The Fun that is a Kid's Party

Over the weekend was Lucifer’s 2nd birthday. Of course, we had to have the obligatory birthday party. I gotta tell ya, these “parties” are painful as hell. I’d compare it to root canal, but root canal is a walk in the park compared to hostin’ a kid’s party. Especially a lil kids party. They’re always full of people you can’t stand and don’t really want to talk to, namely family and friends.

Lucifer’s party has been in the works for what seems like his last birthday party. The missus has been goin back and forth about what kind of food to get, what kind of “entertainment” to have, the whole 50 yards. I swear to the Christ, one moment the missus is gettin' food from one place, then 23 seconds later she’s gettin' it from another place. Yea, you read that right. The party was “catered”. This wasn’t just a “kid’s” party. You know, “each your cake, run around like a lil asshole, open presents and get the fuck out” kinda party. Noooooooo. This was yet another extrav-fuck-ganza! Now, in case you think the Juice is pullin’ a few stretchers again, let me give you an idear of the scope of this "party". The cake alone was originally 60 dollars! I’ll give you a moment to let that sink in. ‘Cause I sure had to when the missus told me that one.

Now, the Juice likes to think he’s a reasonable man. Sure, I beef a lot here on the blog, but that’s cause I have to. Or else I'd be a serious madman. But SIXTY DOLLARS FOR A FUCK CAKE?????? When the missus ordered the cake, she neglected to tell me how much it was. She said it was “a lot”, and that was it. Now, two things The Juice has learned over the centuries. A) Never lick a whore’s vagina. You just never know where it’s been. And B) Never ask the price when you hear the words “it’s a lot”. In both cases, you’re just better off.

So, I didn’t ask the price of the cake. How much could it be anyway, right? It’s a cake. How much do cake’s run these days? Four dollars? How do I know? Besides, since this extrav-fuck-ganza was bein’ catered, what’s a couple more bucks? Just tack on another 6 months of workin’ for the man. Well, when the missus finally ‘fesses up about the cake, I nearly shit a brick. I asked her if she was fuckin’ crazy. Flat out. I made sure there weren’t any heavy objects around, though. Bein’s that the missus has a tendency to throw shit at ya, when ya ask her if she’s fuckin’ crazy. But, really!!!! Is she fucking crazy? I’ll field this one for ya…she is.

So, I “convinced” her that payin’ $60 for a cake was a bit much. And by “convinced” I mean she wasn’t getting’ penny one for no $60 cake. And that it’d be on my death bed, before she’d ever get that kind of money for anything, let alone a cake. Especially considerin’ that 95% of the people at this party I can’t stand. I’d rather russle up one of my special “Go Fuck Yourself” cakes, then spend an extra buck on those people. In case you were wonderin' the cake ended up costin' 30 bucks, I think. The Juice has spent some time tryin' to block the whole thing out. So, if any of you fuckers readin' this were at the party, I hope you enjoyed that fuckin' cake!!!!!


But, as painful as it is to host a party for your own kid(s), there is somethin’ worse. Goin' to a kid’s party. Believe you me, it’s far, far worse. It’s bad enough when a party is filled with YOUR family and YOUR friends. Imagine sufferin’ through your friend’s offspring’s party. A fate worse than death, it is. Full of people you wouldn’t associate with on your worst day. Geeks and fuckheads a plenty (my apologies to my geek and fuckhead readers). There’s nothin' worse than a party filled with family and friends of a friend of yours. Even swimmin’ nude, with a boner, through a tank full of starvin’ piranhas is better than hangin’ with your friend’s family and "other" friends. Unless they’re all porn stars or magicians or somethin'. Then, it’s a toss up. Otherwise, I’d rather take rectal exam without the ez slide jelly, then go to a kid’s party.

There was this one time (in band camp) the Juice was at a lil kid’s party…uggghhh. My buddy, Beat N. Down was havin’ an extrav-fuck-ganza for one of his many children. I was sittin’ at a table, eatin’ the barely edible food stuffs, waitin’ for the party to end or for the big guy to take me home. Which ever came first. Some folks sat down next to the Juice. I guess the scowl on my face didn’t scare them away. Anyway, these people start goin' on about this and that. I start prayin’ harder for a quick end. A meteor, or a freak bolt of lightenin', or anything just PLEASE MAKE THEM SHUT THE HELL UP. But, they didn’t. They just went on and on. This one cat was goin’ on about his “properties”. And how much money he was makin’. He was worse than that fucking energizer bunny. Goin’ on and on and on. “I’ve got money this. I’ve got money that. I got so much money from my houses, that I practically shit it out. Money, money, money. La, la, la.” I couldn’t take it any more. So, the Juice got up, walked over to the yakker and screamed; SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!!!! I screamed it so hard, lil pellets of mashed potato stuck to the guy’s eyebrows.

Ok. Maybe that last part didn’t happen, but the guy was really fuckin’ annoyin’. Here’s a free tip for ya, from the Juice: Ain’t nothin’ worse than hearin’ someone talk about their money. No one gives a shit, so keep it to yourself! It’s a shame that dude couldn’t invest some of those greenbacks of his for a sense of class. Or one of those experimental personality transplants. Which ever.

So, how did the Juice ever get out of that horrifyin’ conversation? Lucifer ran straight into a wall. One of the funniest dang things I’ve ever seen! Just…SMACK! Right into the wall. Screamed his bloody head off, he did. And his ol’ man was right there to console him. Good ol’ Lucifer. I slipped him an extra couple of cookies for that one.

I know. I hear what you’re askin’. You’re askin’: “the Juice, What of the dump and run? Why do you have to stay?” Believe you me, I’ve tried it. Sometimes it works, sometimes it don’t. When you’ve got as many kids as the Juice does, and they’re all invited to an event, it’s hard to dump all of them off on the host. It would serve them right for invitin’ them all, that’s for sure. the Juice is a many thing, but a dick I am not. Well, I am. But I wouldn’t thrust my kids on anyone person. Ahhhh…who am I fuckin’? I’d dump those turds off on anyone, given half the chance. And of course, I use the word “turds” with love.

So, here’s what I propose. No more kid’s parties. Simple enough, right? I’ll give ya the token “one year old” party, but that’s it. No more after that. And don’t bother invitin’ the Juice, ‘cause I ain’t comin’. The only parties the Juice is comin’ to these days are for hot 21 year olds or one of those “mythical” blow job parties Oprah’s always talkin’ about. Now, that’s a party!!!!