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It was a prime fall evening. The jungle juice was abundant. The racks were cascading from the fridge. My human breathalyzer costume, with the straw strategically placed over my family jewels, was ready to earn me VIP status among the naughty variations of animals that women have managed to make sexier over the years. Slutty spider? Who said it couldn’t be done? Totally would. I was going into the night with a stupid amount of optimism.
As I was finishing up the “blow me” sign that went along with my breathalyzer costume (maybe a little too on the nose), I received a phone call from our risk manager. Without contemplating the dire consequences of answering like an empty headed chud, I picked up the phone. Huge mistake.
“Hey Swoop, Wang’s sick tonight and can’t be a sober brother. We need you to cover for him.”
I quickly began rifling through excuses in an attempt to get out of the world’s least appealing job. He wasn’t having any of it, but agreed to let me wear my costume. I bit my lip, decided to be a contributing brother for a change, and did as I was told with only a moderate amount of resistance. Wang, you still owe me a solid.
The party was going well until about halfway through. One of my brothers approached me — three sheets to the wind — and told me about a situation that needed my attention at the back window immediately. I casually strolled to the window to find people pouring through it. It looked like a meat grinder just pumping out inebriated adults. At a different venue I’d look the other way, but these people were literally breaking into my house. I found a space between bodies to thrust my head out of the window.
“What the fuck are you guys doing? Go around and pay like everyone else if you want in.”
I felt good about that statement. It was authoritative, yet inviting. Like your step dad who’d let you smoke a heater at 14 but would act pissed if your mom found out. Unfortunately, one dildo decided to reply with, “What are you supposed to be dressed as?”
I ignored it, and told them to please just go around and get in the proper way. Then he asked that same stupid question again.
“I’m dressed as the guy who’s about to call on his 100 plus brothers to roll you squids if ya’ll don’t get the out of my backyard.” Clearly, the cool step dad vibes had dissipated.
“Well you look like the beeper a washer and dryer salesman would keep on his belt clip to get out of dinner with his in-laws. Super timely costume, dude.”
I slammed the window shut and locked it. Dammit, that was a fantastic comeback. You don’t come across that kind of on-the-spot creativity very often. Later I found that kid in the party and gave him his props, after he had come in the correct way of course.
Things seemingly went back to normal and I started to throw some game down on our female guests, waiting for them to read the sign on my chest and basking in the validation I’d receive from their looks of disgust followed by admiration. This whole responsible, sober monitor gig wasn’t the worst thing in the…“Oh my God! He’s having a seizure!”
I busted through the crowd to find what looked like some demon possessed body in the midst of an exorcism. The music stopped, everyone went quiet, and all of a sudden I was the one in charge. Just usually irresponsible me, a “Blow Me” sign, a room full of useless inebriated peers, and a guy speaking in tongues as the dark prince exits his soul. Not the most ideal situation to find yourself in on a Friday night, but not all heroes wear capes. I sprung to action.
As I called an ambulance while a few other guys ushered the crowd out of the house, a girl came up to me and told me that she was Pazuzu’s girlfriend. She went on to say that this happens fairly often because he’s epileptic, so there was no reason to bring paramedics and police into the equation.
Suddenly the kid came to as the flashing lights subsided. I breathed a sigh of relief, patted our risk manager who showed up on cue five minutes too late on the back, cracked open a beer, and said “My job here is done.”.