Cool Cops

The Marion County Police Department, in an effort to improve their approval ratings among the key 18-35 demographic began to bust into parties not to break them up, but to crash them. At first, their efforts met with failure. After all, most parties, or at least most good parties, see people running for the hills at the first sign of those flashing lights. By the time the police made it up the drive, only two or three people remained, and only rarely were those people conscious. Still, they persisted. They made small changes to their approach . Instead of saying “Who has drugs?” they would ask “Who has some drugs?” No longer did they say the music was too loud. Rather, they would ask if the music was loud enough. They made beer runs in record time. They replaced sirens with dubstep, and suddenly instead of driving up in a cop cruiser, it's like they were a rolling rave. They carried six-packs instead of six-shooters. They learned to DJ and dance and mix drinks. They loaned out handcuffs to people feeling frisky. In the end, it worked. For the first time in history, police had a record 89% approval rating among teens and twenty-somethings.

Excited at having succeeded beyond their wildest dreams, the police set out to use their new found influence to tell kids about the dangers of drugs, binge drinking, hooliganism, and other unsafe behaviors. These efforts failed, however, as their target audience had been told since birth not to give in to peer pressure. To prevent Operation: Cool Cops from being a total wash, the MCPD revamped their plans, and Operation: In Like Flynn resulted in the largest bust of minor drug traffickers, under aged drinkers, and drunk drivers in state history.

- Originally mailed to T. Switzer from Biloxi, Mississippi

Bottle Party

The after party at the end of the water bottle convention was the stuff of legend. All of the bottles would gather together in the Magnolia Ballroom and dance the night away, letting loose all the frustrations of work, the pent up energy from sitting in dull meetings all week. They would rant about their bosses, rave about the good speakers, and mercilessly joke about the presenters who clearly had no idea what they were talking about. They schmoozed. They networked. On the whole, everyone had a pretty good time. But the after party at the end of the 2008 convention almost ended it for everyone.

It started typically enough, but when the usual DJ, an oldies and slow jams kind of fellow took ill, his replacement DJ Dubstep had to fill in at the last minute without warning. From the moment the bass dropped, every bottle present knew things were different. The booming beats vibrated them down to the very liquids of their souls. The bottles rippled and sloshed like never before, and the laser lights reflected through them, turning each into a glorious, gyrating kaleidoscope, a prismatic wonder unleashed.

In the morning, the hotel staff found the whole lot of them undressed and passed out, piled atop one another on the floor. There were awkward apologies. Nervous glances toward the ground. Excuses about intoxication. Everyone accepted the story, but no one believed it. After all, it was pretty clear that no one had gotten drunk the night before.

- Originally mailed to Karen Murphey of Chicago, Illinois

DUI Fawns

To the surprise of absolutely no one at all, fawns and satyrs loved to drink. They weened their children on wine, poured bourbon into their cereal, and celebrated literally every occasion down to the opening of a door with a libatious toast. Small wonder, then, that there were so many drunk driving incidents each year involving these mythical men and women. Police had a hard time doing much enforcement, however, as their unique biologies made Breathalyzers unreliable and they were experts at every example of proving sobriety while utterly sloshed. They could walk in straight lines, do acrobatics, say their alphabet backwards and forwards, even rub their heads and pat their shoulders at the same time. Still, the highway patrol repeatedly posted soaring numbers of fawn related deaths each year. ATF statistics likewise indicated the average satyr consumed two point three gallons of alcohol per day. Despite all of this, police couldn't prove on site that the creatures were intoxicated behind the wheel, and to arrest any who operated a motor vehicle on suspicion would be racial profiling. To help curb the problem, police stations all across the country began receiving statues of fawns engaging in “sobriety-proving” activities with statistics about their drinking habits, and a reminder that even if they couldn't be charged with a DUI, they could always be arrested for reckless driving.

- Originally mailed to C. Merritt of Juneau, Alaska

Corona Piñatas

“Every adult deep down wants to be a kid again,” Marilyn Stephens would always say. This philosophy ultimately led her to open her own party planners, Inner Child Party Services. They had many of the usual children's affairs, bouncy houses, slip-n-slides, and the like, but with more alcohol. The ice cream was Bailey's and Kahlua flavored, and the cake was Guinness chocolate. That which didn't translate directly, she would often retheme. Instead of clowns and Spider-Man, entertainers would show up dressed as Donald Draper or Leelo Dallas. Pin the Tail on the Donkey, for the sake of decency, involved sticking other body parts on other things. Musical chairs was likewise made more interesting and adult themed. For the most part, her party planning business was a huge success, though she almost lost it all when she first introduced piñatas. For the longest time, she puzzled over what to stuff them with, before settling on an amusing recursion. What better thing to stuff a Corona piñata with than bottles of Corona? Fortunately, the alcohol instantly disinfected the many wounds from all the broken glass.

- Originally mailed to C. Nowell in Newport News, Virginia

Party Time Express

Charles Lambert, though much maligned at seven p.m., was the undisputed king of the after party. Early on, when he would show up at shindigs with the Party Time Express, everyone laughed and teased. “Where are the clowns?” they'd ask, or “When do we bob for apples, grandpa?” He got no respect until nine at the earliest.

But once the libations started flowing, once the party was good and hopping and everyone was sauced like pasta, they lined up beer in hand a whooping at the top of their lungs to ride his bright and colorful train. He'd drive them everywhere, around the yard, through the kitchen, or down to the corner store for a beer run. Once people loosened up and finally remembered they were there to forget they were adults for awhile, then the world was his oyster. His primary colored, drunk friend filled oyster.

- Originally mailed to A. Perkins of New Orleans, Louisiana

Vodka Robbers

Contrary to the hyperbole people like to throw around, during Russia's vodka shortage, the popular beverage was never worth its weight in gold. It was, however, worth its weight in silver, which, though no where near as pricey, would still end up costing a man as much as $550 just for the run of the mill stuff. Sure, a person could make their own, but the cost of distilling supplies, ingredients, time, and skill made most just bite the bullet and buy a bottle.

Its value, however, created a brief but fascinating barter market in which vodka, while not legal tender, may as well have been. People even bought safes and established vodka savings accounts at banks, where they could keep their precious liquor and set withdraw limits of two shots per day. Unfortunately, this gave rise to a new, virtually unarrestable band of bank robber, who would charge in, guns brandished, and demand, “Give us all your vodka!”

Sure catching them was easy. They could often be found stumbling about in fields. Given the nature of the theft, however, there was rarely any evidence left to convict with.

- Originally mailed to P. Brown in Clovis, New Mexico (whom I am told has a vodka allergy, ironically enough)

Dubstep Demon

Grimnok was without a doubt the most garish demon to walk the earth in as long as anyone could remember and the whole neon spots and bright red horns had the worst habit of attracting woo girls when he had serious damnation business to be doing. A demon ought to be feared and respected, he would bemoan, not cuddled upon while friends took pictures. They should be groveling at his feet in terror begging for their lives, or at their very least offering up their souls. Oh sure, at first he delighted in their presence, with their cheers for hand grenades and hurricanes and Bloody Mary. He thought them beings of indescribable carnage, but oh how his heart sank when he learned the only thing they intended to punish were their livers. Soon, they would rue the day they thought him a mere “party monster.” But before he could enact his vengeance, he would need to fortify his resolve with at least six more jell-o shots and a few hours dancing to some really rockin' dubstep.

 - Originally mailed to J. Hall of Jackson, Mississippi

Bartender

To say Bartholomew Higgans was a bartender ahead of his time would be something of an inaccuracy. He was a bartender who wanted to be ahead of his time and for a brief time was in a very literal sense. Bartholomew, determined to be the greatest bartender in the world, borrowed a time machine from one of the many wild west aficionados from the twenty-third century, and sought about seeking a comprehensive collection of all the greatest cocktail recipes of the past, present, and future. Alas, for when Bartholomew, who found his book, returned to 1876, he discovered that though he had the secrets to alcoholic perfection within his fingers, he could still only get his hands on the cheapest rotgut whiskeys. Thus, instead of being an innovator, he relegated himself to fulfilling the the role of prophet of the highball.

- Originally sent to A. Navoy in Jackson, MS