Half A Giraffe

The comedy stylings of the pleasantly deranged

Tag Archives: Party


Perspective; Part Two – Electric Bugaloo

Monday, 21 February 2011 by Rory Cashin

For anyone who may have missed it, here’s Part One.

Or, for short, I was at a party, it wasn’t going well.

So… Jennifer was not happy with me, and I didn’t know anyone else there, so I did what every man does when he feels uncomfortable; I made friends with the bar-man. One tip for my first drink caused him to start serving me doubles, which caused me to start seeing doubles.

I basically have two settings when drunk. One is happy, clappy, “Seriously man, I love you!” drunk. Dancing to every song that there is drunk. Overbearingly, suffocatingly unable to stop hugging people drunk. Imagine a teddy bear drunk on vodka and red bull, and you’re half way there. My other type of drunk is this:

I long for death...

Not good. And, unfortunately for me (and anyone within projectile vomiting range), I felt the latter of the two was beginning to take hold. To counteract this, I decided to dance. Dance away the blues. As if God had heard my thoughts and knows an opportunity when he sees one, a Conga-line suddenly formed in front of me.

I ran to it, and grasped on to the hips of the girl in front of me. She looked back at me in horror, but said nothing. She slowly faced forward, but even from the back of her head, I could tell she was super tense. I decided to show her she had nothing to worry about by kicking my legs from side to side, really getting into the Conga spirit. A girl got on the Conga line behind me, so I grabbed her hands and put them on my hips, regrabbed the girl’s hips in front of me, and recommenced with the high kicks.

Can you?

It was around then that the tiny part of my brain that was still sober began to notice some irregularities; like the fact that girls who didn’t want to touch my hips or vice versa, like the fact that I was the only male in this Conga line, like the fact that the Conga line was barely moving, like the fact that instead of Conga music the DJ was playing Happy Birthday… and then it hit me, and then the girl in front of me was gone, and then I realized I was now at the top of the 21 Kisses line, and I was facing Jordan. Who I didn’t know. Who was a guy.

It never occurred to me to ask Jennifer if Jordan was a guy or a girl, because you hear “Jordan”, you mentally picture two giant boobies. I was beginning to panic because I knew everybody in the room was looking at me. Jordan sat there on the chair, lipstick marks all over his face, looking at me in horrified confusion. So I did what I had to do… I walked up to him, shook his hand, handed him his wet pink slippers, and ran out of the party.

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Dance Lessons

Thursday, 16 December 2010 by Rory Cashin

There is nothing within the social spectrum that causes more discomfort than the prospect of dancing. Now, don’t get us wrong, under the right circumstances and the correct amount of alcohol, dancing is sometimes the greatest thing that has ever been thought up by mankind. But outside of these oh-so-exact conditions, the dance can be this daunting, intimidating THING that cannot be easily defeated.

So, in light of this, we’ve decided to help you folk out. The following are some handy rules and guides that should assist you, so that the next time you suddenly find yourself on a dancefloor, you don’t collapse into the fetal position and rock back in forth in time with whatever song happens to be playing at the time.

Are you a man? This isn't you.

- No matter how good a dancer you are, you should never dance too good. If you’re a woman and you dance too good, then you are a whore*. If you’re a man and you dance too good, then you are a gay*. Or black*. (But for some reason, not a black gay).

- As an extension of the above rule, you should not try to get your dance on properly in front of your co-workers or employers. Generally, an office party will happen somewhere that has some pretty MOR music, so the generally accepted “dance-move” is to stand still, with your arms around the shoulders of anyone standing beside you, while you scream along to whatever song is on at that moment. Do NOT show off, as your boss will think your heart is really in your dancing career, and will fire you in an attempt to help you “pursue your true dream”.

- However, if you find yourself in the situation where your dance moves are going down a storm with your workmates / girlfriend / etc, you may find that there will be someone who takes this as reason enough to believe that they too can dance. Common perpetrators of this are (A) your boss, (b) your girlfriend’s ugly ass best friend (c) your friends / workmates new girlfriend. You will be central to their newfound dance bravery, and this is dangerous. In this situation, utilize the right handed “drinky-drinky” hand motion, nod casually towards the bar, and run.

Are you a woman? This isn't you.

- If you’re on a first date that is going well, and you migrate from the pub to the club, do not take this as a safe environment to bust our your moves. In fact, dancing without the help of an instructor should not be attempted with a potential partner until well after you have had sex with them. You need to thread the fine line between “funny party animal” and “overexcited closet disco karaoke lover” very carefully. Lets not forget that dancing is connected to sex, and dancing alone is far more enjoyable that sexing alone.

- Things that should be easy to dance to, but aren’t: salsa music, anything by Prince, any song with the N-word in it.

- Things that should never see the light of day: The Worm, pelvic thrust action for more than 3.5 seconds, The Running Man.

- Things that are easy to dance to, but you shouldn’t; line dancing, anything by Lady GaGa, any song with the N-word in it.

- As a rule, dances that you would never do at home on your own are perfectly acceptable to perform in public, e.g. The Macarana, YMCA, the entire routine to Grease Lightning.

Lyrics are printed on the back.

- Tips for Women: it is important that you never launch into a serious dance routine as learned in a dance class / on a Wii game / actual music video footage. You will never be as good as you think. Other women will hate you. Men will think you are easy, try it on, find out your a frigid bitch and you will end up eating curry chips barefoot with your shoes on the table in a chipper. Alone.

- Tips for Men: if you are in the tiny percentile of men who happen to be able to dance while still maintaining a fragment of cool, and you think you’re up to it, then you should get all your closeted dancing urges out in a hip-hop club. However, beware of dance-offs (yes, they actually do happen) as there are only three possible outcomes: (1) you’ll get served so badly that you have the leave the club immediately, your girlfriend will dump you and your boss will fire you. (2) you will badly injure yourself trying to keep up with the ungodly flexible black man. (3) somehow you beat the black man and you will be viewed as a racist, keeping the black man down.

DAAAAAAAAAAAAANCE!

- If all these tips seem a bit daunting, thankfully none other Will Smith has also decided to help out on the topic by, ironically, writing a DANCE song about it.

(* If you happen to be a whore, black man or gay man, then literally none of the above will apply to you, and you have earned your right to dance to whatever you want, whenever and wherever you want.)

Special thanks to Elaine Daly for helping me with the post.

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Posted in Staff Writer |

Body Language

Monday, 22 November 2010 by Gemma Creagh
pissed

pissed

There’s an uncomfortable silence, as Jack’s body parts wait for the meeting to begin…

Brain: I am Jack’s Medulla Oblongata, as well as his entire Brain and I hereby convene the 25th anniversary meeting of this regulatory body. Ha ha, ah ha ha.

The rest of Jack’s body parts do whatever the body part equivalent is of rolling their eyes – except of course for the eyes, who just rolled themselves.

Brain: I never tire of that one! Well, greetings and salutations to all. Before we begin, I’d like us all to take a minute to reflect on the passing of Jack’s tonsils.

A moment passes, the throat looks particularly upset and has to be comforted by the shoulders. The Brain nods in their direction.

Brain: Those were some damn fine lymphoepithelial tissues and they did Jack and the rest of us proud. Now, let me recite the minutes of the last meeting. Initially we discussed the drop in external temperature and what we could do to remedy this.

Jack’s Gonads shiver with the memory, Brain looks over and smiles at them knowingly.

Brain: Myself and Jack’s Stomach implemented a dual system where I relayed this information and Jack’s stomach increased it’s desire for intake. Do you want to tell the floor a little bit about this?

Stomach: Go fuck yourself, Brain.

Nervous System: Come on now, Stomach, it wasn’t–

Stomach: Oh, fuck you too, Nervous System, why don’t you just grow a pair.

Gonads: Don’t drag me into this!

Brain: Calm down everyone, please. Now let’s talk about the elephantitis in the room.

Stomach: Why on EARTH, Brain, would you tell Jack that it was a good idea to drink a litre of Aftershock, do you know what this has done to me… to us?!?

Brain: Ahem. I thought this might come up. Look, Jack’s a fun guy, and Nervous System, don’t you relax after he has a pint or two?

Nervous System: I… I… do yes. But, really a litre? I lost all control.

Brain: Well Jack was just having a good time with his buddies, all these social factors came into play that you guys wouldn’t understand. Like rounds and keeping up with–

Bladder: I wouldn’t consider myself to be an expert, but really… is weeing oneself social? Is it Brain? IS IT?

Hand: And look at me… How on earth did poor Pinky and Ring here get so swollen? What was Jack doing?

Brain: At that stage Synapses weren’t really working so well, I think it may have happened at the chipper?

Stomach: Speaking of which, you left it bit late with the soakage there, Einstein. If I wasn’t so busy spewing my contents, I’d–

Poor Stomach makes a run for it.

Lungs: Well I am Jack’s Respiratory, ahhhguurrgh, blurgh, system. And I am not impressed… SMOKING at 25 years of age? What is this, secondary school? Bleurgh.

Brain: I’m sorry Lungs, at that stage I was running at 20% capacity! You know I’d never…

Reproductive system: Guys, guys, calm down. Really, this wasn’t all Brain’s fault, by the time Jack left the bar, it really was just me in charge.

Everyone: Ooooh. Ok.

Reproductive system: You weren’t the only one spewing your contents, Stomach!

Reproductive system and Brain high five.

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