You can use this phrase to describe any kind of general assholery going down at a gathering.
So today, I’m going to say “It’s not a party until a drunk starts smashing up the guests’ parked cars.”
Our dumbfuck neighbors had a huge gathering (all without masks, and with plenty of yelling and screaming indoor and out). It was a “Class of 2020” party.
At about midnight, we were awakened by a loud smashing and crashing just outside our house. We thought someone was trying to smash down our front door. We looked out and a guy had taken some of the canteloupe-sized decorative rocks from our front yard and was smashing up one of the guest’s cars, which was parked immediately below our second-story bedroom window. We called the cops, and they came in under three minutes - four cars’ worth of them. Asshole boy was arrested and taken away. From the bits of conversation we overheard, it seems like he was drunk and combative at the party, and he was thrown out and locked out. Smashing up a car seemed to him the best way to deal with his ostracization.
What’s your “It’s not a party until . . .” situation?
…you crash so spectacularly that they can’t find your car for more than two weeks.
*Police said investigators determined that “alcohol and speed were major factors in the wreck.” The car was likely traveling between 102 and 103 mph when it hit a curb and went airborne, flying over a sloped area and landing 20 feet below, police said Thursday.
The car “hit the ground 115 feet away from the road and skidded forward until it collided with a tree 150 feet off the roadway,” police said, adding that the car was going so fast that less than a second elapsed between its hitting the curb and crashing into the ground.*
A pit bull starts tearing out the banisters on the stairs.
In the early 1990s I was living in a three story building in Washington DC with an apartment on each floor. I was on the second floor. Things were pretty peaceful until two punk girls in their early twenties moved into the apartment upstairs, one of whom had green hair. They were extremely noisy and made a tremendous racket clomping up and down the wooden stairs in their boots and overhead.
This was apparently the first time either of them had lived in a big city and they wasted no time getting into the city party scene. One Saturday night they had a big party and apparently invited some drug dealers who brought along their pit bulls for some reason. Things got noisier and noisier until I heard some growling on the landing and found one of the dogs ripping out the banisters on the stairs.
I knew it was no good to protest and went back to bed with a pillow over my head. The next day I and the other tenant got in touch with the landlord who had no idea what kind of tenants he had rented to. The girls were gone the next week.
… until someone is walking home to avoid a drunk driving charge and is so blasted he gets arrested for public intoxication instead. He then starts swinging at the arresting officers while shouting, “You’ll be sorry!! Judge Wapner is my uncle!!”
I read this in a police report. Written on behalf of a friend of mine. (It wasn’t my party.)
… until you’re smuggling drunk Australians across the Mexican border.
When I was in grad school, there was a conference a group of us attended in Brownsville, TX (right at the southern tip, near the mouth of the Rio Grande). One of my professors was from Australia, and he met up with an old friend of his who was also attending the conference. Well, after the sessions one day, one of the locals told us about some good restaurants on the other side of the border, so we all went to one of them. The restaurant served margaritas grandes… as did the bar we went to after the restaurant. And I think there might have been a third bar… my memory’s hazy on that. Both Australians got completely sloshed, with my professor’s friend so far gone that she couldn’t be trusted to carry her own purse. Which, naturally, had her passport in it. As the only sober one in the lot, I was charged with carrying her purse, and, again naturally, we ended up separated, and on opposite sides of the border.
So what did this “nobleman” do to make restitution to Brahe for the loss of his exotic and unique pet (and friend)?
I’m hoping for an attempted swap of either a cow with moose antlers attached; a reindeer bulked up with pillows and a blanket thrown over it reading “I IS A MOOSE”; or simply propping the moose against Brahe’s front door, and then claiming “he was definitely alive when we brought him back to you”.
