Audioccult Vol. 93: The Worst Parties You’ve Ever Been To

Light a candle. Draw the required sigils. Now, raise your arms above your head plus slowly, gently, exhale your soul. You won’t need it here. This really is Audioccult, and it’s time to obtain low. Illustration: SHALTMIRA


Are you the Dark Romantic with a passion regarding pee-play that no God or even Devil can sate? Do you wish to have your feet yelled at by denizens of the night? Gross tennis balls guy? Then enter our realm of whips and vampires or even whatever. Pain and pleasure await…

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That’s the gist of the email I received for your first truly awful party I actually ever went to. Don’t everyone state, “Duhh, ” at once; I was youthful and easily influenced by vinyl-clad older women with serious problems. So yes, I went to the bad party, the worst party. I watched in bummed numbness as Dracula pretended to spank an anime. A woman with no conviction in her eyes or tone of voice told a man he was a worm. Soundtrack by Lady Gaga. Eroticism courtesy of nobody. I guess if you’re likely to garb yourself in an ill-fitting veneer of BDSM ‘subversiveness’ then you are probably going to half-ass the soundtrack as well, but that was the part that disappointed me more than anything. I expected something more unfamiliar; the sound of depressurized hulls, machines being kicked down stairs that lead to forced breeding pens plus oxygen tents. Oh well… I suppose there’s something at least mildly subversive regarding bad goths acting out vanilla fantasies to Pet Shop Boys. Confident there’s a Deviantart gallery about this.


Nothing says ‘genuine thug’ like an asterisked swear word. I can’t really judge all of them for being the whitest bros in the world since I’m pale enough to become invisible, but when there’s a hundred of them hanging out in a bar with an MC who looks like Simon Pegg doing the Flocka ‘bow bow bow’ start barking, you have a recipe for a night of shame. The overly-enthusiastic party photographer has been using flash for every shot too, so all the photos looked like spirits in Supreme hats. To make matters even better, the bar came with the sound limiter (which I’m petitioning to rename “DJ hate crimes”). Aww yeah, dog. This rap song is good as hell, but do you know what would make it better still? Turn that shit down a little bit. Nawww… lower . Mmm. Create those 808s into 404s—make ‘em unavailable as sh*t . And now the bass is gone too? Homeboy .


Not actually a party, more going over to a sister’s house and making guacamole for her New Year’s gathering since I had nothing else to do. ”I’m guacin’ here”: cool thing I state when I make guacamole. Sometimes I actually mix it up and say, “Guac it to me, baby, ” just like a New York tough guy to impress my nieces and nephew. Does not work. They’ve seen me puke.


This was a surprise party regarding my grandpa, but I walked in the door ahead of him plus everyone yelled, “SURPRISE! ”, and I got really excited. I had to possess a time-out for this one, too—for “inappropriate dinner topics. ” Sorry, dad, but Boondock Saint ersus fans are basically the nu-metal kids of film, and that will be why the movie will never be part of the Criterion Collection. It’s like putting ‘Peel Session’ in late Limp Bizkit song titles. I am the one who scratched your Blu-Ray too, fucker.


That one was actually for me, but the gifts were the worst presents plus soiled the atmosphere of the party. Kitsuné CDs? How about an Ed Banger record while we’re from it. A Bo Jackson poster exactly where Bo Knows how to be challenging and hold a bat at the rear of his shoulders instead of in front, excellent present for an artistic goth child. A beautifully-bound collection of hand-drawn Hank Hill/Al Bundy yaoi, rendered totally worthless due to unforgivable inaccuracies. Uncircumcised Hank? Honestly?? You dumbass.


Who says you can’t party in bed? Filter wouldn’t. Filter would yank down our pants and then say something suggest about Chris Cornell, like maybe my pubics represent his mustache. Me and my Filter information, living Large and In Charge in my mattress. It’s lonely at the top, and when you are awake.


For as many bad events as I’ve been to, there’s at all times more—parties that list genres they never play on the flyer, events with good music but nobody’s dancing, parties with weird smells that linger over the dancefloor and you spend the whole night wondering if it’s you. The possibilities are endless. When you have some terrible party stories too, feel free to share them in the comments section below. I’ll select one lucky local winner to spend time with me (amount of time to be determined by myself).


A good party is like a knife… beautiful, potentially dangerous, and protruding of my stomach. Please call help. Please help me. please call help ⁓

For more editions of Audioccult, click here.

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