Exactly a year ago, Grandpa Richard’s brain was threatening to explode if he didn’t share it with my slightly less intellectually gifted comrades and the entire nation at large. Being a good grandson that I always endeavour to be, I offered to offload his jeremiads against young people in this newspaper week in week out.
You will surely agree that the asininity we have uncovered over the past year has been phenomenally obnoxious. Now, close your eyes for a moment and imagine an apocalyptic scenario whereby all this asininity is compressed into a single night. Frightening, isn’t it?—that’s what a comrades’ house party looks like.
A few weeks ago my old man, Grandpa Richard, happened to read about the boy from a leading university who was knocked down to death by fellow comrades during what was supposed to be a soirée. While paying his respects to the departed comrade, Grandpa blew his top and wondered loudly what the heck goes on in those house parties. “How raucous can a birthday celebration be to necessitate loss of lives?” he asks.
A comrades’ jamboree is a party that can literally take you to hell. If you happen to survive the brawls and kerfuffle that are characteristic to these house parties, then be very afraid of their ear-splitting music and drug ingestion that might just be your one way ticket to God’s waiting room. They’re deplorable, inane and asinine to boot.
Those partying near a cemetery will cause the dead to run from their graves in an attempt to escape the sheer volume of their music. Decibels of insanity, I once called them.
Woe unto you if you happen to live within a ten-kilometre radius of any of university student. The shifting of tectonic plates that occurs when overweight young people stomp around like great lumbering dinosaurs will get you to thinking that the Rapture is finally here. They’ll flail around humping into each other like someone just set their bottoms on fire, and they’ll have the audacity to call it dancing. I have previously opined in this same platform that what my comrades engage in is actually pornography, not choreography.
Other than the ubiquitous booze, I strongly suspect illegal stuff is ingested too. Each comrade is keen on making memories on their birthday, you know. Thus, they readily wash down ecstasy pills with several gulps of boiled marijuana, all in the name of making that night special. With their drug induced braggadocio, they now engage in bottle fights and that’s how the parties turn into festivals of death.
And instead of keeping their shenanigans to themselves, everyone will insist on engaging the entire world by posting photos from their knees-ups on Facebook and bragging about it on Twitter.
If the police are not called on them, they only retire to bed at 4pm. At that point they’re all jazzed up on hormones, and what happens next is something I cannot outline in a reputable paper.
We’ll be better off doing away with the reprehensible nonsense that’s house parties among my comrades.