Shitface is having a party

Shitface is having a party tonight.

That statement begs so many questions. What is a Mcstevens party like? Will they serve dogshit on a bagel? Will the furney be plentiful? There's a rumor that he put a sign outside his door reading, "Your piece must be this thick to enter," but that's false. I stopped by the other day to check out the preparations.

Shitface really took me off guard. Really, he really really did. I can't stress it enough. I was really really off guard, as that was how he took me. First of all, he met me at the door in a velvet smoking jacket. I couldn't help wondering if Shitface had turned his back on scumbaggery. Inside his apartment, the floors were clean, lemony even. His walls were covered in classy Betty Boop prints. Mozart's Fifth Fugue for the Skin Lute was pleasantly pouring from his speakers. Even the dead rats/dart boards were gone. I couldn't believe it.

He sat me down and offered me a snifter of brandy. While he was gone I had a chance to search for the Shitface I knew. I looked for his collection of panty clippings(he likes to collect the crotch of women's underwear), usually stashed in a chinese food carton under the couch. Not there. Neither was the Jar O' Piss, or his beloved Stretch Armstrong. I'm sure I looked perplexed when he came back from the kitchen.

We chatted a little. The brandy hit the spot. I was about to ask him about his life-size cutout of Craig T. Nelson when he cleared his throat. I held my thought back. He raised his hand, and in a cockney British accent told me: "I 'ope you don't mind, guvner, but I stirred your brandy with me Uncle Bob."

I was overjoyed. Shitface hadn't changed at all, he'd just gotten weirder. I spit out the brandy that was still in my mouth and shook his hand like I was the mayor of Happyville.

I'll try to let whoever reads this shit know how the party went. Maybe pictures. Whatever.