It seems that my innocent Superbowl party is getting overblown into the type of event at which celebrities show up sans panties. Mr. Pipewrench and Mr. Spackler are leading the charge; Dr. Sardonic is even thinking of calling in friends from Thailand, and you know how crazy those people can get.

See, I was thinking my family and maybe a couple of neighbors would show up for chili or lasagne or something. This is much more sensational, and requires a bit more thought and planning. Perhaps I can borrow a disco ball from someone.

To address some party comments directly:

Mr. Spackler, my cat is only afraid of one thing, and it's not the pink escalade. Although if you want to go for a drunken joy ride in it anyways, be my guest. Also, Miss Muffin would fuck you up pretty badly if you tried to stuff her in the microwave; my sister's dog, on the other hand, is quite placid and not very bright, and she'd be more than willing to sacrifice him.

Mr. Pipewrench, if you bring hookers and blow, you'll have to keep them in the storage shed in the back yard. Plus, the only balloon animals that capture Mr. Spackler's imagination are these.