No, I will not come to your fetus' 8-week ultrasound celebration.
Humor Life SPM/MM

No, I will not come to your fetus’ 8-week ultrasound party.

No, I will not come to your fetus' 8-week ultrasound celebration.

What in the bloody monkey hell is going on these days, hmm? Everywhere I look, somebody is celebrating something, and they want you (read: me too) to celebrate it with them.

Weddings are cool. You’re getting married? Sweet. I think that’s awesome. I will be there. And I will drink up all the free booze. Unless you’re doing a cash bar. Then I’ll come, but I won’t bring you a present. Because I have to spend that money on the booze.

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And if it’s a dry wedding? No. I’ll just assume you hate me and don’t want me to come anyway.

Birthdays? Sure. Birthdays are worth celebrating, particularly if they’re milestone birthdays or if you haven’t seen the person in a while or if it’s a surprise or if somebody is really, really old. It’s an accomplishment to live to be super old, and it should be celebrated.

Kids’ birthdays? Mmmmppppphhhhhh. Now we’re getting into the grey area. How old? Because I’m not coming to an eighteen-month-old’s half birthday party. I’m just not doing it. Also, am I a family member, godparent, or close friend? Because if I only know you from awkward exchanges in the daycare hallways, forget it. (Unless you’ll have booze at this thing. Then I’ll consider it.)

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Anniversaries are where things start to really get questionable. Fiftieth and sixtieth and — GASP! — seventieth anniversaries are pretty impressive and deserve some par-tay time. Congratulations! You managed to spend that much time with someone and not murder them. Give you a big ol’ plaque and a bench with your name on it at the botanical gardens. Seriously. That’s some tough shit.

But second anniversaries? Eleventh? Six month? Aren’t you supposed to be celebrating with each other? We all came to the wedding (provided you had booze). We’re good for a while.

And then there’s stuff like engagement parties and day-after-the-wedding parties and ultrasound-reveal parties and I-went-to-work-today-so-yay-me! parties and is everybody fucking smoking crack?

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Because I want some. But also because this is insane.

For somebody who likes to party as much as I do, you would think all this celebrating would tickle my panty liners, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t. If you’re having a party for no other purpose than to party, I’m in. But when it starts having rules and gifts are involved and there is a set time frame and we’re all supposed to fawn over someone or something and we’re not family or close friends and it’s in the morning or afternoon, Iiiiiiiiiii’m not so sure.

I think as a people, we should have a limit on the number of “event” parties we’re allowed to throw in life. Not a limit on just-for-fun parties, like Halloween parties or get-togethers for hamburgers and booze (there it is again) to check out the new digs. I’m talking parties that have schedules.

Bridal or baby showers? You get one. ONE. Maaaaaaybe two if you have one for family and friends and one for work peeps, for example. But that’s it. None of this other nonsense. Did you know they’re throwing the menfolk baby showers now-a-days? What do they deserve a shower for exactly? All they did was ejaculate, and bada boom bada bing: baby. Their work here is done.

It’s the fairer sex who has to bake those babies for nine months. They deserve the parties. (But again, just one. Or two. But one, though.)

Also, Jamberry and Younique and Forever 31 (or whatever it’s called) and such? I’ll come to one. Sounds kinda fun. But then stop calling and emailing me, particularly if I don’t know you and I was just there because my friend invited me.

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We need to get our lives under control here, people. Things are spiraling out of hand. Enough with the parties.

Except for when it comes to my book signing party. You bitches all better be there.

There will be booze.