Check and recheck that list of people you're going to call over for the Saturday night jam. Do you see my name in it? You know you can’t tell. You are now paranoid because you don’t want us in your partay. You are scared to death because you know we crash parties like drunk pilots crash Boeings. You know your hot little sluts are going to sleep with us and the gay little machos will dip nachos with you. You know you’re gonna look like we came in your party and we pissed on you while your girlfriends hooted topless for us. We are your worst nightmares, We are the reason you ended up such a little dork. We are the reason you wont party anymore.
Zap back into the reality.
SAPM has never partied. I’ve been in this city for two months now. It is almost suicidal kind crazy that when you ask me-
“So dewd, who’re you jammin’ weeeeth!”
I will come up with a response like,
"The whole idea of a democracy baffles me. I mean, agreed that our predecessors found it right to promote Democracy in this country because we were all freshly independent and yays and woows and yippies and Democracy seemed like the shit. But weren’t they aware of the fact that, a freshly independent nation is like a blob of flesh out of the vagina? You can’t give the wand to a blood-covered infant and ask it to make you a magical pie!?! It’ll choke itself, silly.”
So you’ll know that I am jammin’ with Socio-economics.
There have been times at the pitch black of the nights when ideas like holding a placard reading, “Need friends, not douchebags” and sitting in the middle of the Ganj area watching old folks shake their head in disgust ad little pricks suppress their laughter have come to my mind. Hell, I’ve been to bookshops and roamed around there only to find English Literature Majors carelessly pick their course books and run to bill it.
So eight weekends have gone by and I’ve managed to bag no fun. SAPM hates to party the high-school kind. SAPM likes Smirnoff flowing like heavenly manna and a maximum of 3 awesome people getting drunk on it and hitting the right kind of music, baby. That will be followed by scrap papers and white shirts scribbled with on-the-spot poetry/witty comment/ memorable word-invention episode. Followed by wearing your favorite super hero costume and jumping off the balcony of the first floor. Follwed by waking up in the hospital bed with the poetry shitz scribbled still all over you.
Where art thou, worthy party-crasher?
wow, last para again, please. let that be your invitation.
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