Unless you're a total cat-loving shut in who likes to talk to Oprah through your TV, parties are fun. Hanging out with a bunch of friends (or even a bunch of retards if you're lonely and drunk enough) and talking, drinking, and screwing (and blowing shit up) are great normal people pastimes. What's even more fun is crashing these kinds of social gatherings when the fuckers who throw them don't invite your lampshade-wearing, entertaining ass. As was the case with the "I Can't Believe I'm Not Dead" New Year's Party a few years back, I joined in the festivities, and ignored a restraining order, so that I could get blitzed for a few days straight with some people who.... Well, in this case, Team Greenwood.

Things kicked off on Fourth of July Eve when a few early partiers coagulated at Mehve's house for some liquor, pizza, beer, movies, alcohol, vodka, whiskey, martinis, tequila, rum, cognac, sake, absinthe, wine in a box and some pretzels. When everybody was nice and drunk I tried to get them to watch the greatest sci-fi/drama/robot warrior, art movie of all time (Casshern), but Team Greenwood just kept mocking it through its first 5 hours because of its lack of anything American, lack of dick and fart jokes, and because of its supposed "retardation." UNSOPHISTICATED FOOLS! Instead we put in Team America: World Police and watched it two or five times just so we could see all that hot puppet sex again and again. Wow! I've got to try some of those moves on Blow-Up Belinda tonight.

The Cheat was getting a little frisky that night, and many unfortunate souls found themselves to be the backdoor to his carnal desires. Here we can see Stryper getting sweet talked into doing something he normally wouldn't do. Everyone knows that Stryper's a quarterback and not a wide receiver. Man, that is one smooth Cheat.... I do wonder what Captain Rugged is so appalled at in the background of this shot. Is he in shock that his friend just got anally intruded by an obviously VD-filled demon from Hell? Or is he pissed that the Cheat didn't choose him?

It was still a day early, but it was nice to see that Good Lenin was packing plenty of 'splosives for the festivities that were sure to pop up on the following night (the 4th itself). "Death to the Fascist American pig-dog government!" seemed to be his catchphrase that night. Wait, is he called Good Lenin because he's a good Lenin, or because he's a good Lenin?

After a twelve pack or two the Cheat was looking mighty fine. Here I am showing the bitch that I was indeed the Alpha Male of the room. I didn't even spill one drop... Well, other than what I needed for lube.

At about three in the morning Captain Rugged ninja-killed me because I took the last beer. See, the party started on a Sunday night, and there was only a limited mass amount of alcohol in the fridge because here in Georgia Sundays are no-alcohol sales days, because the lawmakers all like to suck Jesus' nuts while shoving bibles up their asses. What was ironic about my death was that everyone initially forgot that it was already in fact MONDAY morning, and the 24-hour Wal-Mart across the road had opened its vast fire-water selection for purchase hours before. Only 5 people from the party died in the following drunken car ride over to restock our shit. Their sacrificial efforts will live on forever in song!

I look a little too happy here for somebody who's about to eat a gay, little piece of shit, filled with gonorrhea. Maybe I was just sitting on something.

Unbeknownst to Mehve, I hid all my "Chicks Who Love Thick Dicks" and "Sluts With Big Butts" mags in the old pizza boxes. Seriously, this party was like 2 days long! How long do you think YOU'D be able to go without some guaranteed lovin'? Once again, I wonder if Captain Rugged knows of my true dilemma, or if he's just had some alone time with my magazines moments before.

Early the next day, with little to no sleep, a group of the survivors of the July Fourth Eve festivities traveled to Jon-Jon's ranch and shot the shit out of eachother for a few hours, American style! I hadn't gone paint balling since high school, and there were a lot of things I had forgotten... Like: Guys don't like it when you shoot them 7 times in the chest and face when they're already out. They like it even less when you're on the same team. Also, revenge for shooting people who're out and on your own team sucks. Especially when said revenge comes in a package that reminded me of Sonny Corleone's death in the original Godfather. Guys were popping out of the woods just like at that toll booth... I even got a horrendous nut-shot that guaranteed that my kids would be born "neon orange" and retarded.

Oh, and in the above picture Mehve proves that he doesn't believe in POWs, or the Geneva Convention... Or that life is precious. Or that my family didn't want me buried in a shallow grave in the woods.

After cleaning up and getting changed, Psycho Weasel, Captain Rugged and I went to the Wal-Mart to restock on some party shit. I took the oportunity of coming across Mr. Fantastic's Extendo Arm to show the Cap just how juicy and delish I found his hairy ass.

The Captain made me promise that I would never show my love for him in public ever again. Thank God for my Superman shirt. That thing helped me survive more than basball bat beatings that day.


Go to page 2. FUCK YEAH!