There’s a Party in My Pants

I had the extreme misfortune yesterday of watching a show on MTV called The Best Sixteenth Birthday in the World for One Hugely Spoilt Bitch or something like that. I don’t remember what it was. I was busy at the time. What I do remember was how absolutely fucking terribly the little girls on the show behaved — and by extension how all women behave in exactly the same manner. These are role models for young women after all. Research has been done for it.

What the show taught me was something that I already knew, men are better than women at throwing parties. Everyone knows that. P Diddy knows that. And it’s not just because women’s organizational skills are a cluster fuck and that they turn into raving psychos when they have to deal with the kind of stress involved in getting a few dozen baked goods at the corner market or getting a dress hemmed before Thursday. No, it’s because women have their party attitudes all backwards ass — like a mule has had a face drawn on its butt and been taught to walk backwards.

If you ever see that, that’s a woman throwing a party.

It’s a simple question of motive, just like everything else that women fuck up, it’s because their motives are as transparent as an invisible brick wall.

When men throw a party, they make sure everyone has a good time. Men are good guys like that. As long as everyone is well fed, well drunk, and well on their way home by the end of the night with a smile on their face, it was a good party.

Women, however, have their heads screwed on in the wrong direction.

Women throw parties like the Greeks threw parties for their Gods — guess who’s the God. Likewise they expect heaps of libations and offerings to be unloaded upon them at all times. Presents? Yea, you bet your ass you’d better bring something. Bullshit? Oh yes. Be prepared to come up with some bullshit. Bullshit like this:

“Where did you get these napkin holders that also look like magicians hats? Did you purchase them out of a catalogue with your husband’s credit card? Did it take you like five fucking minutes when all was said and done? Did you have to get express shipping because you fucked off with the whole thing until the last minute? Well it really ties the whole stupid theme together. You’re so creative with your eight hours a day that aren’t spent at an office or a construction yard. And I’m so glad that eighteen pack of Amstel Light lasted like twenty minutes.”

Sounds like some world class bullshit doesn’t it? Well it is, and it’s also the kind of shit that you have to say at a woman’s party if you expect to get invited back. Plus you have to take whatever lame party favor is given to you at the end of the pseudo-party with a big smile on your face and not at all say, “What the fuck is this thing?”

When a man plans a party he asks himself these questions and then the party planning is done.

1. Do I have a trashcan or buckets full of ice and beer? Check.
2. Do I have as many chips and subway sandwiches as would fit in a shopping cart? Check
3. Are there going to be hot, hot ladies at the party?

Usually the answer to the third is ‘No’, but in a way that’s why men’s parties are so good. Because there are never any women around to fuck them up by pretending to play princess for a day.

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