The Party Oscars
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By staff writer Mike Forest

April 27, 2005

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Good evening/afternoon/morning depending on what time you’re reading this. Welcome to the Party Oscars! The partying party by partiers to celebrate
partying.

This column will not be on any kind of time delay, so if you’re offended when someone says, “fuck, fuckity fuck fuck fuck,” you’d better leave
now.

You know, people have asked me, why have a party to commemorate partying? Isn’t that a little redundant? If you look to the left and to
the right of you, you’ll notice that these people aren’t here because every party needs a pooper, but those people suck and we decided that we didn’t
really need them after all. So they’re not invited.

At this point we will have our fabulously untalented dancers perform their own version of that fucking stupid “Numa Numa” song.

““It really is just a pleasure to be nominated among such raging alcoholics. Who am I wearing? The shirt is from Goodwill’s Sale
Rack Collection.”

*A horrific, yet hilarious scene unfolds*

Welcome back, so sorry to waste your time with that. Our first award is for Best Drinking Game. This award was a tight race, because in all these games there are no winners
and no losers. As long as people are drinking they’re winning.

The nominees for Best Drinking Game are:

Beer pong/Beirut
Tippy cup
Three Man
Kings
Quarters
and finally, Categories.

And the winner is: Beer pong! With its many rules and variations of rules, it can take an hour just to get started. Remember house rules are the
rules.

Our next award goes to Best Venue. This is the place where we party the most and the hardest.

The nominees for Best Venue are:

That one place that I threw up at
The other place I threw up
at
The house I accidentally set on fire
and finally, Keith’s
place.

The winner of course is That one place I threw up at! I’ll never remember the nights of so-called fun that we had there…where ever the fuck it was.

The next award is not for the faint of heart. We all get a little crazy and lose track of what we would call “our better
judgment” when alcohol is involved. This leads to beer goggles and the end
result is not pretty…and neither is she the next morning.

We call this award the “What the Fuck was I Thinking Award.” None of the nominees will be proud, but we’ll proceed anyway.

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The nominees for What the Fuck was I Thinking are:

Tom and the fat chick at Steve’s Party
Beech and the One Eyed Girl at
Tom’s Party
Tom and Steve at Steve’s other party
and
finally, Beech and himself every night.

The winner of course is Beech and himself every night.

Beech is in the back, so standing in for him is his right hand….

The rest of the night is a drunken haze, but you get the idea. I guess this kind of thing has been done before, but it was really a lot of
fun. So many nights break down to “Hey, remember that time…” kind of nights. Why not have one night to celebrate the best? Granted, it takes a little bit
of work to make the ballots, the awards (we used pipe cleaner figures on top of empty beer cans) and plan the event, but it was totally worth it. We even had music to
accompany each award.

Our event was great, and by that, I mean that I couldn’t see straight by the time I left. We had 32 awards, but it only took about an hour, which is just starting to
push the limits of drinking attention span. The key is to know cool people who will make good speeches when they win. My personal favorite was the speech that Bob gave
after he won the “Captain Obvious Award.”

“I just won this award.”

Having entertaining people as emcees is also key. The guys who ran ours kept it moving pretty well. Had it been the other half of my friends,
I would have been the one running the show…but I can’t have ALL the spotlight can I? I mean, as a PIC writer, I’m already fighting off hot girls every
night because I am physically incapable of having sex with more than four or five of them at a time…I may as well spread the wealth a little.

Having just met these people this year, I didn’t have the benefit of knowing the group as well as everyone else did. So although I was nominated for three of four
awards, I wasn’t sure that I would go home with anything.

Outside on the Red Sidewalk, I explained as much to the beer can we pretended was a microphone:

“It really is just a pleasure to be nominated among such raging alcoholics. Who am I wearing? The shirt is from Goodwill’s Sale Rack Collection and the
jeans are from Super Target.”

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I was able to walk away with “The Most Embarrassing Moment Award.” The story ends with me in my bed, fully clothed and still hammered out of my mind at 4pm the
next day. It starts with a few beers and the drink of disaster: Blue Tarantula Tequila.

The middle of the story involves me telling some guy he has a vagina because he won’t take a swig off the bottle of blue death. Then I told his girlfriend that she
must be the one in the relationship with a penis. Eventually I find out he goes to the same university as my best friend, Eric, so I tell the guy he’s cool and
apologize. Somewhere in the middle of my apology I slapped him.

Yes, I actually slapped him.

From there I was taken onto the porch where I fell down and grabbed onto a bike for comfort. Random things burst out of my mouth:

  • “I need help. Give me your hand. (They do.) Fuck you! Don’t patronize me!”
  • “You gotta answer this question, Evan. And our whole friendship hinges on this….” Apparently I just babbled on about this
    for 20 minutes and never asked the question.
  • “I’m in a hole…a deep dark hole….”

I also called the cops on the party across the street. Clearly a dick move. Jeff was nice enough to take me home. So I must have decided
to give him bad directions and we ended up in the complex across the street where I live. I got out of his car and fell flat on my face several times. He picked me back up
and we finally got to my apartment. Well that explains the blood all over my jeans the next day and why my body felt like I had the shit kicked out of me.

The point is that, I can’t really do a column where I give out awards to people I know, because only a few of you would know what I’m talking about. Almost every
story you can tell is one of those where you had to be there. I challenge you all to have your own parties and do it up even better than we did: wear suits, have a real red
carpet, see if Starr Jones-Smith-Betty Crocker is available.

We here at PIC would be more than happy to post some of the best stories and pictures from your parties.

Now here’s a commercial for tampons.

NEXT WEEK: MY LAST COLUMN AS AN UNDERGRAD: A FAREWELL TO BARS

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