Wassup: The Party. New Year’s Eve 2005. Raw Dog. 5 DJs. 200 people. 1 blown amp. 1 recovered purse with $5,500 in it. 1 debauched speech. 1 averted fist-fight. Too much alcohol. I had no clue that my friends were so disgusting. Everyone looks like zombies.

These were all taken by Jason White on 1/14/06 at a party after an Emergency Broadcast System/The Title Ceremony/Cities show.

When my teeth pierced the fragile fruit’s surface I knew it’s wealth had to be shared. So I let Kissyface have a bite. By that time, rumors of it’s supple deliciousness had begun to circulate amongst the party goers. What happened next was unfathomable. Luckily, world renowned photojournalist Jason White was there to catch the whole thing.

The first thing that popped in my head the next morning was “I hope nobody had a cold sore.”

Thursday night was opening night for my brand new friend Sullivan Dunn’s art exhibit “Japanimals” at 008. It started off with red wine, art talk and pictures of cute little doggies but soon progressed into one of the most horrifyingly awesome Thursdays in recorded history.

All of these bad boys were taken 01/27/06 at Berzerko’s Freebase Friday. Lots of fun, lots of pizza, lots of drama. The first half of the night was populated by no more than a handful of whippersnappers. Come 11:45 about 100 party people poured in and began to drink, dance, and fight, signifying yet another success.

It was the last. It was a house party. But was it the greatest? Thanks to the cops we may never know. But what we did learn is that people have no shame. Take for example, the mysterious man known only as “The Gentleman Caller.” Somehow this handsome and photogenic young man managed to puke all over himself, and then become instantly irate, refusing to leave the party, despite the protest and disgust of many. Paparazzi princess Isaac “Sneaky Nutsack” Sandlin was there to harass the puke-soaked Gentleman Caller and document the confrontation. Keeping with the theme of shameless puking, Angela “Puddlepatch” Chambers took advantage of the party as an excuse to throw up all over the place and make-out with girls. Speaking of excuses, was it really necessary for Jarvis to have a party just so he could parade around in an oversized thrift store bathrobe? Perhaps not, but it was worth it to see an evangelical Jarvis Slacks on the microphone preaching from his couch pulpit and kicking people out of the house. While the jury is out on the debate of the greatest house party ever, a more important question remains: will the house really delete its Myspace account now that it’s party is over?

This was the first night of the weekly Tuesday night Ant Farm/Crush Calculator spin session.  Thanks to the Carolina-Duke game, the party was censored until about 11 and soon after problems began to surface with the P.A. system. Just when the vibe was in jeopardy there was a knock at the door from a sweet angel named Judy Gibbs.

I am writing in reference to the giant racist mural at the Downtown Post Office. Is this supposed to be a joke? Is Ashton Kutcher about to pull off his mask and tell me and the rest of Wilmington that we have just been Punk’d? If not, do you mind telling me which one of you Dixiecrats is reponsible for this masterpiece, and at what point it sounded like a good idea to spend your citizen’s hard-earned tax dollars on this over-sized nigger joke.

#1 “VISIT” DR. BUTTNIK EVERY FRIDAY AFTER SCHOOL AND TAKE PRESCRIPTION DRUGS AGAINST MY LITTLE WILL

I had to see Dr. Buttnik every Friday after school. One of my very few friends would call me up earlier in the week and ask if I wanted to come over for a sleepover after school on Friday. I’d ask my mom and she’d say, “No sweetie, remember, you’re going to visit Dr. Buttnik”.

This week’s floggable fashion faux pas is the hat we have penned “The Oliver Twist.” While being a malnourished, filth-ridden and impoverished orphan boy from some dreary over-industrialized English town may seem fashionable and appealing to someone like a Somalian refugee, to most, it is not an attractive or desired look. Unless you get paid in shillings, ate gruel for two out of three meals yesterday, or are currently a professional pickpocket or fledging blacksmith’s assistant, you should not own this hat.