Our house after New Year’s Eve, as viewed by:
Prince Humperdink and Count Rugen
Prince: Someone has been beaten by a bottle of rum. The loser ran off alone and the winner was put in the pantry without a lid.
Rugen: Shall we track them both?
Prince: The hangover is nothing. Only the bottle matters.
Following the trail of chips beside the prints of the stocking feet, we can see that the hostess was trying to eat but kept missing her face. I think we’ll find the missing alcohol in her bloodstream, Watson.
The floor was encrusted with bootprints and grime,
And magnets, champagne corks and bottles of wine,
Sequins, some glitter, a hip flask of Schnapps,
And satiny underpants someone forgot,
Tiaras, gum wrappers, your young cousin Fred,
The stockings you thought you had left on the bed,
The place where that guy managed not to throw up,
A list of the people you thought would show up,
Spinach dip, cups, and mysterious stains,
The waistband ripped out of some random guy’s Hanes.
Your guests all seemed happy — they left with a smile.
You’re pleased that they showed up to boogie a while.
The party was awesome! A shindig! A scream!
Six hours to rock out — and three days to clean.
The floor had a lot of dirt on it.