Sat Dec 17
There's weirdness as we arrive: The green front lawn features a snowman, which our host claims to have stolen from someone's yard in Snoqualmie Pass—the first indication that Fistmas is something special. Inside, people are singing "The Twelve Days of Fistmas" ("Fiiiiiive broooo-ken ribs!") and punching each other under the Hertz Donut hooked to the ceiling.
All this debauchery is in honor of St. Fisticuffs, the patron saint of Fistmas, whose arrival places an air of drunken awe in the room. Standing seven feet tall (including the humpback), red eyes glowing in his skeleton face, St. Fisticuffs shambles to the basement, where his blood-soaked throne awaits in the lovingly prepared Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen Snuff Room.
"Where do ya want it?" the Surliest Saint bellows when people sit on his lap, waving his boxing glove threateningly. He gives partiers gifts from the Stockings of Destiny—queen-sized pantyhose nailed to a wall—and Party Crasher gets a bottle of deer urine. Everyone applauds St. Fisticuffs, who sneers, "I'll give you the clap!" and threatens to hit anyone in his general vicinity. "I can't hold beer in my mighty fists!" he roars in frustration. It's enough to make Party Crasher and our 17 and a half feet of burly Plus One muscle regret that everybody else celebrates some pervy "Santa Claus," when St. Fisticuffs is the icon that the world really needs: One who comes out swinging, threatens to fist you without provocation, and symbolizes that special day when those who don't even attempt to be good finally get theirs. Why can't every day be Fistmas?
Want The Stranger to get "Three hematomas/Two black eyes/And a right uppercut in the teeth" at your house party? Email the date, place, time, and party details to firstname.lastname@example.org.