus please help me. Deep in the wine cellar, I managed to eek out a meager amount of pressure buying time and saving my pants. I continued to crop dust the wanna-be Sommelier as they sniffed their swirled pinot noir. “Mmm, I'm sensing a hint of fruitiness in this one.” Fruitiness, alright! We stood there for at least 45 hours as Jason delivered more of his passionate and mildly suggestive dirty jokes. I calmly tried to show my interest by chuckling, but all I could do was breathe deeply. Whisper farting didn't seem to be working anymore, Mount Saint Helena was going to erupt and the evacuation plans were futile. That's when I excused myself. Out of eyesight I sprinted in a blurred panic. In my dismay I smashed into the stand that housed the swords, they swung like a pendulum tearing through the midcentury canvas. I had no time to look back, all bets were off now. I savagely burst into the garage hoping to find some fresh air. Why not run to the bathroom? I'm not sure, nothing made sense when survival mode took over.

I speed towards the door, cracking the side mirror of the Porsche. Panic overcame me. This was happening now, whether I liked it or not. Instinctually, I pulled down my pants. Whatever happens, I could at least save my sole pair of khakis. As soon as my ass hit open air, my body knew it was go time. I hopped onto the monstrosity of marble. I unleashed all hell into the fountain, expelling my demons in a swift clammy sense of relief.

Midway through my expulsion, I heard him. “Alright team”—WE’RE NOT A FUCKING TEAM SHIT HEAD—. “The grand finale.” He flicked the switch near the door and I was lit up like an escaped convict. My messy deed, on full display. Everybody watched as the fountain churned and splattered. Me on its edge, drained of all dignity and in full delirium. I just waved.