You’re walking around your house in a daze. Let’s see how good that party was according to some basic criteria.
Good Party: You’ve found a piece of clothing in your house that isn’t yours.
Great Party: You’ve found someone’s bra/underwear on your lampshade.
Nothing says awesome party like people taking their clothes off with abandon. But undergarments on a lampshade? Now that brings all sorts of things to mind, like strip tease or a sing-a-long version of Footloose gone crazy. Either way, it sounds like a good time.
Good Party: A friend had to crash on your couch
Great Party: That hot chick had to crash in your bed.
Need I say more?
Good Party: Your couch is littered with an array of crumbs, from dried corn to pinto beans.
Great Party: You just found a couple condom wrappers between the couch cushions.
Nothing rhymes with awesome quite as succinctly as people shagging on your couch. The only thing that tops it is people resorting (resourcefully, I might add) to your bathroom and the challenges that await for them there.
Good Party: You have embarrassing pics of you singing along to "She Works Hard for the Money".
Great Party: You have embarrassing pics of you on the roof of your home, dropping your pants and waving around a rubbery chicken.
Why? Because it made sense at the time. You can’t remember what it was that you were screaming from that rooftop, or what the significance of the chicken was. But you do recall how nice the night air and cool breeze felt on your balls, and you can’t promise you won’t do it again.
Good Party: Someone vomited on your rug.
Great Party: Someone vomited in one of your cereal bowls, a flower pot, your Brita water filter and in a desk drawer.
At any party worth a damn, someone is going to drink too much, get sick and barf. Honestly, it’s a small sacrifice to make to the party gods. But at epic parties, we’re talking about more puke. Call me un-ladylike, but it’s the truth. And at these epic parties, because people have usually had too much purple passion to even in make it to the toilet to heave, let alone have the sense to grab the garbage can from under the sink. Hence the barf in your lodged in between your paper clips.
Good party: You wake up the next day to see Ricky Loves Chachi written in lipstick on your bathroom mirror.
Great party: You wake up the next morning to find Hank, in your bathrobe, pouring himself a cup of coffee. Hank explains that you volunteered to house and feed him until he gets back on his feet.
Bold displays of emotion and generosity are characteristic of good parties. Often they don’t make a whole lot of sense the next day. But when you start volunteering to take in boarders, that’s the sign of a blockbuster shindig.
Good Party: Your foot hurts. You don’t know why.
Great Party: Your lip is bleeding and your wrists have these odd, handcuff like bruises on them.
At any good party, you’re going to suffer some injuries either from swatting the flat-screen when you did the robot or the hustle or your hybrid version of the two. Truly grand parties mean that you suffer injuries from banging the dominatrix-wiccan-energy-healer who treats you to some tantric in the pantry.
One last way to tell if your party has been great: You didn’t brush your teeth last night and a light tarter build up rings your teeth that still have pretzel chunks soaked in Jack Daniels lodged in them.
And that’s what’s up.