Cutting edge technology, beast taming, the elderly and a house full of morons. Heed my words to the letter, and your party may yet be redeemable.
Parties are generally pretty neat once you get past that whole “crippling social anxiety” thing, but there’s not much in the way of variety when it comes to throwing one; a few beers there, a dash of hedonism here, at least 13 ashtrays and maybe a seemingly interesting foreigner or two for good measure, all stuffed in a trendy apartment in Zamalek. Going to any house party is much like a slightly more alcoholic derivative of your mother’s fruit salad; she might change the ratio of pineapple to melon every now and again, but it tastes almost exactly the same every time.
So why not put your faith in my abilities (your first and last mistake) and let me add some more…exotic fruit to your salad? Is this salad analogy getting weird? Do you enjoy passion fruit?
The Closet of Fake Promises
Yeah you might be having fun now, Dalia and “Mo,” but you can never forget a singular devastating fact; you still live with your parents (no shame in that), and they don’t fully grasp the concept of texting before calling to check on you and invading your privacy (all the shame in that). Right when you’re about to wrap up that hilarious story about the time you discovered a lump on the back of your knee, Mama calls, and you know it’s in your best interest to answer, but with all the noise and faint sounds of projectile vomiting in the background, it’s difficult to lie.
Enter the Closet of Fake Promises; with this fully soundproofed little hideout, you have the luxury of picking up the phone whenever you need to, and bullshit your way through even the most concerned parents' droning. It even comes with a sound system loaded with all the background ambiance you’ll need for full camouflage; the busy sounds of a Downtown street, the clanking of cups at a quaint little café, and even the morbidly depressing audible backdrop of your local fast food joint. No more running away awkwardly to the balcony to lie to Baba; you can disappoint your parents in style with the Closet of Fake Promises.
Nobody enjoys door duty at a party, especially when there’s the looming threat of disgruntled neighbours or even more disgruntled authorities itching to put the kibosh on your shenanigans. You’re sick of it, I’m sick of it and that guy over there in the corner huffing paint only slightly enjoys it, but he’s irrelevant, so instead of going down a path of destruction, why not take a diplomatic approach and hire your own (patent pending) party grandma?
Skilled in the use of courtesy, shame and kindly old woman mystique as weapons of mass confusion, the party granny is as much a mistress of deception as she is a sturdy barrier against even the most intrusive of nuisances. If trouble literally comes to darken your doorstep, the granny will be at the ready to open the door, laying down her masterful illusion; “Oh pardon me, it’s just the kids having some fun and all, one of them just turned 31 and we’re all so proud of him, it makes the pain from my slowly rotting joints that much more bearable.” Try and get past that motherfucker. All she needs for payment are a couple beers, a TV and exactly 248 EGP (a steal deal to be sure).
For whatever ungodly reason, party hosts tend to hide their pets away while the shindig rages on, locking them up in bedrooms with all the food and entertainment they could want, and although that works for a cat (because they’re dicks and I love them), it doesn’t do so well for a pupper; single and ready to mingle, pups always want to get stuck in with the crowd and be the furry life of the party. There’s also the issue of effectively distributing beverages in a disorientating crowd of future achievers…hmmm…hmmmmmmmmm…
Just as our ancestors taught beasts of old to till the land and bite the necks of those who dare step on that same tilled land (it’s just rude), you too can teach your furry friends how to be fun and functional; train your doggo to carry a little saddle of sorts loaded with ice-cold beer, and send him out to wade through the crowds, delighting guests with his snoot and his floof while also supplying them with much-needed inebriation. Seeing as dogs are smarter than your average citizen, they know when to go back to the kitchen and resupply, and doing the same routine well into the night. His payment is the love and adoration of all your lowlife guests, and he also gets a few kicks out of freaking out the stoners. ”But what if I have a cat?” Fear not, humble host; you can train your party kitter to loom around menacingly, while also acting as a guide to the bathroom for the overly drunk.
High in the Sky
Everybody knows at least two or three techie nerds, with their Internet and their Dawkins and their superior fucking intellect (cretins all of them), but stupid stereotypes aside, they too deserve to be a pivotal member of the Partymobile. At the same time, people like to get high at parties (people like to get high in general), and though both statements so far might sound disconnected, there’s a way to work it out. You might ask how, or not, whatever, I’m not your boss, but I’ll tell you anyway; drones, son.
Yes, you tube of custard, drones are the future of almost literally everything; Amazon uses them to deliver shit, foreign militaries also use them to deliver shit, and you too can be part of the grand drone movement with your battalion of nerds; have your nerds programme a simple flightpath with some course correction and collision detection algorithms for a small-sized drone, and connect a (patent pending) string with a clamp at the end of it for proper payload security. Once everything’s set up, you can have a drone zipping around your apartment, offering partygoers a couple puffs as it goes. You can even have them drop joints on folks from a specially constructed bomb bay (drop bombs on fools son). “But drones are illegal.” So are drugs, dickass, you’re not invited.
Going along the same tangent of hiring your very own elderly citizen for door selection, I feel like the elderly aren’t represented enough in today’s party scene (for all the wrong-ish reasons), and as such, I feel it our generation’s duty to both let them have the time of their (morbidly fleeting) lives, while also giving them employment opportunities. It’s never guaranteed that a party’s going to go without a hitch; fights might break out, boundaries might be crossed and folks can wake up with more than they bargained for, and this is where the Cool Concerned Chaperone comes in.
“That’s a bit of a stretch, it sounds like you ran out of material to write about.” You’re not wrong, but hear me out here; why hire a bodyguard or rely on your drunk as shit guests to handle any disturbances, when you can hire a chill old dude to do all that for you? I mean, honestly; would you hurt an old man? No. Would he hurt you? Without quarter. The chaperone can roam around the party with his glass of tea (a weapon in and of itself), dispersing any potential fights with old timey wisdom and tales of times gone by, and he could patrol areas where folks go to keel over and sleep so as to avoid any ill-advised penetration of privacy (I’m just being real here), and when he’s not on active duty, he can act as an impromptu DJ. Why a DJ? Well it’s funny watching old folks struggle with technology, and even if he does churn out something, you’ll be too drunk to think it’s bad anyway. Oh and he also has a taser, because I said so.
The Chamber of Shameful Relaxation
This entry speaks to me on a more personal level than anything you can possible imagine, except maybe a good bowl of noodles or, you know, purpose. It’s inevitable that a good chunk of your raucous guests are going to go a bit overboard and drink/smoke/sniff/piss themselves into a catatonic stupor, and it’s going to be somebody’s job (usually you) to prop them up somewhere safe, or just do what’s usually done to me and throw them in the tub (people like me). But what if there was a more…ergonomic solution? Something more comfy? Something involving pillows??
It’s going to take some elbow grease to see this through, but Rome (probably?) wasn’t built in a day; deftly collect all the cushions, pillows, mattresses, wigs, small dogs and anything else squishy and relaxing in one room, right on the floor, and gaze upon your party’s own little Guantanamo; The Chamber of Shameful Relaxation. Yes, it’s basically a bunch of soft shit strewn around a room so people can just shamble on in and pass the fuck out. “But uhhh what about security? My ass is just…there, you know?” I hear your pleas, beleaguered reader, but hold on to your romper, and behold my preemptive planning; the dog can be trained to make a pass by the comfy corner (not so much the cat though), the drone also has an affixed camera, and your nerd of choice can monitor the area en-route, and with your trusty Triple-C keeping the premises safe and secure, you won’t have to fear for your precious jiggly bits.
With these simple and totally viable alternatives (prove me wrong), you can rest assured that your house party will be the talk of Cairo, Alexandria, Giza and maybe even Dahshour (if you’re lucky), for better or worse (definitely not worse). Got any other completely realistic ideas on how to spruce up your own little get-together? Tell us somewhere in the comments, send us a parcel at the MO4 office full of your opinions as well as money, or just keep it to yourself, who do you think you are?