Virtues of a gentlemenís party
To celebrate our mutual manhood this past weekend, myself and seven other “men” went up north to drink whisky, smoke cigars, and be men together. Picture eight moustachioed 22-year-old guys wearing old man clothes, getting messed up while playing board games, and listening to Kanye West. All of us were making dick jokes and ripping on each other for being fat/poor/impotent/having no standards.
It was a fabulous time, and I suggest that all of you host a gentleman’s party before Movember is over. The idea is that everyone goes to Value Village, buys a really tacky sweater/suit combo, and then proceeds to get drunk like a sir. The idea was spawned last year after some friends hosted a kegger, but the door guy got too drunk to collect money and they needed some way to recoup some of their costs.
A lot of Smirnoff “icing” went down this weekend, which inevitably happens whenever I get together with this particular group of friends. For those plebeians out there who don't know what “icing” is, it's when you trick a friend into coming across a Smirnoff Ice, at which point they are forced to go down on one knee and chug the entire container — be it a can, tallboy, or one-litre torpedo — which will leave them on the couch in a daze for an hour.
But back to the story. I am very proud to say that I pulled off the greatest icing of my life last weekend as I hollowed out a loaf of cinnamon bread my mom had baked for me (sorry, Mom), put a one litre Smirnoff Ice bottle inside, and presented it to the host as a “house-warming present.”
I felt like Danny Ocean until he got me back by putting a can inside a Ziploc bag and then putting that bag in the toilet.
The award for biggest pussy went to my friend A-Cat after he didn’t recover from his Saturday hangover until 7p.m. because he “felt like he wanted to die” and “couldn’t stop throwing up”. Talk about being downer. Sheesh, what an asshole, and he was the host — he should have more tact.
There was a thunderstorm Saturday night which killed the power for a while, and I’ve never seen a bunch of men with moustaches act more like a bunch of 15-year-old girls. It was embarrassing for all of us. I kept my cool, though, calmly playing cribbage by candlelight. (Read: weeping loudly in the middle of the room about how I needed my cellphone.)
So yeah, host your own gentlemen’s party. It gives everybody the chance to show off some class, and guys tend to get more messed up than usual with no girls around. There’s truly nothing better than seeing a bunch of guys who look like pedophilic used car salesmen getting bombed and mocking each other.