I am neither gay nor a pedophile, but I would skull-fuck my great-grandmother’s corpse for the opportunity to baptize J-Dog’s vanilla back-gash.
I hate dinner parties.
A dinner party is a gathering of at least four adults. They meet at someone’s home for a pleasant evening of drinks, dinner and delightful conversation. This sounds lovely, but in reality it’s a horrifically dull evening that is quietly suffered through in service of the tragedy that is mistaking boredom for maturity.
The first problem is that the word ‘party’ is included in the name. This is a problem because no one gets drunk at these events. When the word party is used in conjunction with adults congregating, it should mean that everyone at said party will be getting shitrocked. Instead, these ‘parties’ involve people sipping shitty white wine, talking about work, eating a dinner that usually revolves around salmon, sipping more white wine, playing Pictionary and then going home at 9:45 because they need to pay the babysitter.
The worst of these events feature men in polo shirts emblazoned with company logos tucked into khaki shorts, women engaged in deep discussions of The Real Housewives, lawn care tips and promises to schedule future golf outings.
If you are invited to a dinner party, think about why you would want to attend. Would it make things easier for you at work? Do you fear appearing anti-social? Are you stuck in a boring rut that has relegated genuine fun to the distant past? During the next dinner party you attend, free yourself from the chains of boredom by claiming that the shitty salmon gave you food poisoning, and run to the nearest bar. You’re welcome.