Virtual Flaneurism

I just spent too fucking long writing a story for a party invite and not studying to leave that shit in an e-mail, so I present to you, THE DARTY -- A HISTORY:

For those of you with a healthy liver and a penchant for being lame as shit, a quick answer to the question: a darty is a party held during the day. While many believe that "darty" is a mere portmanteau of the words "day" and "party", the most reputable scholars of liquistory insist on a very different truth. In fact, the derivation of "darty" is a sordid tale deeply entwined in American history, righteous feminism and the beginnings of the gay sex movement. This important piece of history unfolded as follows:

Imagine the White House in 1810. Now, if you're thinking of the pillared, egg-white McMansion perched at 1600 Penn today, you're an ignorant slut who clearly blew her way through American History. I'm talking about the original White House, a three story bordello more closely resembling a skanked-out Choate than the seat of American Government. This shit stood tall and proud until 1814, when British invaders tweaking hard on Chinese opium and struggling to see straight after years of impassioned inbreeding burnt the shit out of D.C.. This, you should know, was because Americans looted Toronto. That's like setting fire to the Met because someone took a dump on the counter at your local 7-11.

Back in 1810, James Madison is our illustrious president. In those days, a time with no televisions, cat videos or poppers, there was quite literally nothing to do during the day but inspire civil unrest and sleep with your female slaves. Having already written the ILLEST CONSTITUTION KNOWN TO MAN, Madison thought it was his due to get hot and heavy down on the plantation Monday through Friday -- and sometimes on the Lord's day if it/he wasn't blistering. This left poor blue-balled Dolley Madison all alone in that gigantic cock-block of a house day in and day out. A good puritan shiksah, Dolley kept it classy, even though Alexander Hamilton was trolling for her like she was one of the Billy Goats Gruff.

But Dolley was no saint. You see, if you couldn't be stiffing the help and you were too fucking illiterate (read: female) to be quill-deep in some boss pamphlet drafting, a lady had to find something to do. Ever resourceful, Dolley laid claim to a ten by ten swatch of crab grass right outside of Thomas Jefferson's first floor manscaping parlor (there were three throughout the house). Within weeks, a majestic cherry gazebo appeared, complete with a large round table and a half dozen baller-ass wicker chairs. Here, Dolley planned, she would get her chill on.

Dolley was a hostess mindful of her duty, but she was no stupid bitch. Invites to meet in her gazebo went out to only the most elite of the Washingtonian housefraus. Clearly Abigal Adams was first on her list, a bi-polar alcoholic who could always be relied on to get the party started by accidentally lighting a brush fire or killing one of the house cats by riding it like Paul Revere. John Jay was invited, a rip-roaring dandy who was most famous at the Continental Congress for demanding the infantryman uniforms be made of "the fiercest of taffeta" and "lift and separate amongst the buttocks." Last but certainly not least was Mr. Samuel Adams, brother in-law of Abigail and notorious for starting the War of 1812 by stirring up the best appletinis east of Indian Territory -- a direct threat to the British Isles, who had been known world-over for making the best pussy drinks around. Martha Washington was considered, but everyone agreed that she was a frigid teetotaling bitch who would spend the afternoon making the group uncomfortable with thinly veiled complaints about how George's sexual appetites left her regularly pulling splinters from her thighs.

Here began the first "dolley", a daily boozarama named after its ravishing hostess and one of the most fabulous events of its day. With two empty chairs left at the table, a wide range of guests made their way through Dolley's gazebo. Lewis and Clark spent a shit-show of a week tanked on absinthe, drunkenly agreeing on Friday to a race to the West Coast where the loser, "willt have thine testicles scalped in the way of the Sioux." John Hancock had a notorious two day stint at the table, angrily storming across the lawn halfway through the Tuesday's 3 o'clock power hour after a furious debate with Samuel Adams about what the size of his signature implied about his penis length (Adams insisted on the table referring to him thenceforth as "John Halfcock"). John Jay often stirred up a series of unnamed gentlemen, unnamed not because they're names have been lost to time but because he'd picked them up at the Navy Yard Pier and per his taste spoke absolutely no English. It was one particular Chinese gentlemen - a man who Jay introduced to the group as Mister Bottoms - who changed the name of the Dolley forever. It was he who pronounced it "darrey", a tic in translation that the ethnocentric assholes in the Gazebo thought too fucking hilarious not to repeat (but don't worry: Jay apologized to Mr. Bottoms in his own way -- they didn't call him a Founding Father for nothing). It was not until the Irish, a people whose very religion is based upon maintaining of a good daytime buzz, got a hold of the event that the "dorrey" was unceremoniously plowed by a phallic and ragingly Catholic "t". That day, the darty as we know it was born.