Originally posted: March 09, 2006
Not too long ago an unfortunate thought dawned on me: “Hey, whatever happened to partying?”
At some point in time it was deemed that, by the time we turn 30, we should no longer “party.” Or, rather, “party” in the sense of recreational heavy drinking. No, for some reason, when we’re 30 years old, the use of the term “party” must be in reference to “bumping” or “rolling” or whatever it is that people do when they snort coke or take ectasy and/or whatever those $30,000 millionaires are doing in the clubs. But God forbid we chug a beer! We’re much too old for that.
My friends, I have a big problem with this. The logic of it all. When we’re young and irresponsible, it’s all beer bongs and shotgunnin’ and keg stands, but once we’re “adults” – homeowners, taxpayers, benefits to society – we’re supposed to put it all to rest. No more drinking Jim Beam from the bottle. No more all-night games of “Asshole.” No more remaining outside on the back deck to make sure we get as much beer out of the soon-to-be-floating keg as possible. You know, to make sure we get our $5 worth.
Why is this, you think? It would seem to me that we’re all participating in a little reverse logic here. Shouldn’t I remain cooped up in my dorm studying while I’m broke and uneducated, and then just fuckin’ live it up once I’ve proven I deserve to to?
Or, to be fair, shouldn’t I be able to party during both phases of my life?
But no, not according to the rules.
And frankly, my friends, I’m not cool with the rules. When I think back to college Spring Break, with the cigarette burns on the bed sheets and the funnel contests on the hotel porch, I don’t think, “Boy, those sure were the days.” I think, “Man, we need to get a group and go back to Daytona Beach in April!”
But even if I’m able to recruit enough of my 30 year old friends and their wives, it’s not going to be the same. People aren’t going to look up from the beach at a group of old, pale, fat, hairy guys shotgunning Keystone Lights and assume that we’re successful working folk blowing off steam, but rather that we’re a bunch of perverts coming into town to bang the JV Cheerleaders that we never could when we were in school over a, yikes, decade ago.
Even Maxim Magazine says that one of the things you shouldn’t do upon reaching 30 is use the term “party” as a verb. Yeah, Maxim. Apparently it’s ok to wear a golf visor while staring at a picture of Carmen Electra holding her hands over her bare boobies and say, “Duuude, check this out.” That’s ok, apparently.
And it’s ok to drink a lot of beer, I guess, as long as you’re on a golf course. But in a bar? Nope, in a bar you have to snort coke. Or else you’re not supposed to be there. You’re supposed to be reading bedtime stories to your kid.
Well you know what I say to these rules? Fuck ‘em! The guy, whoever he is, who invented them, is an asshole. In fact, I’m willing to bet this guy never partied in the first place. He probably couldn’t wait to get old so he could have an excuse to get out of having his ass kicked in “Up the River, Down the River.”
If I ever meet this guy, I’m totally gonna mess with him when I’m President and he’s Asshole – “Hey Asshole, take two drinks for having the nicest yard in the subvision!”
Oh yeah, and guess what? Last time I was in the Home Depot, I really wanted to buy all the necessary pieces to build a really badass beer bong. I didn’t, though. But not because the rules say I can’t, but because I was too hungover to think about all the parts I’d need. But next time I’m there, I’m making myself a damn funnel. And it’s gonna be the biggest, baddest, most expensive funnel ever made!
And then, just to piss off the naysayers, I’m going to cover the flexible tube in 24 karat gold casing. And then I’m going to take it to Things Remembered and have it engraved with the saying, “Daytona Beach. Came down on vacation. Went home on probation” or “A Day Without a Buzz is a Day that Never Was” or “24 Hours In a Day. 24 Beers in a Case. Coincidence?” Why? Because I can. Because I can afford to do so, thanks to the disposable income I make. The income I recieve for busting my ass all week – the reason why I deserve to, and need to, party once Friday comes back around.
And if anyone out there has a problem with this, I say to thee:
Shut up and start counting. Cause I’m going up for a keg stand.
And my 30 year old ass ain’t coming down until I reach 60.
