The Morning After

The Morning After

For you see, dear reader, we have had quite a weekend. As diligent readers of this humble “weblog” no doubt recognize, Friday night was the First Annual Celebrate Our Anniversary in Style Party. This year’s theme, as the smart set knows by now, was the intriguing “Self-Inflicted Tatoos of Destiny and Desire.”

We know what you are thinking: Who invited chicks named Destiny and Desire? We’ll discuss that topic anon. Or, now that we think about it, probably not.

But now, back to the excuses. As you can no doubt imagine, dear reader, it was quite the bash. And, as you can also no doubt imagine, dear reader, we drank about as responsibly as a fraternity pledge on “elephant walk” night. In fact, right around 3am, David Crosby left the party; he told us that it was just too wild for him. The wus.

Accordingly, dear reader, we, the crack young staff of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” have spent the better part of the weekend recovering from our monstrous fete. To make matters worse, numerous members of the crack young staff—mostly the effete ones—have called in sick today.

They’re claiming that their revelry has gotten them ill, and that a major symptom of their condition is a shortness of pants. Frankly, dear reader, we don’t believe them for three seconds. Not in a row, at least.

All of this Monday-morning throat clearing is simply a long-winded excuse for the fact that today’s edition of our humble “weblog” is about as humorous as “My Two Dads” (Season Four). As they say in the diamond business, they can’t all be gems.

Even so, dear reader, we consider it nothing less than a moral imperative to fill you in on the bacchanal that was Friday night’s festivities. In fact, we have decided to devote today’s and tomorrow’s posts to a discussion of the ins and outs of the parties. The nooks and crannies, if we may Thomas’ English Muffins you for a minute.

Without any further ado, then, allow us to set up the mise-en-scène.

The ballroom looked simply magnificent. Our Official Vaguely Unvirile Men (OVUM, for short) outfitted the place with all sorts of back issues of The American Prospect magazine. It was a nice touch, if we must say so ourselves.

And let’s not forget the centerpieces: Fruit roll-ups with real fruit; Harry Belafonte albums; and miniature Henry Kissenger dolls. You know, for the kids who are realists in their foreign policy outlook.

We know what you are thinking to yourselves, dear reader: What about the famous people?

Naturally, the hall was full with them. It was like a walking edition of People magazine. Or at least The International Socialist Review.

First, around 10pm, one of the crack young interns swore she saw Jason Robards. When she found out he was dead, she changed her story real fast, however. It turns out that one of the caterers is the spitting image of Jason Robards. And his name’s Tito. Who would have thunk it?

In addition, around 11pm, a miniature Henry Kissenger showed up. Apparently, though, he came merely because he was perturbed about our centerpieces. Something about copyright infringement.

But around 12am, a senior editor at “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly”—let’s just call him “Chip”—spotted Rick Springfield. Believe it or not, he was sitting with Jesse’s girl. Which prompted “Chip” to wonder: “How can I find a woman like that?”

So, who else turned up for the fun and/or frolic?

Tune in to the next installment of “The Hatemonger’s Quarterly,” and you’ll be the first to know.

If you’re the first person to check out the next installment, of course. If not, you’ll at least be second.