Where da party at ?!

Let's get this party started with a clear frontal shot of the plantoctopus.

Just like his marine ancestors from which it somewhat differentiated some time ago, the plantoctopus has plantentacles. (The party is in Japan.)

Moving on, you might recall the story of a certain unicorn.

Its time had recently arrived, and, being stuffed full of homemade confections (in whose confection I confess having had a hand, for which I was privately if insistently dubbed no lesser thing than a genius!) and other delectables we armed the bimbo with a chunk of wood judged best for the purpose (which is to say, capable of enough damage to actually render the enemy, but not so much as to render the house) and set her to it.

Admire the duct-taped goggles, and believe you me that we enjoyed a most delightfully amusing half hour watching her fight the dangling beast. She makes little noises! And small motions of self defense! And "hey where is it", and etcetera.

If you've never done a pinata party, do try it once, I'd say eminently worth the hassle.

Moving on : to properly celebrate such a thing as a bimbo's birthday, one needs to buy himself some genteel accoutrements such as natural fiber full length pijamas and socks and whatnot other things they have at the gent store.

The nine year old depicted turned 26, and also got glasses, resulting in her for the first time truly taking in the faces of people passing by, stopping to give her dressing advice in the street, and issue dire warning as to the scandalous state of her blouse buttons etcetera.

In this country, you see, tweens and teenagers wear school uniforms (only to then move on to "corporate" jobs where also, except pants instead of skirts), and so the young adult set tends to be very very alarmed by her appearance. The boys somewhat, but the women without exception, and the mothers among them to a boiling pitch.

Yet... what can you do ?

You can immensely bother people, what the hell else.

And speaking of people : notice anything missing in this image ?

Yeah, that's right, they do "dangerous tricks" here at the Hooters barn, stuff you're well advised to not try at home. Because trained pros and whatnot, you understand this, don't you ?

I have no idea what they're trained in. For one thing, hooters or no hooters (mostly textile-compensated no hooters), they're so fucking short as to put any concern to rest : I've fallen out of taller beds without even getting bruised, girls this tall simply can't hurt themselves falling no matter how they fall or what else happens. Gravity only works at all if given some space to work in, you understand me.

Besideswhich, not only do they all wear pants, as apparently latinoamerica yahveh hath at some point ordainedⁱ, and flatsⁱⁱ for shoesⁱⁱⁱ, but (in what's apparently becoming the latinoamerican sex worker tradition) they never fucking lift their feet off the ground, not EVER, not for ANY REASON WHATSOEVER. It's starting to connote womanhood in these parts almost as much as the damned jeans, and certainly way above tits or anything else you'd expect on the natural basis.

The sittin' she-paladins, what the hell more can be said.

Meanwhile in life,

At which point the waitress comes running -- this is the chick whom we've asked "where's da party at ?!" and she helpfully inquired (no doubt with a view to giving the best possible answer consisting of the most adequate selection out of a vast and otherwise impossible to handle diversity & abundance cum variety) "que tipo de fiesta".

I helpfully clarified that "el tipo que hay gente", to aid in the apparently confusing if overwhelming task of sieving out all those many and numerous parties of countless inennumerable types which just so happen to not include any people whatsoever -- to which clarification she happily returned that other than going home, there's of course Santos^iv.

But of course. "There is", and for as long as you don't start curb stomping the idiots for going out in the street decked in jeans "there" will continue to exactly in this manner "be" exactly nothing at fucking all.

So this chick comes running, because her "companera"^v really really desperately wants to have her picture took with the loose women that (inexplicably!) blew in one day.

Think about it for a moment or twelve, if you will. There's this franchise built on the concept that yokels will come in to gladly overpay on shitty food, in exchange for at the most having a picture taken that somewhere vaguely in a corner includes them too while centering on these free and wild and uninhibited sluts doing free and wild and unhibited but incredibly and mindblowingly dirty never seen before sexy things.

That's what Hooters actually is, right ?

Then I come in with my sluts and the staff wants its picture taken with them. The relationship between the male as imagined by the cucks and Hooters waitresses is about the same as the relationship between Hooters waitresses and my sluts. I outhootered the Hooters, what! And it didn't take much hooting to do it, either.

Are you ready for the coup de grace ?

That's right. Not the same relationship.

Not the same relationship at fucking all. Not at all.

Da party is wherever the fuck I happen to be going. Wherever I bid the flags unfurled, wherever I pitch the standards, wherever my banners and cockades fly, whatever spot I pick to make a stand -- that's where the party's at. Wherever my and mine is to be found ; and nowhere else.

What can you do ?

1. They even approach my sluts, to "among girls" inculcate their bizarre cockroaches about how great jeans are and how fundamentally important for a cunt ensconcement is and whatever else nonsense [↩]
2. Seriously, how are you going to fall off flat shoes ? I mean, tall and cheaply made espadriles going downhill on a steep grade with construction debris for a "sidewalk", that I can understand and I've even seen, especially if a crying girl is walking home in punishment after being chewed out and #excluded. But off flats in a room !? [↩]
3. I do not believe it is socially acceptable for reproductive-age female to appear socially without high heels.

   You may think differently -- but if you do I do not believe it is socially acceptable for us to mix. You may still serve me drinks, I guess, though honestly I'd much prefer you were not be permitted on the premises even in that capacity. [↩]

4. A piddly bar everyone insists is the bee's knees except we never saw it in any other shape than "overrun by middle aged dweebs", and in any case was strategically locked when we went by, a few minutes after eleven that night.

   We had been bar hopping, see. After a number of bottles of fine Montepulciano imported straight from Abruzzo gave their blood so that the local (excellent!) watermelon and grape and apple and whatnot could make sangria (imbibed at home), we went out -- to enjoy suntan lotion (mis-sold as Pina Colada), mouthwash ("Cuba libre") and finally furniture varnish ("Manhattan"). This is to certify that the above denominazioni di origine controllata were issued as reported here by the misfortunate girls stuck with the respective items.

   Nobody goes out, not anymore. By the time a bar finds it a practicable business strategy to ship out Manhattans that taste like furniture varnish, you know they can't possibly have any repeat trade, which necessarily means nobody goes out anymore. [↩]

5. Generally rendered in English as "my friend who's not me" [↩]