I never understood the expression "cursing like a sailor" until today. A couple hundred people are near Fisherman's Wharf, celebrating the "First Annual Fuckin' Summer Party," whose invitation boasts "Fuckin' Booze," "Fuckin' DJ," and "Fuckin' Hot Tub." A lot of the partyers work with boats for a living—there's a conversation about "scuttling" that confuses the fuck out of my Plus One and me—and they're about to make it very obvious that "drunken sailor" isn't a meaningless cliché, either.

A cute girl wanders around with a bottle of whiskey. "Whatcha doin' with that Jack Daniels?" a partier with hungry eyes asks her. "Taking it home and making sweet love to it," she answers, hugging it protectively. A man falls face first onto the ground, where, by all rights, he should remain unconscious for several hours. Lazarus-like, though, he rises from the pavement and drains a cup of whiskey. "We refer to these as his episodes," a friend whispers. Fuck!

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Someone hatches a plan to steal a yacht and ram the Ballard Locks with it, to protest their "way too fuckin' early" 9:00 p.m. closing time. The plan is quickly abandoned due to lack of ambition. A giant gorilla of a man tears apart a Porta-Potty with his bare fucking hands because it had been occupied for a little too long. A man screams, "Get naked! NOW!" at a woman, who dryly replies, "Oh, it's that time," before she walks away, which is probably for the best, since just about everyone here is probably too drunk to... you know...

Want The Stranger to hear how "I had to promise not to cannonball naked from the top of the bus" at your house party? E-mail the date, place, time, and party details to partycrasher@thestranger.com.