Friday, July 29, 2011


Happy Friday blog readers! It feels great to be back blogging and I've almost got my sea legs back after that nine month sabbatical. Recently, I bought a new laptop since I decided that my current one was not up to snuff. The former laptop might have been the shittiest computer in use for a variety of reasons.

1) It was pink. I am a man-child, and being seen with a fuchsia colored laptop is not exactly "manly." My current laptop is jet black, like my heart.

2) The fan was shitty. It would overheat after only 30 minutes and use my thigh as it's own personal flesh griddle.

3) The battery sucked. It was basically a desktop computer since the battery would only last for about 20 minutes before it passed out and became an ugly, heavy paperweight.

4) It was missing the letter "A" and the "Enter" key. These are probably the most popular keys used when typing on a computer, so having to hit the same key multiple times like an unruly stepchild became very cumbersome when attempting to write a blog.

5) It was a whore... in a technical sense. Adware, spam, viruses; you name it, it had it. It was used up and spit out. If my computer was a woman it would Courtney Love.

I am very excited to have a new laptop that runs fast and is not fucking pink. This will probably not improve my spelling or grammatical woes, but should make it easier for my to bust out blogs with references to genitalia.

Also, I added Disqus to my blog to make it easier for people to leave comments. This way you don't have to sign up for a Google account or punch in some strange phrase to prove you're not an evil spam robot. This gives you no excuse not to comment. I will be expecting between 100-150 comments on my next post, so do not disappoint.

I should have the final chapter of "The Worst Day" up early next week so keep an eye out.


Thursday, July 28, 2011

No. 132 "The Worst Day (Part 2)."

If you missed Part 1, check it out here.

When one hears the words "We need to talk" from a girlfriend, there are four possible scenarios:

1) She enjoys mind-fucking you, and only wants advice on which shoes she should buy.

2) She is about to break up with you for banging her sister/mother/truck-stop hooker.

3) She wants to reevaluate your relationship by having endless conversations where she goes off on tirades about how you never listen to her while you stare blankly at her tits.

4) She done be pregnant.

Alright, where were we? Ah, so I had just received a message via MySpace from my girlfriend, (who I'll call Ly Inghoe to maintain her anonymity) explaining that we needed to have a conversation. No context, no clues; just those four frightening words. So, I casually deliriously made my way to the telephone and called her to figure out what was going on. I got her voicemail and left a message trying to sound as cheerful as possible even though my trousers were now saturated in urine.

You ain't cool unless you pee your pants.

A few minutes later I got a text message from Ly, saying that she was late for her period. Relieved, I told her to hurry back to class so she wouldn't get in trouble for being tardy. Much to my chagrin, she was not talking about her English class. She made it decisively clear that she was LATE for her PERIOD. My stomach began to churn as if I had taken a shot of gasoline and chased it with a match. I took a second to let it all sink in and tried to say something reassuring about the situation, but all that came out was: "Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity Fuck." This was not the encouraging statement Ly was looking for, and she decided the current conversation was over. But, before she hung up she made clear that she was "keeping it."

I suppose that saved me from an awkward conversation where I slyly hint the option of a schmabortion before I'm beaten down with a definitive "No" as well as an upholstery hammer. If only she was a Wiccan...

A few minutes later, after unsuccessfully attempting to hang myself with a computer mouse, I received another phone call from my future baby mama/destroyer of dreams. I took this opportunity to inquire as to how she knew she was pregnant. I was not given scientific facts or positive test results; but rather nondescript ramblings labeled under: "woman feelings" and "nonsensical bullshit." This gave me a glimmer of hope, since she had not actually taken a pregnancy test due to fear of being grounded and her lack of a motor vehicle.

I then dialed my sister, who lived in Scottsdale as well, to help with my current situation. After trying to explain the whole ordeal through my jumbled monosyllabic rhetoric, I finally was able to convince her to buy a pregnancy test and drop it off at Ly's place of residence in exchange for three 24-packs of Diet Coke.

Diet Coke: The ultimate bargaining chip when dealing with teenage girls.

I pictured my 17 year-old sister going to the local Walgreens to purchase a pregnancy test. I could see her alluding that the test was "for a friend" while she drew rolled eyes and a chastising stare from the elderly cashier who promised to "pray for her sins." Now, if I had to buy the pregnancy test myself, I would mask my purchase by sandwiching it between beef jersey, a Sports Illustrated magazine and condoms (for celebrating negative results safely). But, I figure that's just me.

Through various back-and-forth phone conversations and surreptitious pregnancy test drop offs, Ly finally obtained her pregnancy test while I awaited the results like a crackhead anticipating his next fix. To kill time, I decided to watch my favorite TV show, Maury Povich. Per usual, this episode dealt with paternity test results involving one hoe and seven men of irrelevant ethnicity. It was simultaneously ironic and cathartic. I found myself rooting for the 28 year-old unemployed loser to win this game of DNA Texas Hold 'Em; and spontaneously break into dance as his not-anymore baby mama ran into the green room to dramatically collapse while Maury feigned empathy and told her it would be alright.

"I call this my 'Not Having To Pay Child Support Dance!'"

(Sidenote: I am fully aware that I am destined for hell. But, I'm from Phoenix and used to dry heat, so the upheaval shouldn't be too dramatic).

After I was finished living vicariously through wannabe rappers on Maury, I thought about how I should have used a condom instead of a Doritos bag. Back in high school, we were required to take a three week course on sexual education. The lectures were less focused on educating youth of the risks involved in unprotected sex and more about showing abhorrent images of infected vaginas and penises on an over-head projector until the room was overflowing with vomit. The school nurse made certain to emphasize the repercussions of STD's, but failed to mention the worst sexually transmitted disease of all: unplanned baby. We have ointments, medications and cocktails for the other, more "celebrated" STD's -- but rubbing a medicated liniment on a baby will not make it go away.

Ly called me back later that day and said she was going to wait until the morning to take the pregnancy test since she wanted me to basque in fear for another twelve hours didn't have to pee. I offered to ship her industrial drums of Gatorade to help her with the urinary process, but my offer was declined. I reluctantly agreed to wait until the morning to determine my fate.

While in my fugue state, I envisioned what the conversation with my parents might be like. I figured it would go something like this:

Me: Hey, mom.

Mom: How is my wonderful and perfect son? Oh, let me put you on speakerphone so your dad can say hi.

Dad: I'm not giving you any more money.

Me: Um, it's not about that. I just wanted to talk to you about something...

Mom: Yes, honey?

Me: Ly is pregnant.

Dad: Nice knowin' you, fucker! (click)

Actually, the conversation would probably be a bit more theatrical; with crying, yelling, and punching converging in this orchestra of disappointment. I feared revealing the unfortunate truth to my parents more than actually becoming a father at the ripe age of twenty. I had to get my mind off this subject before I spontaneously combusted.

Just then, I got a phone call from my friend Jenny who was in town for the night. She was at her boyfriend's place and invited me to catch up and join in on a few adult beverages. It was a Tuesday night and I had a full day of classes in the morning, why the fuck not?

Part 3 coming soon.

Thursday, July 21, 2011

No. 131 "The Worst Day (Part 1)."

It was Spring 2006. Failure to Launch was the number one movie in America for some odd reason, James Blunt wrote a song that would guarantee him poon tang for life and I was living in Flagstaff during my sophomore year of college. Life was good as I was making the obligatory transition from socially awkward teenager with bad skin to outgoing twenty year-old with an Accutane prescription. I was enrolled in courses that actually related to my major and involved in my first real relationship. My girlfriend and I had been dating since the previous December and the relationship was chock full of giggles and blow jays.

Who doesn't love a film whose title is a facsimile for erectile dysfunction?

Looking back, dating this particular girl was about as regrettable as shaving your balls. I'll illustrate for my female readers reader: Every man has made this mistake in his life; where he believes that curtailing his fun sack will make his man area more comfortable and aesthetically pleasing to the female eye. Be that as it may, it is not worth it by the second day where you are compelled to scratch your nether regions uncontrollably like a rabid grizzly bear with crabs. But you live and you learn, I suppose.

Anyway, said girlfriend was living in Scottsdale and I in Flagstaff so not only was I concurrently having my first meaningful relationship, but I was also doing it long distance. This is comparable to going into a boxing match with absolutely no training, drunk. But, that's another story I'll tell another time.

At this juncture in my life, immaturity was at the forefront of my existence, and I cared nary a bit as I was much more interested in finding burnouts to buy me booze and playing video games where running over hookers with stolen cars was the primary objective. Unfortunately, due to a lack of friends who would agree to live with me, I had to reside in the dreaded dorms for yet another year. These rooms were a bit larger than my freshman year living quarters. I shared a bathroom with three other people instead of eighty, so it was certainly a step up in the "did I just step in cum?" department.

I had a new roommate for the spring semester since my old roommate had failed out of school. He was a nice, unassuming Asian dude named Jim -- or Yim? I called him Jim, so that was his name. Within the first ten minutes of meeting him I realized that we were not destined to become BFF's and share inside jokes while we rode a tandem bicycle. I just prayed for him not to turn out to be insane; or worse, super religious.

By this point in the semester, it was midterm season and I was preparing for my exams by getting drunk every night and procrastinating so efficiently that it became ironic. That day I had my first midterm of the semester in my Electronic Media class. I decided not to study until thirty minutes before the test began and felt very confident in my ability to procure a C on the test based solely on my charm and good slightly above average looks.

Needless to say, I failed the shit out of the test. I couldn't have done worse if I tried to intentionally fail the test in some sort of bizarro world where ineptitude was rewarded. After I handed in my scantron, the professor didn't even take the time to grade the test; he simply wrote "F" with a big red marker and told me to fuck off and die. Or something like that.

This was the first "important" test I had ever failed. Flunking an exam in World Politics was no big deal since it was an elective and I could drop the class dexterously. This really got to me, and I almost began to break down and cry on my long, dejected walk back home. Luckily, I was wearing sweet sunglasses, so even if I started to bawl like a volatile chick during the peak of her menstrual cycle, I would still look fly.

Finally, I made it back to my dorm where I decided that a few hours of mindless Halo would dispel my woes and cheer me up. Unluckily for me, as I opened my door, I received a eyeful of my roommate jerking off to hentai porn. How did I know it was hentai porn, you may ask? Well, what other porn gives you brief epilepsy after only catching it for a quarter of a second? Plus my roommate was an Asian nerd, so do the math. I hastily slammed the door and fled for my buddy Branden's room to feverishly rinse my eyes with hydrogen peroxide.

After flushing the nauseating image out of my eyes, Gideon decided to stop by. Let me give you a little back story on Gideon so you can fully comprehend my disdain for his entire existence. He was a hipster before hipsters weren't cool. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, spoke in a matter-of-fact way that made most people who had even the briefest conversation with him contemplate the repercussions of homicide. And, he was in my Electronic Media class. For some reason, Branden was friends with this dip shit, and that almost made me want to terminate my friendship with Branden based on his sheer defiance.

Gideon in his natural habitat.

Our conversation that day went something like this: (Just picture Gideon as a low-rent Jason Schwartzman, and me as a handsome motherfucker).

Gideon: "Good afternoon, gentlemen. I was on my way to promote some band you have never heard of, but wanted to stop by to borrow a vintage scarf since I'm a pompous asshole."

Me: "Why do you talk like that? No, we don't. Go away before this room turns sepia."

Gideon: "Rats. Oh, Patrick, did you receive your exam results in EM?"

Me: "No. They're online? I guess I'll check it out later. Good luck finding that scarf. I guess I'll see you later."

Gideon: "I did very well on the exam, a 97% in fact. Why don't you look up your results now? There's a computer right here."

Me: "I'll do it later. Leave."

This went on for a few more exasperating minutes until I finally succumbed to his duplicity and looked up my certainly inadequate test score. I attempted to beguile Gideon into believing that the internet wasn't working by typing too many "W's" and ending the internet address in ".cum" but Gideon caught onto my brilliant plan and commandeered the keyboard from me. He reservedly brought up the test results himself, where I was greeted with a definitive 32% staring back at me from Branden's monitor. Lemon juice, meet wound.

My expression immediately went from "Maybe the Scantron fucked up and I got an A" to "Welp, I'm screwed. Now I'm going to have to murder my roommate so I automatically get all A's like in that one movie no one remembers the name of." Gideon couldn't hide his Schadenfreude and offered to tutor me at a discount.

After punching Gideon in his horn-rimmed glasses, I made the trek back to my room to see if Jim was "done." I cautiously knocked a few times and gave a full three-count before I slowly entered the room like an international jewel thief. The overall smell of the room was a hodgepodge of AXE body spray, tube sock, and dried semen. I really hate the smell of AXE. We exchanged awkward head nods as I walked in. Mine saying: "I know you just made your dick throw up, but I'm gonna pretend I didn't see what I saw and watch Sportscenter." And his saying: "I swear I wasn't whacking it. I just was readjusting my sweat pants and accidentally clicked on a weird porn site." We both decided that eye contact would not be necessary for the remainder of the semester.

I then made way to my computer to check out my MySpace account. (Remember, this was over five years ago, and it was totally cool back then, I swear). I logged on to see if anyone had commented on my new profile picture consisting of myself holding a beer and looking wasted. No new comments unfortunately, but one new message from my girlfriend. I expected a nice poem or cutesy message about how she missed me, but to no avail. Just four words that no guy ever wants to hear:

"We need to talk."

Part 2 coming soon.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

No. 130 "The Scooter Store."

The other night while sitting in my can't-sleep-it's-three-AM-must-watch-TV stupor I came across an advertisement for a product that broke the fourth wall and asked it's audience (consisting solely of vagrants, meth-heads and myself) four simple questions aimed to gain membership into their elusive club. First of all, I love when commercials involve their audience and quiz them on whether they or a loved one have been affected by Mesothelioma or if they were interested in the rewarding world of veterinarian assistant care (basically cleaning up pet feces for eight bucks an hour). Anyway, the ad went something like this:

I could garner from the questions asked that this ad was obviously targeting bar hounds, drunkards and borderline alcoholics. I frantically searched for a notepad and pencil, then answered the questions myself to see if I might qualify.

Do health issues limit your mobility?
I'm not exactly sure if being out of shape and white is considered a "health issue," but whenever I attempt to join a game of pickup basketball, I am picked last after the kid with one arm. My mobility on the dance floor has also come into question from unimpressed bystanders, but I have always deduced it to be out of jealousy. Aside from that, the occasional hangover makes movement, as well as loud noises and bright lights highly egregious. Even a twenty foot walk to the fridge to retrieve a liberating glass of water can feel like a death crawl through a Vietnam jungle. So I guess the answer would be, Yes.

Is it difficult to get to the bathroom on your own?
That kind of depends on the scenario. At this moment, I would have absolutely no trouble making it to the bathroom and giving my toilet a golden shower. However, I do pee on the seat periodically when I'm concurrently attempting to style my hair. This is the reason why whenever I have female guests over, I piss in the bathtub or kindly ask them to use the bushes out back. Every now and then I will have trouble finding a bathroom, and must solicit the assistance of friends or illiterate busboys. Usually, after gaining directions to said restroom, I can handle the rest on my own with nary a hiccup. Despite the fact that every bar on the western hemisphere assumes that adults need an "attendant" present to help guide us in the hand washing department. I drove here six beers deep, I think I can handle the paper towels, Latrell.

Do you feel like a bother to others due to your lack of mobility?
When I'm lit up? Nope. I had no qualms letting my friends and/or bar staff help carry me out of said establishment while knocking over beer bottles and mixed nuts. Although, once reality sets in the next morning, I become embarrassed and spend the entire day texting thinly-veiled apologies marinated in subtle jokes to my friends who I offended. "Whoa, dude. Got fucked up last night, sorry I nailed your girlfriend. I guess you should call off the engagement." Or "I don't remember anything that happened at your party, but I'm pretty sure I killed your cat with a hatchet. My B." For this question, I'll answer Maybe.

Have you fallen in the past 12 months?
I could probably count the number of times I've fallen in the last twelve months on one hand (if that hand had 327 fingers). I consider myself a relatively sturdy person, but I can lapse into clumsiness in certain instances. Whether it be from attempting to dunk a basketball in front of big booty hoes or preforming a walk-and-turn during a field sobriety test. For the most part, whenever I fall, I make sure to resiliently return to my feet and compass the locality to see if anyone had witnessed my unfortunate fall and captured it on video to post on YouTube. So far, I have not fallen victim to the adroit ridicule of Daniel Tosh, so I consider myself lucky. I do believe my falls, trips and stumbles would diminish rapidly if I was riding around on a power chair, though. So my answer is Yes.

Seeing how I qualify, I can now cruise about on my custom scooter scot-free instead of having to rely upon Wal-Mart's broken down Soviet-era electric wheelchairs which I use sporadically until I'm escorted out by store security for knocking over a pyramid of tampons. This power chair could completely change my life. Not only will I immediately gain access to the front of any line. I can now finally attend my black grandson's baseball games, be welcomed to the family table instead of having to eat meals by myself in a dimly lit basement, and spin in circles until I vomit uncontrollably.

I'm not sure as to why the producers of this commercial felt to need to feature so many geezers, but it was too advantageous of a deal to turn down. This Doug Harrison fellow seems like a stand up guy, (pun!) although its kinda ironic that he's bald. I'll try not to mention that to him when he personally drops off my power chair or scooter and shows me the mechanics of the product. I will, however, demand that my scooter be decked out with racing stripes, spinning rims and a top-of-the-line stereo system. If I'm going to roll around on a scooter, I wanna be looking fly for the ladies.

Oh, I almost forgot. In addition to acquiring a free power chair or scooter, I also receive a lighted magnifier! I can't even begin to count all the times I needed a magnifying glass and a flashlight at the SAME TIME. Once, I outfitted one of my own by binding them together with duct tape, but it never gave me accurate results. Those things must cost a king's ransom; and Doug Harrison is just handing them out like hooker coupons on Las Vegas Boulevard. I'm lucky to have seen this ad, otherwise I would be using my feet to get around like a schmuck. Thanks Scooter Store!

Editor's note: I'd like to apologize to the throngs of senior citizens who read my blog religiously that might have been offended with this post. I try to be an equal opportunity offender and feel as though I haven't given you old farts your due. Now go back to scolding children, judging minorities and not walking.

Monday, July 11, 2011


Well, I'm back. Sorry for the almost ten month break/mental vacation/lazy-assity. I really do like writing blogs, but if I get out of a groove its hard to break the cycle. Kinda like working out. If I get in a fitness grind and work out all the time, it will motivate me to keep going. But, if I don't work out for a week and grow increasingly lethargic, putting on those spandex bike shorts and frayed muscle shirt becomes a much more difficult task.

Oh, and you might have noticed that this blog is no longer titled: "Sweet Cardigan." That is for two reasons:

1) Blogger makes it really, really, really, really fucking difficult to renew your domain name, so after several hours of searching through geek-infested message boards and ransacking every FAQ and Help page to no avail I gave up.

2) I never completely liked the title "Sweet Cardigan." I would use the phrase every now and then for some odd reason, but it really had nothing to do with the content of the blog. Also, I'm sure people looking to shop online for awesome cardigans were none to pleased to see not a single cardigan available for purchase on my blog. To those people, I'm am truly sorry and pray that one day you will find your perfect cardigan. I feel that "Totally Kidding" fits the sardonic, tongue-in-cheek and often offensive nature of the blog more precisely. So that's that.

Anyway, I'll be posting a new blog about once a week and try my best to keep up a decent cycle of quality shit. I should have a new one up later in the week.


Friday, July 8, 2011

No. 129 "Kid Party."

Recently, I celebrated my 25th birthday which brought about several mixed emotions for me. Nostalgia from all the memories I've created up to this point in my life. Bitter-sweetness upon realizing that my best irresponsible partying days are most likely past me. And, vomit from the sushi I disgorged onto a saguaro coming out of the bar after seven too many shots. Vomit is an emotion, right?

The hypothesis I'm attempting to express is that many people my age feel as though once they hit their mid-twenties they have to sit up straight and start acting like an adult; or at least finally learn how to properly tie a tie. Not me. I still loosen my ties and throw them in the closet so I can lackadaisically tighten it again whenever I'm forced to go someplace nice (funerals, over-priced nightclubs, Chili's). Eventually I'll get to that step by age thirty. Naw, make it forty.

What we all should be doing is celebrating the fact that we are still in the primes of our lives and are able to have a good time with some libations and loose friendly ladies without worry. Irresponsibility is not dead. And the best way to embrace your inner man-child is by throwing a party reveling in the best time in your life: Being a kid.

When you're a kid you don't spend your time distressing about paying a mortgage or studying for a final or wondering why it burns when you pee. Life is one big adventure full of curiosity and cotton candy; and you're bright eyed and bushy-tailed (sorry for the Shel Silverstein-esque lingua franca). Most kids could care less about their futures, and are more invested in the motherfucking Wiggles.

Live in the moment, my friends.

So, here is my idea to combine the whimsy of childhood with the debauchery of twentysomething life: A Kid Party. Of course, there will be a couple of changes along the way.

Bouncy Castles:
Even as an adult, whenever I pass by a bouncy castle on my way to the whorehouse library I want to kick off my shoes (rules are rules) and jump my brains out. You can literally kick the shit out of your friends in a bouncy castle and no one will ever get hurt. Add a couple cocktails and scantily-clad women and you have yourself a party. Invariably, some idiot you know will call attention to himself and claim to be able to pull off a flawless backflip. He will first shoo everyone away and mentally prepare himself for the biggest moment of his very empty life. After several incongruous attempts he will blame his shortcomings on the buoyancy of the castle and leave in a fit of rage while everyone at the party knowingly nods to the fact that he was far too fat to pull off a proper backflip anyway. The only problem with bouncy castles is that eventually one drunk ass will puke all over the castle and render it useless for the remainder of the party.

Hired Performers:
I'm talking about clowns in stilts, magicians and Disney characters! Just hire a couple of these recovering drug addicts turned children's performers under the guise that they will be working a boy named Timmy's 6th birthday party. Then, surprise them with free drugs and payment consisting of bloody rolled up twenty dollar bills. All of your guests will have a jocular time taking pictures with the entertainment, challenging them to arm wrestling competitions and knocking them off their stilts into the pool. For a few hundred dollars you will receive innumerable hours of fun, until one of the mime's OD's behind the dunk-tank after forcibly inhaling too much helium. Don't fret about notifying the authorities or calling an ambulance; hired performers have no one that loves them and they will not be missed.

Since your guests will consist primarily of adults, (with a sprinkling of high school chicks with fake ID's) there is no need for juice boxes or Capri Sun. Drop a couple kegs, hire a bartender and get weird. If the bartender is a male, make fun of his v-neck and lack of a beer gut to your out of shape buddies. But, if the bartender is a female, toss back-handed compliments her way and give her a firm slap on the ass after she makes your drink. However, remember to always wink afterward so she doesn't become upset, that would be just plain rude. Once you get a little liquored up, everyone can participate in children's games. Revamp Pin The Tail On The Donkey by turning it into a game of stabbing the tail onto unknowing guests with a stapler. Tag will be transformed via tasers and crossbows. And the pinata will be filled with expired condoms. (Note: Only use condoms as unconventional balloons. When engaging in coitus, always be safe and pull out.)

Back when you were a kid, every birthday party and sock hop was chaperoned by a group of your parents' friends or teachers from your school who had given up on a social life. Their main duty was to make sure no special needs kids drowned in the pool and to ensure everyone received an equal share of the odious sheet cake that had been baking in the sun for the past three hours. Things will be done a bit differently at this party. Scratch the PTO members and replace them with S&M hookers hired from Craigslist ads. These fierce women of leather combine authority with sexiness (if that's your sort of thing, weirdo) into the perfect party rent-a-cop. If anyone gets out of control, or tries to cheat in Bobbing For Everclear-Soaked Apples, a quick flick of the wrist will put them back in line.

Everyone loves animals, some too much. They're cute, furry and don't mind if you ride them. This party will encompass atypical animals, though. Instead of mini-horses and annoying parrots, we'll have lions, tigers and bears (Don't you fucking dare say "Oh my!"). I see horses all the time and am always unimpressed. Although, I am relatively certain they get some sort of sadistic pleasure out of watching me accidentally step in their shit while wearing my new Italian loafers. Wild animals that can only be witnessed at the zoo will liven up the party after everyone becomes concerned about the dead mime's lifeless body. Surprise your guests by releasing the animals while lunch is being served. Everyone loves surprises that can kill you.

Face Painters:
When I was a spry young buck I loved to get my face painted. Whether it was of my favorite sports team or a stupid fucking star, I was always up for it. Presently, I wouldn't get within fifty feet of a face painter for fear of being mocked by teenagers with unestablished vocabularies. At my party, the face painters will be replaced with a handful of seedy tattoo artists with checkered pasts who specialize in tramp stamps and tribal tats usually reserved for only the douchiest of douches. You may not want a tattoo at the beginning of the party, but after a couple mixed drinks and a dusting of blunt force trauma, you'll be talked into anything. Enjoy your butterfly tattoo, Brad.

Goody Bags:
This one is simple. Just fill zip-lock bags with cocaine and hand them out to guests at the conclusion of the party.

And that, my friends is how one throws a proper Kid Party. Although the confetti and party hats will be replaced with undomesticated wild animals and possible class-action lawsuits, the cathartic feeling remains the same. This party will, for a minute period, transform everyone into their six year-old self, (with the help of hallucinogenics) and allow them live their lives with no worries or consequences. ...Or something like that. Just don't bring any god damn sheet cake.
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