Tips for Hosting a Great Halloween Party

We here at the Christie Mansion know a little about Halloween parties, so I thought I would impart some wisdom to those who feel their parties need a jolt, a kick in the pants, or crotch, whichever you feel is more effective.

Try this next one first, it should set the mood beautifully.

Get all the party guests together and deliver the following speech. That's it. That's all you need to do. Make sure everyone can hear it loud and clear. You won't be disappointed.

Ode to Halloween

The fires of the demon God Mammon burn brightly for those who can see truth, but are far more ominous for those who stumble through their petty, pristine existence unawares. Mammon understands only sinful excess, nothing else. Six beers is not sinful excess. 12 beers is more appropriate, but only liver-rotting, gut-bursting amounts truly appease the Arch-Duke of Hell. For those unlucky enough to be caught in Mammon’s cruel game of one-upsmanship, a most horrible and dismal dose of pain and misery shall be their reward. For you see, Mammon is the greatest drinker of them all, greater even than myself, and to challenge him is to commit oneself to eternal damnation. Many a bombastic braggart has met his end in the gnashing teeth of frightful Mammon.

As for myself, I do not need approval, for I am beyond the watchful eye of Mammon, subject only to the true Lord of Darkness, the King of the underworld; I speak of course of Satan, my one true father. Being the Prince of Hell, I have several responsibilities, none to be taken lightly.

For one, I must preside over parties such as these, where evil and mischief abound. I must say, that with all the virgin sacrifices and burning of pious Christians, overseeing such a celebration of drunken despair is a refreshing break form the daily grind. However, I should be clear that this is not all fun and games. My presence here is not ceremonial but utilitarian; should any of you neglect your duties to intoxication on this eve, be it via alcohol, narcotics, or sweet sweet lovin’, I shall be left with no option but to banish you to the stinking depths of Mammon’s darkest dungeons, where a rippling sea of thirsty grubs awaits your tantalizing flesh. Let us all hope that it does not come to that.

Well, now that the formalities are out of the way, I am reminded of a funny story. This story tells of an insipid maggot by the name of Barty Mainguy. He was a fool, of that there was no doubt, and a pompous, loudmouth ass. I was presiding over a similar Halloween ritual of drunken carnality, when our good friend Mr. Mainguy decided he was going to test the limits of his own mortality. I was sitting in a room much like this one, drinking a beer much like this one, when Mainguy approached me, swaying slightly from drink, and reeking of some form of cheap bourbon. I was tempted to crush his face like an over-ripe grape right then and there, but I restrained myself, suddenly curious as to why such an insignificant bug would tempt fate in such a manner. I would soon rejoice in my decision to allow him his last hurrah, as it were.

Mainguy spoke, slowly at first, whether out of fear or drunkeness I could not say, although I assumed it was a healthy mix of both. His words, while inoffensive in their essence, brought a dead silence to the room, and a smile flitting across my lips. “You dont look so tough, pal," he said," I could drink you under the table any day.” Bold words indeed, I thought, but he had made his bed, and now I would ensure that he would lie in it... Forever.

“Is that so?” I replied calmly, not wanting to scare him off, “In that case, let us begin, Mainguy, if that is your real name. Starting now." He seemed at that point slightly shocked that I had so readily accepted his impudent challenge. At this point, a sober man would have realized his folly, and begged my forgiveness, but Mainguy was not sober, and I would not have forgiven him anyways. He was fat and disgusting, and I did not like his smell.

I continued to drink my beer, just as before, but increased my pace, just enough to send him spiralling into immobilizing sickness. 15 minutes after the challenge had been uttered, I had completed 24 beers, and began working on number 25, while Mainguy was struggling vainly to down his 5th shot of Old Kentucky Tavern bourbon. Everyone in the room could see that Mainguy was finished. After his 10th shot, Mainguy went down. His head hit the plush carpeting with a satisfying thud, initiating one of the more violent and debilitating spells of frantic vomiting I had ever witnessed. Men, women and children fled screaming at the barbarous inhumanity of what they saw, as Mainguy appeared to release everything he had ever eaten in his entire life in the span of about 38 seconds. When Mainguy’s eruption finally subsided, I laughed at him. He was a fool, and had paid the ultimate price for his bourbon-instilled bravery.

As Mainguy shuddered helplessly on the floor in a growing pool of his own sick, I approached him slowly, motioning for all the remaining onlookers to run while they still could, for what was about to happen might scar them for life. With the room clear, I proceeded to butcher Barty Mainguy like a greased hog, and used his skin to patch the holes on the hull of my boat when I set sail for Aruba the next day.

So, let us see Mainguy as an example that none should follow, as his untimely demise ended up ruining the party, and forever staining what had once been a nice carpet.