The Greatest Party Ever Told

Very few of the parties I host at the Junta end up with us stripping down to our pastel-colored underpants and drunkenly prancing around the room with a constabulary of rugged, cocoa-colored Africans. Something about the Byronic air of the place — the textured, wine-colored wall paper; the oak golems staring out of the mantles; the dress code of fezzes, moustaches, pince-nezzes and smoking jackets; the imminently respectable personage of our man Jittimer arching an eyebrow at any display of youthful frivolity in the corner; the gigantic, Sunday-large skull of Eliza filling the room like a brutal sun — does not lend itself to sucking a jello shot out of an African-American’s navel. More the shame. I would give a chunk of flesh to attend this party, resurrected — immortal — from the dusts of time thanks to a handful of flea market Polaroids and the revivication power of the Internet.

Mildly nsfw.

The Party [Square America] : Dethroner