A new wrinkle in the DJ biz — the overly-regimented party. We did a gig last night that was the Christmas party for a nursing home (the employees, not the old folks — although that might have been pretty cool, too). And let me tell you — I thought regular NURSES knew how to party, but these gals had it down to a science!
I guess it’s all the MaMaw-herding skillz… the woman in charge kept coming up to make announcements, like “Now it’s time to make crafts with the kids,” (did I mention there were A LOT of kids? Shudder) or, “Everybody line up to get your picture taken!” There was even a forcible game of Musical Chairs — the kids just wanted to run around the room and roll on the floor (what is that? You parents, explain to me why children always want to roll on the dirty floor!), but they were basically shanghaied into Musical Chairs against their will! Also against MY will, because party games of any sort result in A) crying when the precious snowflakes lose and B) far more Hoody-to-Child interaction than I usually allow. ESPECIALLY when they’re crying — I’m basically a man when it comes to women and/or children weeping, I don’t know what to do and I just want them to stop!
All in all, the gig went well — there were even a couple of lil’ chicas who danced right near us and flirted with Chuckweasel all night. AND, I, being the World’s Best Girlfriend as well as so self-assured it ain’t funny, DID NOTHING to stop them. Hey, it makes him feel good about himself.
Oh, yeah… it might have helped that they were 11 and 13… in another 10 years, Hoody woulda cut a bitch.
hoodyhoo 
IN 2 or 3 years, those little chicas are gonna be handing little slips of paper to Chuckweasel with their phone numbers instead of song requests written on them…shoulda cut em when you had the chance.
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believe me, that’s already happened… that’s why all song requests now go through ME.
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I don’t understand the rolling on the floor thing, either. Completely baffles me every time I see it. You best believe my munchkins ain’t gonna be doing that shit in public, though. At home? Eh, roll it out, kiddos.
Keep an eye on those little tramps. They get younger and younger (and sluttier) and we just get older, unfortunately. May need to watch your back!
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P.S. I like the blog facelift. A few nips and tucks here and there, huh? Nice!
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I like the Xmas themed name, Misty! Tres, festive. 🙂
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Tis the season. Ho Ho Hos.
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Misty — See, that’s what I thought! I would have thought for your own personal children, for whose health you are responsible and whose medicine you have to buy, you would try to keep them OUT of the dirty public floor!
And forgive me for saying this, but since when do 13-year-olds have boobs? I didn’t have decent boobs ’til I was 30!
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And thanks for the props on the renovations ’round here — this is what happens when I get bored at work! And you KNOW I love your name and I encourage others to adopt “Hoo” in solidarity!
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Nothing says “party” like a strictly enforced timetable!
Pearl
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I know, it was kinda like being at Stalin’s birthday!
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I hate parties with games. That’s why I’m not married and I haven’t had kids yet – someone’s going to throw me into the pink and lacy shower from hell with enforced stupid gaming. And someone’s going to want to touch me. Then *I* will have to cut someone.
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Rule One. No TOUCHING. Not no way, not no how.
Rule Two. No pink either.
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I went to a party with games recently… in included twister, and this weird relay race where we passed an egg down a line of people using only our chins… And another one where you had to pass a cucumber down the line from between your knees…The more alcohol there is, the more fun those ridiculous games can be.
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Please see Rule #1 above. And I once again told Chuckweasel we needed to get flasks for such occasions!
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I love to sit back and watch the womenz swoon over J. Sometimes he’s all ‘SAVE ME!” I just laugh. Homie don’t play the jealous girlfriend role.
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I’m like, “Dude, save yo’self! I ain’t yo’ momma!”
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The last party I went to with games was My Sister the Lawyer’s wedding reception, where her elderly neighbor lady taught us how to play this drinking game where you drop a quarter into a Solo cup using your butt. It’s one of the few games where one of the stated, standard rules is, “Keep your pants on.”
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even if the pants stay on, I still don’t wanna drink out of a cup with a quarter in it that’s been wedged in someone’s butt. Even my own. Pants aren’t MAGIC.
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I’m also a hater of party games. I remember going to a church party when I was in my teens where they were trying to recruit kids for a relay race involving eggs, water, flour and M and Ms (use your imagination). When the pastor got to our scowling group at the back, he went down the line and everybody was allergic to something.
“I’m allergic to eggs.”
“Allergic to flour.”
“Allergic to chocolate,” then he got to me and I said, “I’m allergic to fun.” He gave me a skeptical look, but it’s true — I’m allergic to fun. Enforced fun. I would have cut a bitch if they made my kids play musical chairs, except my kids actually like that stuff. They are hopelessly uncool.
Little girls flirting are SO cute, aren’t they? It’s when they are 45 and putting your man’s hand down their cleavage that you gotta worry.
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ALLERGIC TO FUN IS GEEEEEEENIUS! That would have saved me no end of getting sent to the principal’s office for my refusal to “participate.” And so far, Chuckweasel seems to attract jailbait, cougars (and since he’s 40, his cougars are like 70!) and the extremely, enormously, bring-mama-her-reachin-stick fat. Which provides me endless amusement because he doesn’t know how to get away!
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Everytime I want to make crafts with the neighbors kids I get poo-poo’d. I thought their toddler would be much more useful as an end table.
When the kids start rolling around, do you put on Rock Lobster?
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I will be from now on! And you’ve finally found a legitimate reason to allow children in the house…
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I hate that “organized-parent-child-interaction” dickery that people do at parties. I come to these things to IGNORE my short people for an hour or so. The Hokey-Pokey ain’t what it’s all about, so fuck it.
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There was no Hokey-Pokey… but there was… shudder… Chicken Dance. Which the fucking kids didn’t know, ffs!
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