…how the drunken rock & roll gropefest went, right?

Hmm. What is the opposite of a drunken rock & roll gropefest? Is it a keg party populated almost entirely by rude, probably underage (though I was not about to start carding people), sweaty assholes who are so unbearable, as a group, that every one of my rock & roll friends hung out on the porch for most of the night, just to get away from the children?

Yeah. That’s about right.

Here is my preliminary list of infractions committed:

  • They spilled beer over every floor surface.
  • They (inexplicably) scattered mint leaves, left on the counter after my awesome mojito-making, all over the kitchen floor.
  • They smoked in the kitchen, after being firmly instructed not to.
  • They walked past me (and the rest of the Rock & Roll Grownups) to get into my house without bothering to introduce themselves or say hello (with a couple notable exceptions: three of the boys apparently did learn manners at some point in their short lives. The rest, not so much).
  • They made my house smell like a highschool boy’s locker room. (God, testosterone just reeks. Younger boys smell nasty.)
  • They showed up, every single last one of them, empty handed.

Oh, I could go on and on. But thank goddess Iron Buttercup was there, and the Wrangler, and Blanche, and a few other people who made the party bearable. (GB, sadly, was not one of the people making the party bearable. GB was, sadly, swept up in the highschool-party groove, and ended up drunk, surly, a little fucked up on some annoying substances, and needing badly to be put to bed. And to that, I say better him than me, at least.)

How I should have known it wasn’t going the way I wanted: Bad Idea, in response to my attempt to give him a hello-and-thank-god-you’re-here hug, jumped back and informed me that he has poison ivy again. (Me: Well, is it everywhere? Bad Idea: Just on my hands. Me: Both hands? BI: Just this one hand. Me: [glimmer of hope]. Yes, friends, I debated risking poison ivy just to get in some drunken groping, which didn’t happen anyway. Sad.)

Remind me, next time, to specify that I’m looking for an ADULT drunken rock & roll party. Because otherwise, ewwww.

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