I'm so very weary of all the many, many, many holiday parties I've attended this season. While they have been delightful as always, I fear that the gatherings have all disappointed in some vital manner...have lacked a certain je ne sais quoi. After much painstaking research, I have identified this missing element--nay, this void in my very heart--as Loud Drunk Guy. Where hast ye been, Loud Drunk Guy? I feel like in my old partying days in NYC, He was always there, ready to vomit a fountain of red wine over a balcony (narrowly missing someone's pet Shih t'zu), photograph His buttocks with a borrowed disposable camera, or snarl "Hey howza, hot pants!" to a dowdy and unattractive fellow partygoer.
Loud Drunk Guy was my special friend. If I was at a dullard's carnival talking to some boring old lump, I could count on Him in the background, doing a backwards jig into the roaring fireplace or staring without shame down some poor girl's blouse. He would have come in handy at a recent party, when I bit into a coconut shrimp that tasted like a sterno-doused, candied scrotum and quickly retched it into a napkin. Loud Drunk Guy would have applauded! Not like those other boring old party guests who merely looked away, embarrased. In fact, when I tossed the Tasteless Chicken Pot Pie, the Nasty Imitation of a White Castle Slider, and the Rubbah Calamari, Loud Drunk Guy would have called attention to it: "This food SUCKS donkey balls!" He would have bawled to the crowd at large, probably unconsciously rearranging His "package" while He did so. He would have been right on the money!
Loud Drunk Guy wouldn't have glossed over the fact that a certain party guest was wearing a certain outfit designed for a 21-year-old that made her look even older than her 8,000 shopworn years. No, sirree. He would have made not-so-discreet "nasty monkey faces," leading the old tart to stub out her 87th cigarette and go clothe herself in a suitable muumu or woolen blanket. Thank God for the honesty of Loud Drunk Guy.
And what about the dancing and karaoke? There really is nothing sadder than watching a merely tipsy partygoer attempt this without much gusto or verve, yet failing on all counts. If you are going to be awful, go down hard. Do it Loud Drunk Guy's way. He would have shamed Himself and everyone within a 10-foot radius, and ended the number by piddling in His pants and passing out cold. Now that's a party, sister!
Usually, Loud Drunk Guy ended the night covered in mud, detritus, and far from home. Perhaps He's still out there somewhere, looking for the way back in through the tattered screen door. Waiting for the last canape to come under the grasp of His greasy, fumbling fingers. Gearing up for the final holiday shindiggeridoo. Pray He arrives with alacrity and a tummy full of 100 proof.