Yes, we had it, and it was an unqualified success. I think you know the standards by which I measure party success, but if not, I'll remind you by giving you this glowing statistic: The exact same number of people left as arrived--25 adults and 14 kids--proving that you can come to a party at Chez Karlababble and leave alive and unharmed, and in more or less the same physical health as when you arrived. It can happen! It's only happened this once so far, but it's a good start to a new beginning.

Not like at Jake's first birthday party, where 4 guests had their stomachs pumped, 2 had to be catheterized, and 5 woke up with a tattoo of a penis across their chin. Or Jake's baby shower, where animal control was called 3 times, 2 local high school principals lost their jobs the next day, and a parachute inexplicably failed to open, resulting in 14 broken bones and an embarrassing loss of bladder and bowel control that's still talked about in the neighborhood to this day. And not like our our 2006 family Christmas party, which ended with one dead hooker and a lengthy court trial that made national news, or our 2005 family Christmas party, after which Aunt Bessie spent months in the hospital receiving skin grafts to her pelvic region and buttocks. No, this party was a textbook example of how a 2-year old's party should go, right down to the balloons and Blue's Clues birthday cake.

The implications are frightening--can it be that I'm becoming more June Cleaver than Courtney Love all of a sudden? If so, what's next? PTA meetings, playgroups, volunteer charity work? Selling Mary Kay, hosting baby showers, buying Girl Scout cookies? Might I actually, against all predictions, live to an old age? Might Jake actually have a shot at a normal life, and a hope of staying out of foster homes and social workers' offices? Might Brian have a chance of not becoming another tragic suicide statistic? Can I really--do you think?--become a Respectable Citizen? Suddenly it seems like there's hope for me, and if that's the case, hope for all of us. Yes, even you, Dyckerson, because if I can turn wholesome and vanilla, anyone can--even a total degenerate like you. Well, almost anyone--not you, Common Wombat. Some of us may be on a path to our new destiny as pillars of our community, local leaders and heroes, but rest assured, you're still on your same old path of being found dead in a pool of someone else's vomit, wearing nothing but a pair of ladies cotton panties with the price tag still on them. You're a lost cause, but me? I'm on my way up, baby.