Mad Atoms

I’m sure I’m not the only individual who finds “Apartment Parties” unsettling.  It could be that being from the east coast, I’m accustomed to partying in a field behind an abandoned steel plant or in a HUD house rife with friable asbestos, but it also could be because “Apartment Parties” are shitty.    

For instance, last time I was at an apartment party I got “inadvertently” molested.  Sure, Chester said it was an accident, but he bump-fucked me three times.  Twice when I was waiting in line for the midget Heineken DraughtKeg and once when I was admiring the assortment of flat pack furniture.  

How does that happen?  Well, Chester can easily rub his nuggets on my ass and lower back when the host of the shindig invites 40 people to their studio apartment.  And of course he gets away scot-free because he’s got the perfect pretext for ass mugging, “Sorry bro, it’s really packed in here.  Oh, and by the way, you have a beautiful mouth.”  And taking a piss at these parties is always eventful.  If the line is endless, as is the norm, you have to resort to urinating on the potted dendrochilum or in the laundry basket.  However, if you need to drop a deuce you’re screwed.  Unless, of course, you’re a closet crapper like Najeh Davenport.

In addition to the lack of room and facilities, the amenities at apartment parties are always depressing: Dodger Dogs charred on a Foreman grill, an eclectic group of stolen restaurant pints, an unblinking strand of Christmas lights, a tattered poster of Van Halen (post Diamond Dave), and some type of domesticated mammal.    

I still long for those parties back East, when space was not a commodity, when cigarette burns were a rarity, and when shitting in closets was something only pro football players did.  If I close my eyes I can still picture myself doing Keg stands around some industrial waste and playing beer pong on some rotted floor planks- Ah, I miss the good old days… cough, cough.