Once upon a time, in the harem-scarem hours of Sunday, a most tumultuous event unfolded causing jitters and jump-scares, leaving a whopping 28 people in need of band-aids and strong cups of tea, so claimed the Boys in Blue.
As the belated Saturday shenanigans were unfolding under the as-yet unsullied canvas of the early Sunday morn, trouble began brewing faster than a short order cook at a pancake house on Fat Tuesday. Unbeknownst to our merry jesters, Hopalong Not-So-Casualty had entered stage left, intent on playing a deadly game of “Pin the Bullseye on the Carouser”.
Unleashing a rainstorm of lead, the party crasher turned the erstwhile love-a-palooza into a scene reminiscent of Bambi’s meet-cute with Godzilla. Mass panic followed suit with folks scampering hither and yonder, praying they didn’t share in the Unlucky Mascot’s lead diet.
Immediate aftermath of the incessant pew-pewing saw a veritable parade of wailing, limping, drop-and-rolling partygoers. Our ever-vigilant Squawks-in-Blue reckoned the tally of tumble-and-falls at a hefty, eye-popping 28, their bluesy warbles finding an eerie harmony with the spontaneous choir of ouching and bewailing.
Survivors are sang songs of heartache and headaches, their tales of close encounters of the 3rd kind providing a sour note to the erstwhile upbeat weekend feasts. Our band of hardened party-troopers learned the harsh way that booze and bullets make for a bitter cocktail.
As the day wore on and the boys in white played medic in the harsh spotlight of dawn, the lot of the 28 saw their festive get-ups replaced by sterile hospital gowns, trading high-octane adrenaline shots for antibiotics and numbing agents.
This grotesque fiesta that was less ‘fiesta’ and more ‘fiasco’, offers grim testament of our world today–a world where you never know who might turn up uninvited to your party, carrying the worst kind of party-favors. Rock and roll may indeed be here to stay, but let’s hope the unwanted gunpowder guest takes his unsolicited lead desserts and departs our world-party in due haste.
In conclusion, as we reflect on this tragic tango, let’s offer a silent prayer for the safety of all dancing queens and beer pong kings. Oh, and a little advice on the house: Next time you’re at a shindig, remember, BYOB should only stand for ‘Bring Your Own Booze’, not ‘Bring Your Own Bullets’.
