It was my fucking lawn dammit. I'm allowed to be hung over and lookin like a bar rag on it. Don't give a shit what kind of sabbath you claim.

Strip and go nakeds was a mean punch. Find a clean tub or other type large urn. Empty two cases of cheap beer, I suggest Meister Brau. Which translates to Master Brew, and it will be your master bitch. Unload two pink lemonade frozen concentrates into there. A bottle of vodka, flavored is decent, like vanilla or raspberry. And ice chips to desired chill levels. Stir the pot up, cackling like a hag, and serve. People will swim through it like a crystal pristine lake. Wild Viking like orgy will ensue.

For whatever reason my fairly conservative Midwestern parents figured leaving the house to me on the numerous long weekends they would escape to do their dog show competitions and breeding type activities was a great idea. And they knew I threw nipple and dick flying parties. I was smart enough in my slacker teen years to know that erasing all signs of binge before they made it back was key in keeping the arrangement stable. Still, to this day, one of the most painful sounds is collecting bottles and cans in a bag when I'm hung over.

Some of the neighbors had beefs. Ma would always confront them head on. Stern woman when she wanted to be. She'd always get bored with these interactions and tell them, "Look, he's a stinker and a crazy kid. You don't like it, be my guest and talk to him about it." At which point she'd call me to the front door, and say that Mr. and Mrs. stick up their clenched ass wanted to have a chat. They'd usually walk away in a huff at that point. Me giggling at them.

My current apartment wouldn't be good for a massive drunken brawl. I could successfully host a four chick, one man ( that would be me ) orgy. One of those a week would be fine and dandy. Mmmmmmmm regularily scheduled tongue baths from moist women. *Drool*