Things You Shouldn’t Say/Do When the Cops Arrive

1. It’s Serbian music; Want to dance?

2. Want a shot?

3. I apologize for the noise, but Brian needs to smack that tambourine on his ass while wearing my gypsy skirt and strapless bra or the party isn’t a party.

The police officer was actually a really nice guy, and he didn’t cite us. I am determined to find out which neighbor called them so that I can sit below their bedroom window one night soon and serenade them with a lovely rendition of my HAND CUPPED IN MY FLAPPING ARMPIT while I sing “On Top of Spaghetti”.

From what I hear from those who attended, the party was a success over the weekend. I don’t know that Tony agrees, as he informed me last night that if he and someone else had thrown the party, it would have been classier. But I’ve come to terms with my inferiority. I mean, what else is there to do when you are reminded of it consistently. Embrace it, I say! Besides, I am the epitome of class (see serenading above), and it wasn’t my idea to hang the inflatable penis from the ceiling fan.

The festivities lasted until about 6am when everyone finally crashed for the night. And then we all woke up around 9am and bowled in the living room. Good times.

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