America's Deadliest Parties!

The other night I went to a party. By the end of it, I was covered in soot, ash, and barbecue sauce. Oh, and one of my legs was torn off above the knee.

Okay, you got me, it was a dream. As soon as I woke up, I tortured my wife with the abbreviated version of my nightmare (because I've found that no matter how much someone loves you, listening to a long rendition of a dream is about as exciting as someone giving you a blow-by-blow account of a TV show you have no intention of ever viewing).

She said, "And this was a party?"

"Yeah," I said. "The weirdest thing was, after I lost my leg, I continued to party."

She patted me on the shoulder, solemnly said, "Honey, I think you need to make better choices."

It got me thinking ("No, Stuart," I hear you all yelling, "don't do that!"). I actually have been to some deadly parties outside the realm of my vivid dream-life.

Sure, most of them are from my wilder youth, but it astounds me how close to death's door I knocked.

For instance, there was the time a couple of my pals decided it'd be a good idea to tip a long coffee table onto its belly, rub Vaseline on the top, and ride it down the wooden staircase like a toboggan. We rode it, of course, two people per ride. Fun on a budget! It's absolutely amazing no one ended up in the ER. (The party did end, though, when some guy--who none of us knew--came down the stairs at four in the morning in his underwear and his face made up like a clown.)

Interesting side-note: this was my friend's house in Kansas City, Missouri. While we were partying like rock-stars, little did we realize that one block directly behind us, notorious Kansas City serial killer Bob Berdella was pouring Drano down an unwitting victim's throat.

Back on point, how can I not mention the party thrown by a girl I'd dated off an on? When we showed up, she was parading around her new boy-toy, a large, surly Latino guy. One of my friends got on his wrong side. Sensibly (it's Kansas!), he started waving a gun around, threatening us. Time to leave! Mercifully, no one was shot (except for my crushed, male ego).

And lest I forget, there was the party we were invited to in Ottawa, Kansas. Road trip! The hullaballo started out well enough: no guns, good crowd, nice vibe as we all piled out onto the second floor deck surrounding the big trash can full of spiked punch. Not too long after we arrived, though, I heard ice cracking. The bottom went out beneath us as the pillars supporting the deck cracked. Sixty people avalanched down, ending in a Twister game gone horribly awry. Icing on the cake: the vat of punch was the last to fall, coloring us all in a red dye. Bloody, splintered, red-hued, my gang of pals did the good common sense thing: we sought out the only bar in town located in a bowling alley.

Our clothes and skin red from punch, we entered the domain of redneckery. As soon as we sat down, the waitress came over with a tray full of milk.

"What's this?" I asked.

The waitress pointed to a bunch of chuckling cowboys. "They bought you a round."

"Cool!" I downed mine in a second. It didn't end there, though. A couple of the tougher (and dumber) friends of mine wanted to engage in fisticuffs because they felt insulted. Get that car warmed up!

There were many more such occasions, usually ending in our being physically tossed out of a party.

A year ago or so I got together with one of these guys. Nostalgically, we realized how on many different occasions, we'd partied on the edge of danger and were just too dumb and young and naive and care-free to realize it (while our wives looked on aghast at our heretofore untold, legendary tales of youthful stupidity).

Speaking of heretofore untold true tales of terror, check out my horror and humor collection, Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley (just like the name of this here blog!). Every word in the book is true (a lie!), all the stories are autobiographical (a bigger lie!), and they're guaranteed to keep you up at night shivering (not so much a lie as full-on ballyhoo)!