So you think you know how to party. I, Juan, laugh at you. Ha ha ha. Ha. Juan spits on your delusions of party-master grandeur. If Juan were wearing a glove, Juan would take it off and smack it on the side of your face in order to mock you for your inferior party skills. You timid, lifeless fools provide no match for the parties back at my place. You must learn to party like Juan. I challenge you with all the party in your soul to party like Juan, and then perhaps I will find a tiny grain of respect for your weak, miserable underpartied lives.
You come to my place and I will show you. At Juan's place there is a twenty-four-hour party. The party never ends. No one ever sleeps. No one ever leaves. No one ever goes to work, and even if they did, their earnings would all go to pay for the party.
When you party like Juan, you enter Juan's place and instantly absorb the beautiful, cruel assault of the sexy music and the arousing sight of dozens of beautiful ladies dancing in their underwear. The music will be so loud and overpowering that you will feel no urge to have conversation with the beautiful ladies. For conversation is the opposite of party. Look it up. The throbbing beat of the drum machine will take your spirit hostage and ransom it for the world. Your feet will dance, and your hands will shake, and your mouth will cry out with joy joy joy, and your penis will engorge itself with blood as you dance among the beautiful ladies while the strobe lighting blinds you with its cheap ferocity until you have a seizure, and then all the beautiful ladies will have sex with you while you are unconscious, and the sex will bring you back to consciousness and you will start dancing to the sexy music again.
As you continue to party like Juan, the beautiful ladies will offer you a drink, and then you will have sex with all of them again, and then you will want another drink, and then the beautiful ladies will spike your drinks with acid and mushrooms and ecstasy and butter, and you will see heartbreaking visions of angels swarming around the Beast with nine unibrows on each of its claws and dozens of holy martyrs battling at karaoke with Satan's minions as you are having sex with the beautiful ladies again, and then the beautiful ladies' boyfriends will get angry and beat you to a bloody pulp with crowbars, and then they will urinate all over you as you lie on the floor writhing in agony, and then the beautiful ladies' boyfriends will have sex with you, and you will all splash around in the big puddles of beer and blood and urine on the floor, and you will love it because it will remind you of your childhood innocence.
When you party like Juan, the drinks keep on coming to you, and there will be beer and wine and brandy and sangria and vodka and vermouth and gin and rum and cider and spiked guarana, all of them poured down your throat at once. And the excess amount of alcoholic beverages will cause you to vomit all over the beautiful ladies, and then they will smack you and kick you and shoot pepper spray into your eyes, and you will love it because it feels so good good good. And they will make you drink more of the alcoholic beverages, and then you will vomit again, and then the beautiful ladies will have sex with you again, and you will all roll around on the floor splashing in your vomit, and then you will vomit again, and then you will have the biggest orgasm of your life, which will cause you to vomit one more time, and then you will choke on your vomit and suffocate and die. And you will see multidimensional visions of heaven and hell and God and meadows and streams and clouds and harps and fire and brimstone and violet light and a hum and beautiful ladies and plastic bags blowing in the wind until you are revived back to life by mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from one of the beautiful ladies, and then you will be rushed to the hospital for treatment, and the beautiful ladies will accompany you to the hospital and have sex with you in the ambulance, and then you will have a heart attack and die again.
That is how you party like Juan, you prudes. Bah! Can you handle it? Or are you a party coward?
Jeff Cottrill is a satirist, spoken-word performer, journalist and occasional actor based in Toronto. His stage act often uses elements of performance poetry, comedy, theatre and storytelling. With a darkly comic flavour, he likes to make audiences laugh, cringe, or (preferably) both. He has headlined in countless literary and performance series throughout Ontario, the U.K. and parts of the U.S. over the last decade. He was one of the organizers of the Perpetual Motion Roadshow, a monthly touring circuit (created by novelist Jim Munroe) that showcased independent artists in venues along the East and West coasts of the U.S. and Canada from 2003 to 2007. Jeff is the Literary Editor of Burning Effigy Press, a Toronto small press that specializes in genre fiction and urban poetry.
Volunteers for Issue 7
For sub-editing this issue MTLS thanks:
- Lequanne Collins-Bacchus
- Amanda Tripp
- Bianca Spence
- Rosel Kim
Acknowledgement
MTLS is grateful to Ian Loiselle for his hard work on web management.
June, 2010
Donna-Michelle St. Bernard, MTLS Spokenword Editor wins a Dora Award
July, 2010
Christian Campbell, MTLS poet, short-listed for the prestigious Forward Poetry Prize
September 2010
Dawn Promislow, MTLS author, publishes her first short story collection
October 2010
PEN Canada Presents: TAXI Stand Jam!"
New Calendar
From issue 8, MTLS publication will follow a regular production year
© 2010 Maple Tree Literary Supplement on behalf of individual artists, writers & contributors. All Rights Reserved.
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