Party Like Its 1942


Have I ever mentioned that I went to a Neo-Nazi house party once? Really? That never came up? Oh yeah, totally. My gay friend brought me. Yeah, the one that goes by “Princess”. No, I don’t know how he met them. Well, anyway, here goes:

We pulled up in front of the house, which had seen better days, and I was already feeling nervous. We get up close enough to see some of the people lounging around on the front porch, close enough to see some of their tattoos, and…

Is that a swastika? On that man’s face? What’s that flag on the wall? Oh, holy shit, they are all Nazis.

It was too late to go back to the car. Well, maybe it wasn’t, but I panicked and stiffly marched through the porch crowd right into the house. After Princess said hello to the Nazi he inexplicably knew, I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him aside.

“What did you do?”

“What are you talking about?” He hadn’t noticed. He thought it was a grand old time.

So, I just stick close to him. I take a drink when it is handed to me. I keep my mouth shut, try to keep my hair smooth. Listen to them swap their best meth recipes.

The night progresses and so does my blood alcohol content. They were able to convince me to roll a few, um, “jazz cigarettes” for them. In the end, we all sang Metallica’s “Whisky in the Jar” on a karaoke machine.

What is the moral of this story? Did I learn that we are all the same when you dig down deep enough? We are all just people, trying to get by? Humans are fundamentally good?

No, oh hell no. I am still miffed that Princess dragged me to that party.

The moral is: A Princess has to have a lot of balls to be ready for a skinhead party.






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