As we arrive, we discover that our rather large posse both doubles the size of this Mardi Gras celebration and lowers the average age considerably. This fact is brought to our attention by a woman who quite rudely attempts to card us as a way of asking us to leave. We avert this faux pas by revealing our Party Crasher identity, clearing up any questions about our rights as invited guests.
Our attention is first drawn to the hot tub in the back, which is soon occupied by almost all of the male members of our posse and one UW professor--a man who bears a striking resemblance to a rude Don Rickles, and who demands that more women take off their clothes and get in. There are no female takers, and as that sausage party commences, the ladies take over the dance floor, singing loudly to Cindi Lauper and ABBA. Later, former hot-tub occupants dance as well, wearing only their towels, and the room takes on the musty smell of a well-used YMCA. The hostess and many of her affable friends go topless in the house, and the true spirit of Mardi Gras is revealed as my male friends are hit on by considerably older, drunker, and higher attendees. Everyone is offered gumbo, beads, and weird little magnetic earrings that light up like strobes. This party ends up being pretty awesome, and we stay until early morning.
Want The Stranger to crash your house party? E-mail all the details (date, place, time) to partycrasher@thestranger.com.
