Quote:

I woke up this morning with a $2000 birthday cake in my living room.

It's big. It's red. It says "Paris".

And its fucking delicious.

24 hours ago I got a call from my well-connected buddy Kevin.

"Dude, I'm crashing Paris Hilton's birthday tonight. Pretty sure I can get you in," he says.

"Pretty sure you can't," I say.

"Pretty sure I will," he says.

90 minutes later we're strolling down a red carpet like we belong there.



Hollywood is so weird sometimes, it scares me. I always imagined parties like this having more layers of security chekpoints than the white house. Yet all I needed was a red wristband with a "P" on it, and suddenly an army of black-clad mercenaries is hustling me into a mansion the size of a Holiday Inn.

Flashes shower down on us as we walk, apparently just in case we're famous.

We're not. But that hardly seems to matter. We blend pretty successfully with the guests -- and by "blend", I mean "drink heavily".



By comparison to the entrance, the actual party seems tame. Of course, that's "tame" as defined in Hollywood.

In Hollywood, having drinks served to you by naked, bodypainted nymphs with Tinkerbell wings is "tame."

In Hollywood, hiring an 8 foot tall Iron Man impersonator to breakdance is "tame-ish".

On planet earth, however, these things may or may not be considered absurd to the poiint of gravitational field disruption.

Now is a good time to mention there were 6 open bars.



By the time Paris blows out the candles, we're blown to smithereens. A dozen drinks deep, I'm slurring the lyrics to "Happy Birthday" as one continuous word while attemping not to fall face first into the cake.

The cake is big. Its red. It says "Paris".

And it looks fucking DELICIOUS.



Its getting late. As the party thins out, I glance toward cakeville and realize not a slice of frosted deliciousness has been served.

"What's the deal with the cake?" I finally ask one of the waiters.

"Oh that red one? They'll probably just throw it out..."

I am Jack's incredulous stomach.

It was at this inebriated moment I decided no one was going to waste $2000 worth of anything on my watch.

"HeEy," I mumble to Kevin... "I have to rescue that cake."

"Bet you can't," he says.

"Bet I argh--ll blaghr," I say.

"I'll get the car." he says.

Even in my sub-functional state, I realize this is going to be a delicate mission. There are still at least 100 people in the building, 20% of whom are employed to be looking for idiots like me.

Parading a confection the size of a small firetruck through the main hall is going to turn a head or two.

I make for the front door as Kev makes for the valet. I summon some gumption and begin to walk purposefully back into the party.

I brush shoulders with the guy who resembles the head of security.

"Hey man," I say to him with an air of I-know-what-I'm-doing. "The cake is in that room, right?"

"Yes, sir," he acknowledges with a slight bow toward the rear of the house.

I take my cue and make a bullet for cake city.

In one fluid motion, I sidestep a confused waiter, seize the prize, and about face to the door.

I pass the security chief again on the way out.

I nod purposefully... he nods in return.

40 seconds later I'm in the front seat of a Nissan Maxima with 70 lbs. of awesome in my lap.

Success.

As the sun rises, I crash hard. In the morning, I'll awake to an interesting surprise in the den.

It's red. It's delicious. And I don't know WTF I'm going to do with it.

Jake Wrote:From some guy Paz on Facebook

Quote:

I woke up this morning with a $2000 birthday cake in my living room.

It's big. It's red. It says "Paris".

And its fucking delicious.

24 hours ago I got a call from my well-connected buddy Kevin.

"Dude, I'm crashing Paris Hilton's birthday tonight. Pretty sure I can get you in," he says.

"Pretty sure you can't," I say.

"Pretty sure I will," he says.

90 minutes later we're strolling down a red carpet like we belong there.



Hollywood is so weird sometimes, it scares me. I always imagined parties like this having more layers of security chekpoints than the white house. Yet all I needed was a red wristband with a "P" on it, and suddenly an army of black-clad mercenaries is hustling me into a mansion the size of a Holiday Inn.

Flashes shower down on us as we walk, apparently just in case we're famous.

We're not. But that hardly seems to matter. We blend pretty successfully with the guests -- and by "blend", I mean "drink heavily".



By comparison to the entrance, the actual party seems tame. Of course, that's "tame" as defined in Hollywood.

In Hollywood, having drinks served to you by naked, bodypainted nymphs with Tinkerbell wings is "tame."

In Hollywood, hiring an 8 foot tall Iron Man impersonator to breakdance is "tame-ish".

On planet earth, however, these things may or may not be considered absurd to the poiint of gravitational field disruption.

Now is a good time to mention there were 6 open bars.



By the time Paris blows out the candles, we're blown to smithereens. A dozen drinks deep, I'm slurring the lyrics to "Happy Birthday" as one continuous word while attemping not to fall face first into the cake.

The cake is big. Its red. It says "Paris".

And it looks fucking DELICIOUS.



Its getting late. As the party thins out, I glance toward cakeville and realize not a slice of frosted deliciousness has been served.

"What's the deal with the cake?" I finally ask one of the waiters.

"Oh that red one? They'll probably just throw it out..."

I am Jack's incredulous stomach.

It was at this inebriated moment I decided no one was going to waste $2000 worth of anything on my watch.

"HeEy," I mumble to Kevin... "I have to rescue that cake."

"Bet you can't," he says.

"Bet I argh--ll blaghr," I say.

"I'll get the car." he says.

Even in my sub-functional state, I realize this is going to be a delicate mission. There are still at least 100 people in the building, 20% of whom are employed to be looking for idiots like me.

Parading a confection the size of a small firetruck through the main hall is going to turn a head or two.

I make for the front door as Kev makes for the valet. I summon some gumption and begin to walk purposefully back into the party.

I brush shoulders with the guy who resembles the head of security.

"Hey man," I say to him with an air of I-know-what-I'm-doing. "The cake is in that room, right?"

"Yes, sir," he acknowledges with a slight bow toward the rear of the house.

I take my cue and make a bullet for cake city.

In one fluid motion, I sidestep a confused waiter, seize the prize, and about face to the door.

I pass the security chief again on the way out.

I nod purposefully... he nods in return.

40 seconds later I'm in the front seat of a Nissan Maxima with 70 lbs. of awesome in my lap.

Success.

As the sun rises, I crash hard. In the morning, I'll awake to an interesting surprise in the den.

It's red. It's delicious. And I don't know WTF I'm going to do with it.

kcook Wrote:hahah jake thanks for the reminder. this one is an oldie. makes me laugh

check out my subaru
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