Let's be a suburban Seventies Christmas party

I'm the Salsoul Orchestra.

I'm holiday fondue!

I'm the festive cheese tree. These heathens will contaminate me with their bitten crackers within seconds of my unveiling.

I'm the cheap, garish, primary color lights that were both indoor and outdoor!

I am the kitchen utilities. Julie is jealous, as hers are Harvest Gold, but mine are Avocado, matching my woodwork and shag carpeting. So chic! So modern!

I'm the cans of pink Champale. Classy!

I'm the tree with tinsel- straight people used to design for Christmas in the Olde Days!

I'm the bottle of Mateus produced by every guest. I can't wait to move on to the next phase of my life. Ahhh, the glamour of dripping wax!

[post redacted because linking to dailymail.co.uk clearly indicates that the poster is either a troll or an idiot (probably both, honestly.) Our advice is that you just ignore this poster but whatever you do, don't click on any link to this putrid rag.]

I am the ball of wine cheese with nuts. I'm the cheese everyone wants this season. Fuck you Christmas tree cheese!

I'm the hostess's festive ensemble

I'm the board game entertaining the kids in the coat room whose parents were too cheap to pay for the babysitter.

I'm a pack of Virginia Slims.

We're the white trash cousins who invited ourselves to your shindig!

I'm the ubiquitous ashtrays on every end table stuffed with 70's potpourri: filthy cigarettes!

I'm the complete lack of the outrage contained in r15's post.

I'm the wicker basket by the front door, for every adult's keys. Ironically, I was made at summer camp by one of the kids staying over at the neighbors for that night.

I'm the baffled kids in the rec room watching the Star Wars Christmas Special, wondering why it's so shitty and weird. And WTF is Bea Arthur doing there?

I'm "Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask)", prominently displayed on the bookshelf but shrugged off as a "joke gift" if asked about.

I'm the pre-flame retardent fake tree that goes up in a ball of flames just when everyone is too fucked up to move!

We're the swinging throuple down the block. As the pariahs of the subdivision, we weren't invited.

That won't stop the host from sneaking out, ostensibly to buy more ice, and turning up at our door to beg for a three-way blowjob.

I'm a pornstache.

I'm the 1977 Christmas week TV Guide that little Jason has made all the notations of his favorite holiday specials in, even though everyone in his family already thinks he's gay.

I'm the "Collector's Edition" Firestone Christmas Album set — each cover designed like a present in a different color!

This year: Leontyne Price and Vikki Carr on the same record... together at last!

bowl of keys

I'm an ashtray filled with ribbon candy for the kids.

Did somebody say, "Onion Soup Dip Mix"?

I love onion dip. mmmmmm

We're the black couple -- both professionals -- who just bought the nicest house on the street. We were invited solely because it wouldn't "look right" to exclude us. Everyone at this party keeps telling us how well-spoken we are.

The other guests were told the party started a half hour earlier than we were. That gave the host and hostess time to lock the handbags, wallets, and other valuables in the attic. The host and a few of his friends are keeping an eye on the stairs in case we decide to wander.

I'm the Black Christmas card. I'll be sent to that one Black friend in a gesture of awareness and coolness.

I'm also the card given to that professional black couple at that party in r29.

I'm the guy who keeps telling Polack jokes while trying to get a game of pinochle going.

"Another Tom Collins, Dolores!"

I'm the already wrapped gifts by the tree, as all the kids are old enough to b told about Santa and the family doesn't believe in old myths anyway: a Disco Barbie for Jennilyn, the youngest, a Chemistry set for Kevin, and roller skates with matching satin shorts for Debbie the slutty teen daughter, who will hike up with he shorts to reveal enough ass cheek and camel toe to get off all of Kev's middle school buddies.

I'm the gag card given to the confirmed bachelor uncle. I'm just a joke; no one at the party believes he's actually queer. But the confirmed bachelor is shaking in his boots, wondering if his well-maintained guise has developed a crack, and if so, HOW?

I'm Uncle Johnny, with the colostomy bag. I fought in WWII.

I'm the town's main street, all done up for the holidays. There's three different liquor stores on me, where more booze will be picked up en route to the party.

So nice, R36.

I'm the glowing Christmas Tree filled with Lite-Brite plugs that Mom made in her new ceramics class. I will burn the hell out of you if you dare touch me after I've been on more than five minutes.

I'm the party itself. The drinking started an hour ago, now it's time to dance to The Spinners' "Rubberband Man".

I'm Stephanie's confirmed-bachelorette gym teacher. I was invited in hopes that I'd hit it off with the drunk uncle at OP. It's time that he meets the right woman and as the only non-whorish single woman in miles, they think I'm it.

I'm the rumaki, and I am exquisite!

I'm the cardboard fireplace.

I'm the bookcase proudly displaying the Betamax collection of Time-Life distributed Ed Sullivan Shows and Perry Como Christmas Specials.

I'm the Chrysler Cordoba parked up the street that belongs to the chiropractor with the bad toupee who invited himself to the party to scope out chicks.

I'm chaser Christmas lights. I have just been invented and am the rage in all the trend-setting neighborhood homes. I hope to replace big fat hot multicolored bulbs.

I'm the LSD that makes everyone believe they can fly!

I'm Wayne Newton's Christmas in Las Vegas album. I'll be played as the guests are still filing in, eating appetizers, and having their first round of drinks.

And then what happens, R48?

I'm the "CBS Special Presentation" bumper heard on the RCA TV blasting in the rec room, where the kids are getting ready to watch the Peanuts Christmas special.

I'm the Christmas Sweater, though I'm not Ironic or Hipster yet-What's That?

I'm the creepy friend of the host who generously volunteers to come over and play Santa to entertain the children

We're the Soul Train dancers. Our steps and moves will be meticulously studied and copied by the guests weeks before going to the party.

I am the macrame wall hanging. I am done in earth tone twine. Marge, the gal up the street, has a hanging macrame table.

I'm the two or three facts I memorized from Time magazine to use at the party and let everyone know how well-informed I am.

We're the platform shoes the coolest and cockiest guest will be wearing. After several drinks and well-executed Soul Train type dance moves, the girls will swoon in on him, and the guys will buddy up to him. Much later on, in the second floor bathroom, he'll bang four of the female guests, and one of the male guests. And no, it's NOT the confirmed bachelor uncle from r34.

I'm the apache scarf my wife made me wear that got me the nickname "Charles Nelson Reilly" for the next two years.

I'm the Lifesavers "Sweet Story Book," hastily purchased at a convenience store on the way to the party by a guest who forgot he had to bring a grab bag gift.

I'm the green shag carpet that goes perfectly with the colors of the season.

I'm the Donny and Marie Christmas Special featuring Paul Lynde as Santa Claus that I'm letting the kids watch while the adults party down.

I'm the latch hook rug portrait of Holly Hobbie, a Christmas gift painstakingly created and and proudly presented to the hosts by the elderly lady who lives next door.

I'm serving the holiday desserts that I made with Jello 1-2-3

We're three of the young male guests at the party, one of whom is a cousin to the host. We came partly out of the cousin's family obligation to attend, and mostly out of getting all liquored up for free before heading to the club afterwards.

I'm the future DL Eldergay as a 17 year old teenager. I am sitting with Debbie, my best friend. Everyone asks me why I don't ask her out, but she's in love with Doug from the baseball team. As am I.

Debbie and I mock everyone's outfits--they are so tragically conformist. I am wearing a red velour v-neck sweater with no shirt underneath it. My mother thought I should wear a t-shirt under it, but Debbie agreed it looked more mature this way.

I'm eyeing Mr. Rizzo, the husband of the new couple down the block. He's got on tight 1970s jeans and I can see the outline of his cock. It's big. He's very friendly to me and I flirt with him. He flirts back. Debbie doesn't think so at first but I convince her it's flirting. We laugh every time he says something to me. He's drunk and just glad someone is talking to him.

Then Mrs. Rizzo comes to tell him that the baby is sick and she's going home. Here's my chance, I think, but then he decides to go home the her.

After that, the party really sucks.

I'm the Quaaludes, man!

r63 I'm the car wreck the three young men managed to survive after leaving the party, headed for the disco in the Holiday Inn off I-55.

Op that pic is from 1969!

I'm Judith Krevit, left alone in the corner because she's such a damn know-it-all.

Crank up the music!

We're the kids, avoiding r26 like the plague.

I'm Barbra's "A Christmas Album"; no sophisticated suburban Christmas party is complete without me!

I'm the brand new chirping bird Christmas ornament, an electronic marvel. No one will ever grow tired of my delightful trilling.

Santa, is that a present in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

I'm the recently divorced mom of three. All the women are avoiding me and all the men think I'm an easy lay.

I'm having a couple of,drinks, stuffing my gob, then heading home to watch late night with Johnny Carson

I am the other 17 year old ( current elder gay) who gets a blow job on top of the harvest gold general electric mobile maid top loading dishwasher with the cutting board top! This happens in the neighbors kitchen and is performed by the 47 year old lawyer dad .

I am the mod fashions from the much-anticipated Sears 'Wish Book' which gaylings everywhere coveted.

We're the judgy fraus taking note of the others standing under the mistletoe.

I am the chex mix !!!

I'm the living room stereo that will be playing all the Christmas favorites .......I only get used for house parties so I'm a little dusty and my top creaks when you open me.

I am the near empty bottle of Vaseline Intensive Care and well hidden AH Men catalog in the 17 year old's bedroom.

Sleeping off too much eggnog and a rowdy game of Twister.

I'm the punch safe enough for the kiddies to drink:. Ginger ale, orange juice, and orange sherbet.

I'm the confirmed bachelor uncle wearing the caftan and earrings.

I'm the poinsettia napkins the Mrs always drags out for each and every Christmas party. NO ONE actually uses us so I end up getting stored back in the kitchen drawer forgotten.....till next year. And dragged back out again....the year after that. And the year after that.....

I'm the bowl of brazil nuts, that the lady of the house tells the Kid's not to call in front of the hired "help"

I'm the omnipresent wood paneling that made every basement warm and cozy, but eventually: dated and tacky!

I am the Jimmy and Kristy McNichol album that will be playing, after the DeFranco Family album.

I am the white disco suit that at least one of the men will wear, trying to look hip and stylish BUT it only makes him look like an idiot.

I'm the teenagers bedroom where they escape to avoid the "old" men and women and the awful music. I provide an escape from the madness.

I'm the purple mescaline that someone always drops and loses in the Orange shag carpet! Better find it before your cat or kid brother does!

I'm that weird mold made out of some mystery meet that the weird cat lady from down the street brought. No one eats me because I smell like tuna, but no one's sure if she made me out of cat food.

I'm the bowl of keys.

Now there are TWO bowls of keys.

R90 Did she make it out of 'Cat Food' or 'Cats'?

We have three bowls of keys now. Anyone want to try for four?

[quote]I'm the bowl of brazil nuts, that the lady of the house tells the Kid's not to call in front of the hired "help"

I'm Grandma and I have no problems calling them by that name. Loudly.

I'm the Holt Howard Santa mugs filled with eggnog

The Brazil nuts. What is it they are called?

I'm the family dog - a golden labrador retriever. No pays much attention to me. ...I just stay out of the way and in particular hide from the teenagers. I might get a steak bone later on after the party..... that's if the parents remember.

I would love to be at this party.

I'm the cat who no one even bothered to name because Pet Worship is a generation away!

I'm the conversation pit where the bong will be passed around once the children go to bed.

I'm the family cat. Lowest rung in the house and bottom of the pecking order. Dog gets all the attention....from everyone. I don't care.....I sneak around and cause havoc....and everyone thinks it's the stupid dog. I don't go the cottage in the summer....left alone....with the mother who hates the cottage. And the teenagers.

r97 African-American toes, dear.

And I do have a name. The teenagers call me "Cat." They laugh whenever they say it. I don't get the joke but whatever floats your boat.

I'm 49 and I remember almost all of these things.

I'm the smoked glass étagère that will come crashing down when an energetic Hustle dance contest takes place.

I love when the teenagers sneak in beer in their bedrooms - Molson's X. They leave the empties under the bed.....and I get to lick the drops of beer and midnight snack bits left on the bottle. Yum.....

I'm the smoked glass étagère that will come crashing down when an energetic Hustle dance contest takes place.

Two etagere? So tacky.

I am the groovy aluminum Christmas Tree with a color changing light wheel; so chic, so now!

I'm the bottles of Thunderbird being consumed by the teenage sons of several couples at the party. They think we're at home studying for school tomorrow but we're really cruising the strip and getting drunk looking for girls. The toy Rudolf with the electric light red nose on my dashboard is a real chick magnet.

I'm the movie "It's A Wonderful Life", currently airing on channel 2, 5, 7, 9, 11, 13...

I'm the one actually listening to the Boston Pops, Percy Faith and Morman Tabernacle choir quietly playing traditional Christmas music on the Zenith Circle of Sound Stereo in the corner. It is bringing back such memories of my parents' Christmas entertaining back in the '50s. I thought I had the coolest mom in the world for putting her Hi-Fi on a serving cart so she could listen to André Kostelanetz anywhere in the house.

I'm the song "Lady Bump." EVERYBODY will dance to me. The ones with the funniest moves are the drunk 45-and-up crowd, who will improvise their "bump" steps with wild hip gyrations, neck-breaking shimmies, Patti LaBelle arm twirls, and pitiful modified incarnations of the Lindy Hop and the Jitterbug.

And I'm the Zenith Circle of Sound stereo in the corner.

If you thought r34 made me nervous just wait until my cunt of a sister-in-law pulls out the Johnny Mathis album and asks me to sing along with Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.

[italic]Oh, just stop it, Francis. You're being silly. She only asked because you have a beautiful voice. Of course that's why! Just relax. Your voice is like warm Louis XIII Grande Champagne Très Vieille Age Inconnu wrapped in Pantone 18-1250 TPX silk velvet. That's why.[/italic]

[italic]Wait. Wait. Did she just smirk when I got to the "make the Yuletide gay" part?[/italic]

I'm the decorative glass grapes resting on the coffee table. You will find be some version of me in every house in the neighborhood. I add a undeniable chicness to any and every decor.

I'm the Presto Hotdogger that cooks your party wieners in minutes. Slice them up and serve with Cheez Wiz on Ritz crackers.

I'm the hostess gift, Riunite on ice.

That's nice!

I'm the special edition Playgirl Magazine that Mrs. Hunter brought to entertain the other housefraus. I contain all of the best pictorials of the past twelve issues of the magazine. So many men, so much pubic hair. Bobby, a neighbor teenager who's a quiet nerdy bookworm, has snuck me up to the second floor. He can't believe how many men have so much pubic hair. (I think the editor insists on it.) He doesn't get halfway through my pages before spontaneously cuming in his jeans. Then he has to wait for them to dry before heading back downstairs. So, he looks at the other half of me. More pubic hair, more cuming, more waiting. He sneaks out the back door with me, takes me home and hides me under his bed. He changes his jeans and returns to the party. He spends the rest of the night guessing how much pubic hair each of the men at the party has. He probably overestimates. I get to spend the next year under his sheets at night with a flashlight shining on me. To this day, he still remembers me.

I'm the oldest highly educated brother visiting the family from out of town. Unlike my two other degenerate and aimless younger brothers, I don't drink, I don't smoke, and I play piano for my parent's friends. This makes me the life of the party. Can't wait to leave this romper room scene and get back to the real world.

I am the quartz heater stationed next to the toilet in the chilly downstairs powder room. When the ever-sloshed Mrs. Williams swings her flowing Qiana skirt around in an effort to keep it out of the water, she won't even notice that one of the points on the handkerchief hem has entered my grate. I'll waste no time in turning the fabric into napalm. She's too drunk to realize the acrid odor isn't coming from her.

Go on, stand up, Mrs. Williams. Let my handiwork fuse with your right calf. There's a resident working in the ER tonight who's been dying to see something like this.

I am the bohemian evening wear favorite, the halter maxi dress and/or pant dress jumpsuit. Ladies you cant go wrong with me.

Need a ride back to the real world, Brian? I'm okay to drive....I shweaaarfsagrrfdgdfggdsg....gfd...

I'm the empty Tanqueray bottle which the mother will polish off....by herself....after all the guests have left. And the husband is asleep. As she cleans up after the party. She has a few drinks with her cigarette while watching a portable t.v. in the kitchen. She's having her own party. After the party.

Alors je suis Claudine Longet and Andy and the kids think I'm with Barbie Benton in Aspen but I've been the pass-around blow job and anal queen of the town for a few years already and even Barbie thinks I'm a slut. It's Christmas eve and I'm at some chalet owned by a friend of Bobby Kennedy and I'm coked out of my mind, on good Kennedy blow, sitting on Spider's cock with Teddy fucking my face.

I'm the Famolare wave sole that's designed to effortlessly roll the foot forward. I feel so appropriate at a Christmas party but here I am, worn over a pair of wooly black cable-knit tights by the weirdo photography teacher at the community college. She brought hummus! What the fuck is hummus? I wish someone would spill some Lipton onion dip on me.

Who are you calling a whore, Famolare?? While you're upstairs with your loser teacher, the hostess's eldest daughter and I are modeling downstairs in the rumpus room for a REAL photographer. That's right, we let Mr. Kreaper from the camera shop in through the bulkhead and now we're going to be famous. He knows people in Hollywood and he said we're really going places!

I meant to say I feel INappropriate, but not nearly as inappropriate as Candie's.

I am A&M Records 1968 Christmas classic "Something Festive". I feature various artist (instrumentalist & vocalist) including DL faves, Claudine Longet (Snow) and Liza Minnelli (Raggedy Ann & Andy).

Tracklist

A1t–Herb Alpert & The Tijuana BrasstWinter Wonderland

Written-By – Dick Smith (3), Felix Barnard*

A2t–Sérgio Mendes & Brasil '66tThe Christmas Song

Written-By – M.Torme*, R. Wells*

A3t–Liza MinnellitRaggedy Ann & Raggedy Andy

Written-By – Alan & Marilyn Bergman, Larry Marks

A4t–Baja Marimba BandtPartridge In A Pear Tree

Arranged By – Julius Wechter

A5t–We FivetMy Favorite Things

Written-By – Rodgers-Hammerstein*

B1t–Burt BacharachtThe Bell That Couldn't Jingle

Written-By – Burt Bacharach, Larry Kusik

B2t–Pete JollytIt's The Most Wonderful Time

Written-By – Eddie Pola

B3t–Claudine LongettSnow

Written-By – Randy Newman

B4t–Baja Marimba BandtGod Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen

Arranged By – Julius Wechter

B5t–Herb Alpert & The Tijuana BrasstJingle Bell Rock

Written-By – Jim Boothe, Joe Beal

I'm the free Christmas glasses @ the Arco Gas station, one free with a purchase of 8 gallons or more of our fine gasolines.

I'm the vibrating bed at the Family Inn, that half the party, will wind Up on after the key swap from the ubiquitous key bowl.

I'm the Frederick's of Hollywood crotchless panties, that the lady of the House finds under the bed.

They are not hers.

I'm the pages if the blueboy magazine, stuck together under Jr's bed. Guess mamma won't be a grandma.

I'm bowl of keys #5. What?

I'm the Norelco Christmas commercial the started in the Sixties and is still going in the '70s, with Santa Claus riding over snow-covered hills on one of our electric shavers.

Even our name says "Merry Christmas!"

I'm the recently released Farah Fawcett poster that's stuck to the rumpus room wall. I can tell you that just about every guy at this party has casually popped their head into the room "to check on the kids" while they side eye my protruding nipples. Except for two, David the hosts 20yr old son and recently married Greg Wilkins from over the road. Since no straight man ignores me I know something no one else does about those two.

I am the third etagere, holding the five bowls of keys, the bowl of Brazil nuts, and the decorative glass grapes.

I'm Don Draper after finding inner peace at the Esalen Institute. I went back to advertising, figured out how to peace and joy to consumers and I created this advertising classic.

I am the tall glass floor vases in orange and avocado green. Sometimes I am filled with peacock feathers or puffy heads of Pampas Plumes. I lend some real style to the room, unlike the cheap looking jars filled with colored water the neighbor lady uses to decorate.

I'm super-8 porn, ready to heat up this party.

I am woven coasters and placemats. Please use me responsibly!

I'm the waterbed in the master bedroom.

I'm Maggie Sullivan, I've just caught my husband Mike banging Valerie Higgs in the bathroom. This is the 70s so I won't cause a scene. However I will put shit load of laxatives in Valerie's pina colada and tomorrow I'll invite my mother to come live with us. Try fucking the neighbor ladies now Mike, with my mother watching the street like an overzealous watchdog. Well hasn't this been a great party! It certainly will be the last one Mike ever enjoys.

I'm Valerie Higgs buying the rat poison I'm going to lace the raw steaks with that I throw into that bitch Maggie's yard when she lets her dogs out to pee.

I'm uncle Bruce. Everyone's mom tells their kids to stay away from me. I have Christmas chocolates in my pocket.

I'm Vito, the hairdresser, working overtime to get up those updos done for the older ladies just in time for the holiday festivities.

Bowl #2 of keys here...

I didn't see bowl #1 over there. Actually, bowls #2-5 are actually empty bowls of Chex Mix that the kids forgot to refill.

Sorry!

I'm the Santa ho ho toilet seat cover.

I'm the avocado commode with the Santa ho ho toilet seat cover.

I'm the bright red and green holiday macramé tank top cover on the the avocado commode with the Santa ho ho toilet seat cover.

I'm the thin porcelain holiday kleenex box holder decorated with a holly pattern on the bright red and green holiday macramé tank top cover on the the avocado commode with the Santa ho ho toilet seat cover.

I'm the rubber - backed polyester shag rug under r152

I'm the dogeared Sears Christmas Wish Book left out on the coffee table with all the family's selections circled.

I'm the Skin Bracer and Old Spice Aftershave wafting through the air.

I'm the kids bowl cut hairstyles done by a Ronco Trim Comb.

I'm a pilot for Pan-Am, filling up my glass again with spiked eggnog. I insist this must be my last one before I leave, since I have a flight later.

I'm the pilot's pornstache. Brenda, the pretty blonde stewardess, loves the tickling feeling I give her. The Mrs. wouldn't know about that though, since she has never felt me down there.

I'm the floor model Sylvania TV in the rec room. Two of the teenage sons are trying to adjust me so that the scrambled nudity from HBO comes in more clearly. I use more electricity than the central heating.

We are the the fifty or so aerosol cans stored throughout the house for various purposes. We are working to make sure that Christmas parties in the future won't be so cold.

We are the cans of Suisse Mocha and Cafe Vienna instant coffee, giving the proceedings that extra touch of international je ne sais quoi.

I'm the fruitcake that old Aunt Mildred mailed in, which arrived yesterday. I'm still resting at the bottom of the trash can in the kitchen where Father put me.

I'm the beautiful but naive blond teenaged neighbor boy that was dragged along with my parents. All of the other dads sure are swell guys. Several have already invited me to go camping or fishing with them.

I'm the beautiful, sculptural and oh-so au courant ribbon candle on the sideboard. I've been here for 5 years and this is the first time I've been lit. (Can't say the same thing for the teenagers in the basement, hardee har har.)

I am the pair of brown corduroy bell bottoms that Daddy is wearing. I perfectly complement his Elvis sideburns and shiny bald head.

I'm the ceramic Christmas tree Aunt Betty made, and I'm proudly displayed in the living room.

I am the young frau whose hubby just told me he can't come with me and the kids next weekend to my parents' house because he will be going camping with the blond neighbor boy instead. My pursed lips are crushing the filter on my Virginia Slim.

I am an older frau, in my 50s but look closer to 70, and I have lived in a cloud of cigarette smoke without interruption since 1920 . I am vocal fry patient zero.

I'm the velvet painting of Clint Eastwood that oversees the proceedings in the den following the key selection. I hope they don't decide to use the black light in here for next year's Halloween party.

I'm the Emerson black and white TV in the family room. Very nice console.

I'm black and white, because my owners refuse to buy a color TV, until it's "perfected."

We are the Christmas lights, and we stick together. If one of us goes we ALL go.

I am the time machine R159 used to come to the party. They did not show porn until the mid 80s.

I'm the stack of clear plastic glasses, the brittle kind that mimic real high ball glasses. The hostess would not be so gauche as to even think of using us for her guests' libations, for nothing other than real leaded crystal will ever do. We're on-hand for Travellers, cocktails for the road, casually offered to each parting guest. Bon voyage!

I'm the Reader's Digest on the nightstand of the Master Bedroom. I don't have a single ad for Viagra in me.

I'm the stereo system that has a cassette player AND an 8-track player. I'm so goddamn cool!

I'm the 7-year-old daughter sneaking back cookies and a bowl of D-Zerta into my bedroom so I can listen to the [italic]Pete's Dragon[/italic] soundtrack on my Fisher-Price record player. Miraculously, I will avoid getting any stains on my [italic]Sesame Street[/italic] bedsheets with Prairie Dawn on them, but the cookie crumbs will give me away when Mom washes me in Tide XK detergent and when she finds out, she won't let me watch [italic]The Brady Bunch[/italic] OR [italic]The Partridge Family[/italic] for a week. And if I talk back to her, it's two weeks.

I'm the "If you sprinkle when you tinkle be a sweetie wipe the seatie" bathroom wall sign.

I'm the fun toilet-shaped novelty soup bowls.

I'm the bra-less nipples of the neighborhood slut, with my outline easily seen through her Little Miss Sunshine shirt. All the fraus snatch evil glances at me and walk over to interrupt when their husbands start chatting me up.

I'm the harvest gold shag carpeting in r177's bathroom and I would be remiss if I didn't pop in to point out that her feigned concern is misdirected to the point where she can no longer deny her passive-aggressive bullshit. She overplayed her hand this time and I couldn't be happier that everyone will finally see her for what she is.

Season's Greetings, boys. I am Raven, the 16 year-old seductress niece of the male party host; banished to suburbia while my parents spend the holidays in Tijuana. Brandishing an empty Riunite bottle, the drunken next-door-neighbor has suggested a game of 'Spin the Bottle' three times, and tried unsuccessfully to pet my silken pussy, Honey Pot.

I'm the costume jewelry Christmas tree on black velvet, greatly admired by grandmas and aunties and positively WORSHIPED by young future DLers as the height of glamour and Christmas sophistication.

I'm the fringe vest that cousin Merle is wearing. His parents forced him to come to the Christmas party with them, and he'll disappear for an hour with cousin Pete behind the garage to share a doobie. "Hey, let's go back to my room and I'll show you my porn collection."

I'm the pre banned Shell No Pest Strip hanging from the kitchen ceiling like a toxic missile toe

We're Ralph and Tony, two Puerto Rican brothers who the host's daughter, a new teacher at our high school, brought to the party. She feels this suburban cultural experience will play a positive role in our future lives. But what we're experiencing, so far, are the nervous looks and stiff smiles slowly melting into inquisitive chats by the female guests, with plenty of giggles and "innocent" touches to our arms and chests. This increases as the drinks continue to flow.

The males guests seem annoyed at first as they view us conversing with the ladies, so they approach us with questions about school, sports, and with tales of how our neighborhood "used to be" back in their day. Eventually, they calm down and become friendly towards us. Some of the even act fatherly or big brotherly towards us like the priests at our church, back when we were alter boys.

The funniest is our teacher's uncle, who's described by the others as a confirmed bachelor. He starts talking to us in Spanish, which surprises the other guests, because they had no idea he even spoke it, and are now wondering how he learned it in the first place. To be honest, it's not very good Spanish. We call it "bedroom Spanish," and based on our past experiences as alter boys at our neighborhood parish, we know EXACTLY how he learned it.

I'm the Daytona Beach t-shirt that was picked up off the floor to be a cumrag in R183 's post. They both used me several times each.

Oops, I forgot to show myself (pre-jerk off orgy)

I'm debuting my Dorothy Hamel wedge haircut at the Christmas party. I'll also be wearing my velvet palazzo pants and matching jacket.

I'm Larry from down the street, glad that the sexual offender's registry doesn't exist yet.

I'm the Tom & Jerry set.

R189 Oh God, he's CONFIDENT about wearing that! Is he the confirmed bachelor uncle, who actually believes that ensemble is helping him keep his straight guise up?

I'm spray snow window stencils.

I'm the raclette grill that the hostess picked up at a yard sale for a quarter last summer. She has only a vague idea of what I do, and since my instructions are missing, she has desecrated me with hot dogs, Velveeta, and slices of Wonder Bread cut with cookie cutters into festive shapes like bells and trees.

I wish they had just taken me to the landfill.

This thread is genius. After our trip to visit my Aunt and Uncle in Ohio in 72 I knew that Xmas in 70s US was the best.

I can only think of one thing, all evening.

I don't know who that fat old fuck is, r191, but he's not ME! As for my age — a gentleman never tells, but I will say this: I am often told that I pass for a man thirty years younger, getting carded hither and thither. I attribute that to good genes, a hardcore jogging regiment (as we say around here), an elaborate skincare regime (as we also say around here), and a diet consisting solely of Norwegian salmon, capers, and iceberg lettuce.

When I say "solely," that excludes Saturday night, Sunday brunch, and godawful rube parties like this one. That's when I hit the Advocaat hard. Canary Flips, Snowballs, Dirty Snowballs, Filthy Snowballs, Dizzy Blondes, Bessie and Jessies, straight up.....they're all groovy!

I'm the cute boots [italic]mi mamá[/italic] got me to wear for this Christmas fiesta.

Am I the only one who thinks the outfits in the picture in the OP are still fashionable? They're a whole lot better than today's nondescript fashion trends, especially monotonously straight, long hair on women. The colorful clothes and hairstyles of the late 60s and early 70s were more cutting edge.

I'm Midge, the housewife down the block who's arriving late since I thought it would be fun to take a part-time job at the mall. Can you believe we have to stay open on Saturdays until 9 until Christmas?

Thank god tomorrow is Sunday and the store is closed so I can sleep in.

I'm pink and green Christmas wrapping paper.

Hi I'm Philip, 12, and pre-gay. I won the Christmas House coloring contest in the local newspaper. The lady from the Downtown Development corporation calls me and asks me to come see her in her office. There, she explains that my rendition was clearly the best, "spectacular", but she could only give me 3rd place, "publicly", because the poor black kids downtown don't have glitter, sequins, seed pearls, metallic cord, silk, and egg tempera paints to do their pictures, so it wouldn't be fair. She slips me a gift certificate, good in any store downtown, for double the amount of the first prize 25 dollars (so 50 dollars), and says she expects me to be a grown up about this.

Flash forward 10 years. I'm still Philip and now totally gay gay gay. I graduate Summa cum laude from my Ivy League school and first in my department. I apply to every top MFA in the country and get in and awarded at best 1/2 scholarships. The black classmate in my department who isn't even honors gets in too, and full scholarship offers from CalArts and Art Institute of Chicago. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.

R201 & r202, I'm sorry your qualifications didn't bring you the scholarship deals I got. But our country was trying to remedy a historical wrong committed towards us Blacks for centuries. I'm thankful for my scholarship, because not only did it make me successful in our shared field, it also greatly facilitated my introduction to and acceptance by many the of "right people" you and I deal with, something that wouldn't have happened so easily if I enrolled at Norfolk State University, the HBCU where my uncle studied.

It's not perfect, but it's a hell of a lot better than denial, refusal, and segregation.

I'm the teenage daughter sneaking out the window during the party after all the adults are drunk. Im moving to Hollywood. I'm going to hitch a ride there and become a star! No one will ever see me alive again.

I am the gauze shirt made in India that some of the guys and gals, too, are wearing. I am edgy and alternative. So, too, are the African trade beads and granny glasses. They make your sister or cousin think they are really cool. In but really it just looks ridiculous.

I'm a homemade macramé Christmas candle that's the centerpiece of the table.

Sorry - I forgot my photo!

I am the dreadful casserole one of the younger ones described above or the hippy couple down the block brought to the party. I am all natural and organic. I look like mud and taste like it, too. They got the recipe out of one of those gloom and doom books like Diet for a Small Planet. THe hostess samples me, trying to be diplomatic, but that is the only serving from it, save for that taken by the ones who brought me.

I want that macramé candle but as a hard dick cumming, please.

I am the husband of the hostess. I just discovered body building. It is popular again, thanks to Arnold whatshisname. Wow, he even did a nude centerfold for Cosmopolitan. My wife doesn't know I sneak peaks at it. I like the gym. I like the locker room se.....I mean camaraderie with the guys afterward. Yep, we really connect in the sauna.

Im the game of Gnip Gnop that we saw hoping it would be under our tree.

I am the 100 % polyester everyone is wearing.

I'm the one toy that the kid was allowed to open in hopes of keeping him occupied during the party.

Unfortunately, I'm a Lemon Twist and he's now become a party traffic hazard.

Im the Lemon Peeler and Pea Picker bikes in the garage

I'm the token Jew who has been invited to prove how liberal-minded the host and hostess are.

I'm MASTERPIECE, and the cousins are playing me on the floor of the family room.

I am the clouds of Tabu, Ambush, Aramis, Hai Karate and Heaven Sent wafting from every pore of the guests.

.....

R216, NO ONE wanted to play Masterpiece. It was boring as shit.

I'm the simple but elegant cheese board assembled by the host, a Washington policy wonk. She is such a wiz in the kitchen. She really has a flair for entertaining. She and her husband love to entertain. And they have so many creative friends. She's totally in the wrong business. She should write a cook book.

I'm the Green Giant. The future DL'ers are parked in front of the television, jazz hands a-flutter, just waiting for my commercial to come on again.

They'll say they think it's hilarious that dumb cunt Little Sprout can't read the word "special," and of course that's part of it, but it's really something about my thick shiny thighs and the jut of my hip that holds them rapt.

It's true. You'll see....one of them is going to post here about feeling a strange stirring in their loins the first time they saw me.

Thanks everyone, this has been hilarious. DL still shines in its "Let's be ..." threads. (St. Elmos Fire was a recent favorite).

And of course the even more recent grocery store thread.

I'm the plastic potted spider plants, philodendrons and English Ivy hanging from the ceiling in macrame nets allowed to grow halfway down to the floor. I'm also the asparagus ferns on the end tables, the six foot dieffenbachia in the entrance hallway, the ficus tree in the living room and the blooming Christmas cactuses that have been moved from their usual places near the windows to be center pieces on the coffee table and the buffet table and the aloe vera and snake plants in the kitchen. And I'm also half dozen large potted poinsettas bought at Kroger placed across the front of the fake fireplace.

And I am the copy of PLANTS ARE LIKE PEOPLE (right next to the copy of I'M OK, YOU'RE OK.

THE SENSUOUS WOMAN is hidden in the night stand.

I'm "The House Without a Christmas Tree," airing on the 7-inch B&W portable TV in the kids' room.

I'm the oversized wicker chair with the oversized arms surrounded by potted palms and for holiday accent another potted Kroger poinsetta. I'm also the knock-off Brentwood rocker in the family room in the basement with yet another poinsetta, but this one is from Winn-Dixie.

I'm the Kodak instamatic 110 camera and the film cassette that goes inside. I make picture taking so easy! But in two years time all the photos will look very purple.

To go with r228 — I'm flashcubes!

I'm the Evel Knievel Stunt Cycle that little Billy was allowed to open on Christmas eve. I'll be crushed flat in under 5 minutes when he races me across the kitchen floor which is crowded with adult guests who step all over me. Fuck you, Billy.

I'm the young cop who has to knock on the front door for more than five minutes before someone answers, so I can tell them that there was a noise complaint. The host who answers it seems vaguely familiar, but it doesn't hit me until an hour later in my shift that I've played with him in the bathhouse a couple of times.

I'm my mother's family, gathering at my aunt's house. Various other aunts, uncles and cousins are here in the tiny living room and kitchen. Grandma is here in her wheelchair. She lost 70 lbs after being hit by a car walking home from bingo.

The only food is a bowl of salted peanuts, because in our family a "party" means "a kitchen table full of liquor for the adults." We kids have to drink sickeningly sweet ginger ale from plastic cups and that runs out real fast. The teen cousins are all asking each other, "Got any pot?" No one has any.

The uncles are now very loud and telling elaborate scenario jokes, employing different accents for each joke. Irish, Italian, Polish, Spanish, Jewish.

We kids don't mind that there isn't any food because we grew up eating three meals a day and no in-between-meal snacking. Everyone ate dinner at home before coming here. We're thin as rails and the word "diet" doesn't exist. Everybody smokes and there is a blue cloud suspended halfway between the ceiling and the carpet. It will finally dissipate around dawn.

Grandma is puking into the toilet now. She drank three whiskeys. Her son's warned her not to drink too much, but she does it at every party.

We are the trashiest of white trash. But we're having fun seeing each other. And we're thin.

We're the noxious fumes emanating from R220's be-pladed behind. Jeffrey pretends to ignore us.

I'm the joint being passed around after the kids have finally been put to bed, the adults dessert has been served, the lights have been dimmed and the Pachelbel Canon is being played on the Zenith Circle of Sound stereo.

I'm all of the cuttings of spider plants, Christmas cactus, philodendron, ferns and rubber trees brought as hostess gifts. I will be transplanted from cheap clay pots to big plastic ones to keep r224 company.

I'm the Cheech and Chong album. Even the anti-drug adults think I'm funny.

I'm the case that opens up to reveal a backgammon board, dice and backgammon pieces. I'm the most popular gift among 20 somethings after fondue pots

I am The Original Bacardi Rum Cake with sugar frosting. So much better than fruitcake.

I'm another popular gift this year because of inflation and the high price of heating oil.

I'm chlamydia one of the otherwise prim and proper neighborhood moms brought back home from the party. It'll take several weeks of antibiotics to make me go away.

I'm the afghan on top of Aunt Carol's sofa. She made me herself. She offers to make one for her newly married nieces and nephews who tell her how nice, but we already have one.

I am the HIV virus , mutating and hiding in the gut of the South African bush monkey. Waiting for my next move.....

I'm a worn out, dog-eared paperback copy of "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret." The host's prepubescent daughter and her younger cousins take turns giggling over my passages about periods and maxi pads until her mom yells at them to come downstairs and say hello to Aunt Kathy and Uncle Mike (who didn't shave off his pornstache until the late 80s).

We are the Italian-American couple from down the street. We brought the lasagna. This is still seen as ethnic and somewhat exotic in many places. I notice the hostess, and a couple of the men in attendance, too, checking out the husbands chest (hairy, of course). He is also wearing gold chains. He has a nice ass, too. That is also being checked out. We will be talked about when we leave. There will be ethnic jokes, too, which the wives of the men (jealous closet cases) will scowl at disapprovingly.

We are the books on the shelf: Mother Earth's Hassle Free Indoor Plant Book Diet for a Small Planet The Vegetarian Epicure Dr Atkins Diet Revolution The Total Woman The Sensuous Man Erma Bombeck Books The Joy of Sex Journey Through the Secret Life of Plants The Hobbit Books Several Gloom and Doom type books about the coming new society and end of civilization that will happen in the year 2000.

I'm these new candies that just came out and I look so festive in my individual green wrappers. I'm named after a mountain range in South America. I'm thin chocolates with green mint in the middle. And I'm very reasonably priced at the local drugstore. The kids love me but so do the adults.

R242, I am the man in R210. I will worry greatly about that in a few short years after hearing about the new gay plague.

I'm the college student next door earning some pot money by being the bartender at your shifty party serving grasshoppers and Singapore slings. After the party, I'll smoke out your teenage daughter and she'll give me a handjob

[quote] We brought the lasagna. This is still seen as ethnic and somewhat exotic in many places

Very true. I am R232. In the 70s our most exotic food was spaghetti (not pasta). Our Christmas parties were foodless. A mere decade later everything had changed. My uncles married women whose ethnicities were Italian and German.

We started going to Uncle Bob's for Christmas and wow. There were cookies for the first time. Pfeffernüsse, cinnamon stars, butter cookies, lebkuchen. Another uncle married a woman who began bringing pans of ziti. Yet another uncle married a woman who had just discovered phyllo dough and made lovely little savory pasties filled with ground meat, onions and mushrooms.

We'd never seen any of that stuff before.

Flash forward another 10 years and our usual Christmas dinner was now lasagne, garlic bread, sausage quiche and pepperoni salad.

Fuck Evil..., I'm Derry Daring! I can give him a run for his money. The Grand Canyon?

I am the iconic 1970s version of the classic Double G Gucci Belt Buckle: back to back but overlapping and top/bottom reversed Gs. When the man from r244 wears me, everyone is impressed because they realize I'm not "that greasy from wop from down the street" but an affluent and stylish Italian-American. They don't know how deeply I put myself into debt to buy the buckle, which Gucci sells as stand alone item, and that I have to wear it on a belt from K-Mart.

I'm the crossed bamboo fans that have become omnipresent wall decor

Hmm, image not showing for me, let's try this:

Every mother in the subdivision has a copy of me, as well as my author's other books. I was bought with the expectation that -- in conjunction with Valium -- I'd mitigate some of the jitteriness caused by the hostess's diet pills.

When she got a script for Quaaludes she threw me in the box that's being filled for the library's book sale and never looked back. I'm only at the party because the host needed something of my thickness to stick under the short leg on the card table.

A few years from now she'll break down sobbing while reading Betty Ford's book and wish she had given me a chance.

I'm "Deep Throat" that is being shown in the master bedroom to a few close guy friends.

We're the horny men trying to hide their hard-ons back in the living room.

Some of things hit home: the stencils, pest strip, Dorothy Hamil wedge, Famolares, orange sherbet punch, French onion dip, maxi skirts to name a few.

I'm the salad bowl set the hostess was given last year as a Christmas gift. I've come in handy for holding snacks this Christmas.

I'm the appetizer tree

I am the Wip Inflation Now button, sitting on the bedroom dresser. I am not being worn at a party.

We're the Oriental family that live down the the block. Everyone keeps asking where we're from, but it doesn't really matter because when we answer "Taiwan," they ask what Bangkok is really like. They also keep asking if we know karate or kung fu. Damn roundeyes!

I'm Fanny Cradock and even if I had been invited to your pathetic little affair, I would have declined.

I am cousin Steve watching as cousin Mike, away from the adults, gleefully and maliciously tells cousin Eddy that Santa Clause isn't real and that cousin Eddy is stupid for still believing it. I watch as cousin Eddy slowly, slowly breaks down and finally starts screaming and wailing that it is true and he will never not believe. After more taunting I watch as cousin Eddy runs screaming upstairs and locks himself in a bathroom and refuses to come out.

I watch as the adults come to see why there is screaming and then as Uncle Ed and Aunt Ruth begin begging and pleading for Eddy to calm down and unlock the door. I watch as Eddy screams and wails that everyone is lying and that THERE IS, THERE IS A SANTA CLAUS and refuse to unlock the door. I watch as this goes on for hours. I watch as a locksmith is called and for some reason can't get the door open.

I watch as finally the Fire Department is called to batter down the door so Eddy can be physically restrained and taken home.

We don't see Uncle Ed, Aunt Ruth, cousin Eddy or his brother George again for over year. We had formerly been close.

I am not making up a word of this. It actually happened.

i guess the saddest part of all about this is that cousin Eddy was 12.

R134 is a great example of '70s thinking. Love it!

Was Cousin Eddy a special needs child? Why all the drama?

Omg we had those bowls at r257

R264, it took me over 20 years of therapy before i finally accepted the opinion of all the therapists I had seen that I came from an extremely dysfunctional family and that I had barely escaped by realizing there wasn't something wrong with me as I was always told and moved, no, escaped -- damaged but sane -- to Manhattan. They are all still in North Carolina and are avid Trump supporters.

I'm the 1974 Ford Country Squire station wagon sitting in the gargage.

I was the soccer mom vehicle of the 1970s.

I'm the candle powered Swedish Angel Chimes direct from Hong Kong!

I'm the third Mrs. Patterson, Barbara, but you can call me Barbie or Bunnie. The women at this party have been really nice to me, asking who my favorite teacher was, if I was a cheerleader, and if I'd show them one of my cheers. I ask Mrs. Whitmore if her daughter is Jerri-Anne Whitmore who went to 7th-grade cheer camp with me. They all turn grey.

I may not be book-smart, but I know where I'm not wanted so I go to the den to sit with my husband for a while. When one of the other guys mentions Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge I giggle a little because why are these men talking about makeup and kitchen appliances? He asks me what I find funny about Jenn O'Seid. Who?? I feel like I've put my foot in my mouth once again, but I don't know how?

I end up in the rec room with the kids. Yeah, I'm fucking one of their fathers but this is as close as it gets to fitting in for me.

I'm the Hickory Farms Holiday Gift Pak nestled in shredded green packing material with strawberry hard candies served with a bowlful of Hickory Farms Sesame Stix as a crunchy adjunct to the Smoky Bar cheese and sliced beef stick.

I'm the Ray Conniff Christmas album. I can't wait for the Carpenters' Christmas Portrait Album to finish, so that I will drop down on the turntable and begin playing!

I'm the fife-and-drum Christmas carols everyone hopes will end soon so we can go back to the Carpenters.

We're the Bourbon Balls! We are placed at the back of the dessert table because we're supposed to be for the adults only. All the kids, however have sneaked one each, but spit out and threw them away after one bite.

This thread is making me sad.

I'm the leisure suit. I'm the height of elegance and sophistication this year.

I'm an 8-track of Bing Crosby's "Merry Christmas", being played continuously.

We're the kids who are carefully unwrapping a tiny amount, just enough of the gift wrapping to see what the gifts are, then carefully putting the wrapping and tape back in place. Now we have to act surprised when we open them.

I'm the patchwork leather coat that people have a quickie on top of in the coat room. All the change has slid out of the pocket and my owner put the ripped open condom wrapper back in it by mistake instead of hiding me in the trash. This is what will eventually bust him and they will be the second divorced couple on the block.

This is one of the best threads ever!! I was a child of the 70's and remember almost everything referred to in this thread. Good times....

I'm the needlepoint Christmas Tree ornaments that Mom stitched during our summer vacation at the beach, while slathered in Ban de Soleil, downing "Club in a Can" (or whatever it was called) cocktails.

^^^ meant to add: I still have them

I'm the same Santa hat and bright red sox Uncle Alex wore to the annual family Christmas get-together for over 20 years.

He was such a card, that Uncle Alex.

No one ever realized he was also wearing the same pair of bright red silk boxers with the embossed green and white faces of Santa.

He was such a quiet stickler for tradition, that Uncle Alex.

I'm the mother of the weird boy who never speaks -- when he does, it's about computers, which is worse than not speaking at all. I won't bother telling you his name because you wouldn't know him even though he's sitting ten feet away from you

Computers, computers, computers. He says they're the future; that's the only time he's animated. We should have left him at home tonight like he wanted. I've never been so embarrassed.

My God, I caused this. I ate swordfish every Friday when I was pregnant with him. I had no idea about mercury then. The doctors say he has a genius-level IQ but that's what they tell all the mothers of retarded kids: your kid is a huge failure and embarrassment because he's too intelligent for his own good....he's on another plane. What have I done??

Computers! Where did he get these crazy ideas? We had such high hopes that he'd take over my husband's above-ground pool business.

I am the giant Tiki fork and spoon hanging in the kitchen. I symbolize good health and prosperity.

I'm the Kraft Yule log, prepared with those time saving and delicious near foods, Christie's chocolate wafers and Dream Whip.

I'm the tiny edible silver balls and the red dye in the icing on the Christmas cookies that slightly sickens everyone who eats them.

[quote]I'm the mother of the weird boy who never speaks -- when he does, it's about computers, which is worse than not speaking at all. I won't bother telling you his name because you wouldn't know him even though he's sitting ten feet away from you

Thanks for stopping by Mrs. Gates!

I'm the Channel 11 WPIX Yule Log, showing on the new console.

I'm the Pong game that everyone wants to take a turn playing.

I'm the Ham & Pineapple Cheese Ball created using the hostess' brand new La Machine by Moulinex. Ain't modern technology grand!

I'm the holiday assortment of neat-to -eat Dolly Madison Zingers, Fruit Pies and, depending on you region of the country, Dollys, Googles, Razzys,Gems and Koo Koos!

I always stock up right before " A Charlie Brown Christmas" is televised.

Did you mean Bain de Soleil r280?

Thank you, DL, for turning my humble thread into one of the best in recent memory. If I could, I would spring surprise anal on each and every one of you, right under the plastic elf-and-mistletoe ball.

Now let me go get the little lady to refill your drinks....

The den bookshelf is groaning under these very "risque" books bought by the hostess but discreetly placed where no one can spot them unless they look really really carefully. But the teenagers have read them all and had a good laugh.

I'm the Christmas in New York album, with Leontyne Price, Arthur Fiedler, Steve Lawrence, and Eydie Gormé. Although issued in 1969, I'm played throughout the 1970s Christmas parties to indicate how sophisticated and cultured the host's family is, despite living in the suburbs, and being originally from Flatbush, Brooklyn.

I'm the assortment of fun new games by Ideal, Marx,Parker Bros. Lakeside and Milton Bradley!

LIFE!

Stay Alive!

Aggravation!

Score Four!

Trouble!

And everyone's favorite as well as mine:

Ker Plunk!

Teenagers happily escape with the Midnight Special.

I'm the special Christmas edition of Playgirl unabashedly displayed on the coffee table at the typical Castro or Greenwich Village homo holiday get together.

I'm the bicentennial edition of the World Book Encyclopedia that sits handsomely on R294's den bookshelf. The guests admire its patriotic beauty, which complements the Franklin Mint Flags of the United Nations Sterling Silver Ingot Collection cabinet in the room.

I'm the Chesty Morgan cocktail stirrer crocheted by Uncle Francis in a fit of pique. That cunt of a sister-in-law is going to get a surprise when she she sees that he unraveled her granny-square-in-progress to make me.

[italic]I sing along with Johnny Mathis for you bastards! I offer you my heart and soul through the instrument of VOICE! I sing you the very essence of my unbridled heterosexuality and you smirk when I get to the "gay" line?? Really? I'll show you! I'll show all of you and you'll never flap your floppy wrists behind my back again! Who but the most dangerously virulent of heterosexuals would scurry off to the sewing room during a Christmas party to crochet a Chesty Freakin' Morgan cocktail stirrer? Who? A man who can't be without titties for even a couple of hours, that's who![/italic}

I'm the Christmas Medley by the Salsoul Orchestra. I'm the kind of disco your mom approves of for this party.

.....SNL

Hot buttered rum by the cottage fireplace as a nightcap.....with parents and friends.

That's the Mary Jane episode of Leave It To Beaver R262.

Yes, R292, I forgot the "I". Well done.

[quote]Hot buttered rum by the cottage fireplace as a nightcap.....with parents and friends.

OR.

Hot buttered CUM by the cottage fireplace as a nightcap............with just "friends".

I've had BOTH and they're each wonderful in their own way.

We're seat belts. No one used us on the way to the party. And despite the average alcohol consumption for the men at this party being 6 beers and 2 scotches each, no one in the car uses us on the way home either.

Now kids roll up the windows while mom lights up her cigarette, it's cold outside!

I'm Mitch Miller's Holiday Sing-a-Long

We're the Christmas ornaments that your mother and aunt spent hours making from kits. We cover an entire tree in a multitude of sparkles and spangles and beads.

Thank goodness for the mild weather so the kids can go out and play Jarts on the lawn

I'm the soul of Barron Trump, still floating around in Limbo, and waiting for the day that Daddy's geriatric sperm fertilizes the egg of a Slovenian whore he hasn't met yet so together we can all Make America Fank Again!

We had those bowls r257!

I am the pant suit worn by one of the female guests. I was sewn at home from a Butterick pattern.

I am the peasant blouse worn by the teen daughter of the same woman. I was also sewn by mom.

We both look great. The non-sewing women are secretly jealous and go back to drinking booze and backstabbing the talented mom.

I am the TV show Kung Fu playing on the tv in the other room. It is to keep the younger ones occupied. Asian food and art is all the rage. Little do we know that in a few years WE will all be in a rage as our jobs are outsourced overseas to Asia.

What you talkin' about, R4?

I'm the wallet-sized, Bicentennial-themed school photos of my cousin Susie that Aunt Jennie proudly distributes to all of the relatives. The old ladies "ooh" and "ahh" over them!

We're the solitary house on your block with the blue lights and the "Merry X-Mas" sign.

I'm the kids cowering in our room under the bed because Dad is drunk again and threatening to throw the Christmas tree out, ornaments and all. There will be no Christmas this year...

We are the kids with the long, unkempt hair and brassy attitude. We think we are being hippies, but we are just spoiled white kids. We wear scruffy clothes, usually denim. We look like thugs and act like them, too. We don't have an original or alternative idea among us. We listen to mainstream music, thinking it is cool. What a joke we look like. We are not hippies. Just thugs.

I'm Bobby, the 18 year old badass leader of the R319 pack. I have a menacing stare, long hair and an equally long 9" uncut cock to match, which I'm flexible enough to self-suck. After a couple beers or joints I fuck anything that moves, including all the concerned soccer team moms on the street, and a couple of the dads too.

I'm the china cabinet. During the dancing, one of the drunk young ladies will twirl, lose her balance on her platform shoes, and fall into me, shatter the window, and break some of the heirloom wine glasses and porcelain tea cups. The drunk girl won't accept any blame, stating that I shouldn't have been placed there in the first place.

I'm the half tofu half ground beef hybrid- nutriburgers Mable brought because of the meat shortage, I'm guaranteed to disgust meat eaters and vegetarians alike, try me with a sprinkling of wheat germ and help yourself to handful of Screaming Yellow Zonkers.

I'm the seasonal Hummel figurine

The popcorn ceiling from which the macrame planters and mistletoe hang from.

[quote]soccer team moms

Are we in Europe? Who ever heard of such a thing?

I'm the snowman cake that nobody likes, but the entire family oohs and ahhhs over me like I was a Picasso.

I'm Wassail from The Betty Crocker Recipe Card Library.

Hi, I'm Mitchell, Director of Communications and Special Events at JCPenney. I'm the hostess' boss, just stopping by to bring good cheer. I've brought along my roommate, Stewart. He wanted to head out into the city and pick up chicks. But, there are a lot of foxy ladies here tonight, so if we play our cards right, maybe we can take a couple of them to our pad and continue the partying over there, if you know what I mean. (wink wink)

Bobby again. I've had both those fruits at R328. Stewart paid me 40 bucks.

I'm Mindy, the hostess' younger and prettier sister. And this is my friend Tammy. She's a bit of a slut, but she's a gas! We were gonna go to the disco after this, but we just spotted a couple of real lookers, and [italic]no wedding rings![/italic] So, change of plans...

I'm Mr. Chen. My family and I have lived in the neighborhood since we moved from Taiwan two years ago but I'm pretty sure no one remembers our first names. We're usually referred to as "The Orientals" or "The Japs Down the Block." Tonight's foolishness begins when Larry sees my wife helping the hostess carry pies to the buffet table. Later, he'll nudge anyone approaching them and say, "I wouldn't if I were you....I saw Ching Chong with that mince[italic]meat[/italic] pie. Hey, has anyone seen Fluffy? If I were you, I'd have the remon mellang instead." We'll leave an hour later when Bob starts talking about all the slanted pussy he fucked in Vietnam and asks if my wife's winks at me.

I've just made an offer on a beautiful farmhouse in NC. We can't wait to get out of this subdivision.

We're the Scott Brothers, Tommy & Jeffrey. Our parents brought us here to entertain the guests, Tommy on the flute and Jeffrey on the organ. But Tommy's been staring at Mindy and Tammy's breasts so he can't quite get up to perform "O Holy Night" just yet.

Bobby here again...oh nevermind.

I'm the confirmed bachelor uncle, now at Mitchell and Stewart's pad from r328. Their "picking up some chicks" routine was a guise that fooled everyone but me. I brought young Bobby from r320 with me, because I noticed his bulge the moment he walked through the door, and he knew that I noticed it, too, from that sly smile on his face.

Well, as you can see from your left, Mitchell and Stewart are waiting for me and Bobby to join them. Bobby, as you know, will be our main focus (or "fukus," ha ha).

I'm the recently unwrapped astronaut robot toy that the kids want to play with, but nobody thought to include D size batteries to operate it.

It's Mindy again. I can't believe those handsome bachelors left without us. Come to think of it, a lot of the guys have disappeared. What gives? This party is a crashing bore! We're out.

"Tommy on the flute and Jeffrey on the organ"

What kind of neighborhood is this, R332?!

I'm the fun peeing boy liquor dispenser that the host is using as a centerpiece on the tablecloth covered card table that has all the booze on it.

I'm the macrame Christmas tree hanging in the living room. I've got everyone commenting, and not always in a good way.

I'm Maurice, the host's father. And this is my neighbor Stephen. I've known Stephen since he was a little boy. When my wife died three years ago, Stephen has been there to lend a helping hand. He's been a real sport helping me with chores around the house, planting the flower beds, cleaning the rain gutters, fixing the leaking roof, even driving me to my appointments. Oh, and we can spend hours by the fire talking about opera and the arts! He's a real find, that one. He's been like a son to me. More so than my own son. But, no bitterness. It is Christmas after all.

I'm glad Stephen is there to fill Maurice's void.

Maurice = what every ElderGay on the DL looks like Stephen = what every troll on the DL looks like

I'm the tuna salad mold the hosts' 13-year-old daughter got from the "Hey, Let's Cook!" section of Seventeen magazine. I didn't turn out as pretty as the one in the magazine, of course:

I'm a Benson & Hedges in one hand and a 7 & 7 in the other. If you went to a party in the 70s, I was part of the uniform.

I'm the nude goddess rain lamp that usually hangs in the living room, but has now been replaced by a tacky macrame Christmas tree (see R339). Elegance replaced with kitsch. I now sit in a box in the cold, damp garage, waiting for the holidays to be over.

I am the lavender leisure suit that is not worn for work, but am perfect for an occasion such as this.

r321 A breakfront instead of an étagère? How tacky.

I'm the testicle jokes drunkenly bellowed when the Brents bring a bottle of Dry Sack to the party.

I am the painting of a night on a tropical island done dramatically on dark blue velvet. I'm classier than the 2 nude lovers done on red velvet or the matador.

This thread rocks. It got me in a good mood. Thank you, all!!

I'm the bundt cake. Everyone knows I'm from the box. In fact, they even know the particular brand is PILLSBURY, because everyone and their grandmother are preparing bundt cakes from their popular, heavily advertised mixes. You can also tell that I'm the pound cake flavor, because that particular mix comes with powdered sugar as a topping.

I'm The Dry Look.

I'm the Watergate salad that Ginny from Billing brought over. I may look delicious, but I'm loaded with Ex-Lax. Ginny has a twisted sense of humor.

We were the personalized "Gary Wilson.....Acclaimed America's No. 1 Host" set of glasses given to the host by one of the couples attending. They ordered us way back before Halloween to be sure we'd arrive in time for the party. They thought we were clever and everyone would get a kick out of us. Everyone did, with the exception of one: Mrs. Wilson, the hostess.

Mrs. Wilson seethed through her tight little smile all night. Mr. Wilson knew something was wrong, but he had no idea what. Probably on the rag again. Typical. Can't even enjoy her own party, miserable bitch. America's No. 1 Host found out what the problem was when he tried going upstairs to bed before the last guest was even out of the driveway. Mrs. Wilson, drunk, pilled-up, perimenopausal, and exhausted from planning, cooking, cleaning and decorating on her own, now faced with a filthy house to clean while he slept, sent us to our deaths against the flagstone fireplace.

I am the flocked velvet wallpaper in the sitting room. The host and hostess battled for weeks over me, and he finally won. She thinks it looks like a cheap bordello, and that everyone notices, especially with the goddess rain lamp, 587 ashtrays (some with keys, some with chips, some with cigarettes, none empty), and other accouterments, she is correct and they do.

We're crepes, because fondue is so last year.

Wallace might suit my modest Schloss Leopoldskron outside Salzburg, but the pantry is already loaded with a ton of ancient silver.

oops how'd that happen

You made a wrong turn, honey. Go back down the road and when you see the beautiful faux-brick ranch all done up like Monticello, turn right. That's Lazy H Lane. Follow that to the T junction, turn left on Do-Si-Do Circle, then immediately take a right onto Allemande Drive.

That'll take you out of our little slice of heaven and back to the main road. Salzburg Jewelers will be about three miles down in the strip mall with the big clown head on the sign. You can't miss it.

Merry Christmas! Drive safely!

I'm Marjorie Mullins. I'm widower Peter Stewart's new fiancé. I'm nice, but as some of the wives at the party note I'm also "rough around the edges" They have that straight. Before I met Peter I "acted" in 4 porno movies. If you're the kind of man who likes to sneak down to the "adult cinema" regularly you might know who I am. Those guys know me as Kitten LePurr. My fiancé has no idea about me, but his friend keeps saying "you look so familiar". I keep shrugging my shoulders. He'll work it out eventually, but he won't say anything, by outing me he outs himself and he's certainly not going to do that. Can you imagine admitting you watch porn to the dull people at this party? Susan Belcher would keel right over.

Anyway i seem to get away with it and intend to take my secret to the grave. But that doesn't happen. does it? Damn internet

Our hallway had that wallpaper, r355. Gold background with black. My father wasn't involved at all in its choice. My mother was uncertain but the frau interior designer she hired sold her on it.

I'm Jim Jones, I just opened a new Church in an abandoned storefront intown. I wonder if any of these bozos want to go to Uganda? We'll have some killer punch.

I'm John Wayne Gacy, everyone loves my clown costume. Im trying to talk little Timmy into going home to play with me.

I'm Ted Bundy, no hot chics here, and there seems to be a lot of Competition. I'm leaving to go watch the Dating Game and Drink some schlitz.

I'm the case of Billy Beer, sitting unopened in the basement.

Im about as succesful as my brothers presidency.

I'm recently-"divorced" Ted from down the street. I'm keeping a close eye on the host's thirteen year old daughter, almost salivating every time she walks past. I make her very uncomfortable and she won't walk past my house but nobody cares because adult + male > child + female every time. Ex mrs Ted could tell you a few tales but nobody seems to know where she went off to.

I'm the collection of John Hancock Christmas carol booklets that your insurance man gave you a few years ago. The ones with the three boy choir singers on the front cover.

I live in the piano bench every day except one and get hauled out at least once each year. At every Christmas party the crowd really gets into "Good Christian Men, Rejoice" and they have the kids sing "Away in a Manger" by themselves.

Forty years later I will still be around. My words will still be in the teeny-tiny type as in the original, but they will be a bit harder to read as you get older.

Corporations don't give out goodies as much as they used to -- at least not to mainstream customers.

I'm this old favorite, keeping R365 company in the piano bench.

I'm a Lite Brite peg hiding deep in the brown/harvest wheat/harvest gold shag carpet. After all the guests are gone and the shoes are off, Mr. Wilson will blearily stumble out of bed at 2am and head to the loo. That's when I'll make my sneak attack, jabbing my point into his bare sole. He'll yelp and curse up a storm, waking the wife and kids and ruining everyone's morning. Ahahaha! I'll probably end up in the trash bin or in a dirty vacuum bag, but, there are many more like me hiding in the carpet, waiting to spring into action. Mwahahaha!

R367, OMG, I remember that cover! I new I was "different" from the other boys because I thought the man with the salt and pepper 'stache on the left, the one with the pink shirt and wearing a vest, was hot! All these years later, I STILL like daddies, esp. with a 'stache!!

I'm the creepy Margaret Keane print (or a cheap knockoff); I'm hanging in all the bedrooms of all the children of all the guests.

r355 OMG, my aunt had that exact wallpaper in her dining room except it was red.

Im McDonald Land Gift certificates. Ooh 50c tickets, tear one off. Ooh how Disneyland

My aunt has the wallpaper at r355. And my mom had the brown salad bowls posted further up thread. Neither live in America. The whole world from 1970-1979 had the exact same taste it seems.

I'm a yeast infection, thoroughly enjoying the holiday punch and so grateful for polyester underpants and pantyhose!

I'm the hushed discussion about a certain party-goer's aunt, whose red flocked wallpaper and nocturnal male visitations have the neighborhood buzzing like an out of control vibrator.

I'm Dwayne's Christmas Club. He cashed me out and spent all of me on the blotter acid in heavy use in the rumpus room.

Wait. I lied. He used $3 of me to buy a strobe light at Spencer's.

[quote] [R355] OMG, my aunt had that exact wallpaper in her dining room except it was red.

R371s aunts house.

I'm the troll doll surreptitiously replacing baby Jesus in the crèche on the cardboard fireplace, placed there by that neighbor couple who always dress in black.

I'm Xyxyxx Rainbeaux, the Earthling the Johnsons like to think of as their daughter. While I'm not physically at the party, my being hangs like a pall over the Johnsons, who are just waiting for the inevitable, "So, what's Patti been up to? Is she coming back for Christmas this year? Still away at school? It's been what, seven years now?"

I'm Stella Johnson, reading all you Christmas party bitches for filth.

I am Holly Hobbie. I am everywhere. I am nauseatingly sweet and cute.

I am an Eldergay, standing quietly in the corner wearing my maroon turtleneck and scoping out Bobby. There is no Datalounge yet, so I'll spend the next twenty years writing on bathroom stalls until that glorious day arrives.

I'm Mr. Carlton's carefully guarded secret to impeccable grooming..

The other husbands barely move their feet when their wives insist on rockin' around the Christmas tree, but Mr. Carlton clears the floor to race through a practiced repertoire of the funky chicken, the hustle, the lawnmower, the bus stop, and the bump while remaining fresh as a daisy. How does Mr. Carlton do it?

Mr. Carlton wears a leotard; that's how.

Bathroom walls! That brings back memories r382. At my college there was a bathroom where every available surface was written on, it was a work of art. One exchange of views went:

"my mother made me a lesbian"

...underneath in different pen...

"if I give her the wool will she make me one?"

....another different pen.....

"why the fuck are you two lezzies talking about knitting in the men's bathroom?"

I'm Ronnie, and I'm a Captain Kangaroo fanatic from down the road. I even dressed like him for this party, to entertain the kids. I too am glad that the sexual offenders registry hasn't been invented yet.

I'm Bernice, the homely widow woman from down the road. That unclean whore Mrs. Wilson didn't invite me to her sinful orgy of a Christmas party this year, but I didn't want to go anyway. I'll just stay here alone in my nightgown watching Oral Roberts, stuffing my face with Spam-topped crackers, and calling in noise complaints.

I'm paneling. In the kitchen and bedroom I am halfway up the wall and topped with wallpaper - sanitest in the kitchen, flocked in the bedroom.

In the living room I cover one wall from floor to ceiling. I'm a "focal point" in there..

I'm the wood parquet floor tiling you'll find in the living room, not only in this home but at every other house in town. Try as you might, you can't get away from me, and you'll be seeing me for decades to come.

I'm the Givenchy-edition Lincoln Mark V that will be delivered to Mrs. Thomas during the party. She's going to be so surprised! How exciting! I've actually been in hiding at her sister's house for a month because Mrs. Thomas wants to make a splash at the party (that's a nicer way of saying that she wants all eyes on her for once, not you skinny cunts with the speed habits). Mr. Thomas has learned that hard way that it's best to just go along with her schemes.

Truth be told, she doesn't even like me. She had her heart set on the blue Bill Blass but felt she had to get me because I'll look more Christmasy in the giant red bow.

I'm the half-eaten Creme de Menthe torte and petit fours from the Swiss Colony catalog. For years the children of the house drooled over pictures of me in the Christmas catalog and begged Mom to order from it, until finally she relented. I am dissapointingly dry and tasteless, and a childhood dream is dead forever.

Lorraine, what the hell is Bing Crosby doing on TV with that limey fairy? I thought he had standards.

I'm the shrink-wrapped, bright red Panasonic Toot-a-Loop transistor radio Bobby finds under his parents' bed while snooping for his Christmas presents as the adults party downstairs. His delight is short-lived, however, because his tattletale sister, Susie, catches him snooping and promises her silence only if Bobby does all of her chores between now and Christmas.

I'm redneck Uncle Fred and I love CB radio. My handle is Ballin Bonzo. I drove like bear bait ta git here today, had ta back off the hammer when I seen a county mounty on the Big Road. Gonna hafta take the granny lane on the flip flop sose I don't git tagged by smokey agin.

Aunt Patty reminds everyone I live on Long Island and take the train to work every day.

I am the December editions of Family Circle, Women's Day, Better Homes and Gardens and Good Housekeeping that Mom kept referencing for cookie recipes but she gave up realizing just bland sugar cookies were easier.

I'm the exploded shaving cream can of the Schick Hot Lather Machine hidden with the rest of the presents in the attic.

I'm Christmas Eve on Sesame Street. I'm entertaining the younger kids in the basement rec room, but 11 yr old Brandon is pissed he's missing Eight is Enough. There's something about that Grant Goodeve that gives him funny feelings in his stomach. Especially when he's shirtless.

R384, I am still laughing from your post. This thread is wonderful- let's keep the party going!

I am the foil and cellophane strawberry candies that came with R384's Swiss Colony gift box. They look absolutely delicious, but have little flavor and a terrible, mushy center.

I'm the Peter Lemongello Love 76 album on the hifi who Uncle Prescott says is the next Sinatra.

I am the Taylor & Ng wok. I will impress the new owner. I won't be used much, and will end up in the yard sale. Accompanying me is the small The Wok cookbook by Nitty Gritty Productions. I have crappy line drawings and brownish pages. The tan tone pages are supposed to be more natural. This is big in the 70s.

I'm the King Family Christmas Special:

I am the tissue rolled used Modess, on top of the commode. When jr, tells his daddy, it smells funny, he'll laugh and say You'll get used to it.

No he doesn't

We're the viewers who wonder if the King Family ever did anything in show business other than Christmas specials.

We're the grandparents who tuned in to the Bing Crosby Christmas Special in the den, and we're wondering who in tarnation is this fellow.

It's getting late in the party. I'm the Hoppity Hop, which for some reason was left in the pantry. I'm wondering which of the drunk men will be the one to bounce around on me. We of course will provide uproarious laughter for the other party guests, until the moment when we knock the Christmas tree over, and three women rush to upright it and restore the decorations.

I'm Mitchell , the hunk on the far left from R344. People at the party think I 'm a legitimate print and catalog model which I am.... but what they DON"T know is that I have a slightly gamier side.

I also moonlight as a nude model, featured in many gay magazines and publications, my most recognizable nom de guerre being "Paul Andros" for Colt Studios and "David Peters" for Playgirl. I've even done a few gay porn movies too, but only in solo jackoff scenes. I'm not a fag, you know.

Here's a sample from my portfolio....just don't spread it around.

I'm the little boy stating out loud that the King children in this Christmas drivel on the television are false, forced and saccharine. Grandmother whispers "Hush."

I find my compatriots all gathered together decades later on a website called "Datalounge".

Mitchell here again.

I MEANT to say I'm from R334.

I'm "Twister." The confirmed bachelor uncle insists that they play in two teams -- boys against the girls. It won't be until 1991 when some people, reminiscing about those past parties, suddenly realize what the confirmed bachelor uncle was really up to.

Of course we're confirmed, we're Catholic.

I'm Merlin, being passed around from one set of grubby hands to another, as the kids play Echo and Tic-Tac-Toe on me.

I'm the Alice In Wonderland blacklight poster one of the guests brought for the yankee swap. The Johnsons' giggly boy is particularly persistent about keeping me, which alarms his father greatly.

For some strange reason, weird lighting and garish colors are all the rage with these nutty kids -- he knows that -- but Alice in Wonderland is a girls' story, and there's something very, very wrong with a boy caring about colors. Mr. Johnson will keep his eyes peeled for further signs of...

I'm the name that really describes "Twister"...Socially Sanctioned Dry Humping.

I am the bottle of Charlie perfume that I am SO going to get in my stocking.

I'm the excitement, wonder and awe that the 5 year old gayling feels as he overhears the grown-ups talking around the fireplace about how that glamorous lady from the Charlie commercial will soon be joining 'Charlie's Angels'. It truly is a Very, Merry Christmas.

I am the colors avocado green and redwood brown. These are everywhere this decade. So are bell bottom jeans.

We're the colors red, green, and gold. We're the ONLY colors allowed for your Christmas decorations, none of that blue, pink, or purple shit!

Blow us, red, green and gold!

[post redacted because linking to dailymail.co.uk clearly indicates that the poster is either a troll or an idiot (probably both, honestly.) Our advice is that you just ignore this poster but whatever you do, don't click on any link to this putrid rag.]

"All I do is sit by the fire and knit."

And knit and knit and knit, from the look of it, Bryce.

I'm the hip girlfriend of your widowed Great Uncle, both of us always dressed for a Florida style Luau even in the dead of winter up North. I will be wearing an Anne Margaret flip, coral lipstick and aqua eye-shadow for the next 40 years because I "got my colors done" and the Suzanne Caygill consultant/Avon Rep said I was a "Dynamic Spring". My sweater is covered in palm trees and hibiscus.

To add a dose of Florida sunshine to the party, I've brought my famous marshmallow fluff and mandarin ambrosia mold aspic and I'm one of the first in the group to get my hands on a "Carpenters Christmas Portrait" album because your Uncle and I know some big cats in the business and we meet up at least once a year in Vegas to dish about what's new and play our luck together (nothing scandalous!).

To be fair, Mitchell, I also crochet.

I'm intrigued, Bryce. May I examine your piece at R421 more closely? The CROCHETED piece, silly!

Just so that I can learn how to make one for myself, mind you.

We're the bad boys outdoors unscrewing the C9 Christmas light bulbs without you knowing, so that we can throw them on the ground to hear the tiny explosion.

It's 11:30 everyone! On a Saturday! You know what that means. The party stops so that we can all watch Saturday Night Live!

I'm Big Wheel, hiding in the garage behind the lawnmower. I will be decked out with a red ribbon and presented to four year old Jr on Christmas Day.m

Instead of being ridden along endless sidewalks as portrayed in the commercial, I will be ridden down the driveway and into the trafficked street. Oops, we forgot we don't have sidewalks in our working class development

The party's back on for the Midnight Special afterwards, r424! Booze and weed will prevail, since the old folks have either already left, or gone to bed.

(Wow, I loved The Midnight Special! And "In Concert," which aired at the same time on another channel.)

Did anyone ever see me? I am the gold drink fountain brought out for every big party in this NJ Italian household since the late 60's. I will be a huge hit with party guests for the next 50 years and somehow never need to be fixed. My red light on my bottom is the cherry on top of my tackiness but it also makes me very festive for the holidays. I look just like this sans flowers and rope edge trim...

I'm the birdlike yet oddly sexy widow, Mrs. Emerson. The doctor says I've got what's called a "brittle constitution." I don't know what that means but I do know those eye-tailians down the block have been inviting me to their Christmas party for years and I've always managed to come up with a good excuse. This year I decided to throw caution to the wind and find out once and for all what goes in this papist lair. They keep offering me a red drink from their sacrificial font, but I won't take the bait and they can't make me. It's blood! BLOOD, I tell you!

When they all go back into the kitchen to scream at each other about draining vs. not, I'm going to dip the corner of my handkerchief in it and call the police as soon as I get home. I'm going to put an end to this wicked Mary-worshiping once and for all! Right on my block! Can you believe it?

We are bubble lights. We are a fire hazard.

We're Grandma Clora, daughter Glorette, and Auntie Lorlean, who are already half-drunk from Grandma Clora's Southern Comfort eggnog. Granddaughter Candice is hiding her face in this picture, but will eventually flash her tits in another.

I am the fabulous Mr. Cecil, costume designer and director of the community theatre productions.

I spend my time with Gloria @ R420. I read that she has more money than taste, and I offer my services to her as a "lifestyle consultant". I will advise her on clothing, hair, decor, art, music, entertaining and miscellany. She and her "boyfriend" haven't gotten into cocaine yet, so will spend their new, mysteriously obtained money on whatever I say is correct. Truman Capote is my model, though I am not a tiny troll.

My goal, and I will reach it, is to retire in Palm Beach with a rotating cast of cabana boys. I will pass away from AIDS in 1990, and will be mourned extensively, though I was abandoned at the end.

I am the enormous spider plant and piggy back plant in the kitchen. We are very popular this decade. So, too, is sprouting an avocado pit.

I'm "Don Kirschner's Rock Concert", and I suspect r426 has had a little too much of the booze and weed, or else he'd know it was I, and not Midnight Special, that followed "NBC's 'Saturday Night'" at 1:00am!

"Midnight Special" and "In Concert" both aired on Friday nights. "In Concert" on ABC and "Midnight Special" on NBC, right after Johnny Carson's show ended. (Carson did a 90-minute show in those days.) We had to choose which one; my sister favored "In Concert" because it was more like a real rock concert, while I liked "Midnight Special" which was more of a TV production. It came down to which acts were on which show.

I am the cloud of Jovan's Musk Oil wafting from most of the teenage girls' cowl neck sweaters.

I am the scent of Wind Song, permeating from every pair of ladies panties in the room.

I got your Wind Song right here!

Pull my finger!

I am the amber colored glassware on the dining table. The everyday glasses are green with a bamboo pattern or smokey brown and in a modern shape. The folks down the road have the real elegant pattern with the metallic gold swirls.

The glassware pattern is the Prado pattern. It is very faux Spanish, and goes with the wood paneling and dark finish furniture.

We are the unhappy couple who got here late. We didn't plan on being low on gas, due to gas rationing. We couldn't remember if it was a day we could fill up or not,so we rode our bikes.

We're the kids all in our sleeping bags in the same room with the Christmas tree, and we can't stop giggling.

We'll fall asleep before Santa arrives, so we'll always wonder who actually ate the milk and cookies.

But we'll wake up astonished at the array of gifts that appeared and the stockings filled while we were konked out.

I'm the beer cheese with bits of rye bread. I'm on half of the mustachioed men at the party but our wives think that's hot.

I'm Preston, drunk again on the floor, as mamaw and my aunties lovingly ignore me while they continue on with their conversation. They disapprove, of course, but they've seen this same type of behavior from papaw and their husbands for the past forty or so years, and they also know that I'm a sweet guy when I'm sober.

I'm the Confederate flag plate hanging on the wall looking down on drunken Preston.

When Mamaw dies, the aunties get into a nasty quarrel over who gets me. When Preston shyly and tearfully says that I am the only memento of Mamaw that he wants, the aunties are shamed and humbled.

I have an honored place on the wall above Preston's kitchen table, not because of my imagery but because I was Mamaw's.

On Mamaw's birthday and Christmas, Preston raises a glass to me and toasts her.

I'm the bottle of Cold Duck and the quarts of Schlitz.

I'm the cubes of cheese and pineapple on cocktail sticks stuck into a half grapefruit covered in aluminum foil. I sit beside the crackers covered in cheez whiz with a jaunty half an olive artistically placed on top. You'll be seeing us again around 4am.

I've heard that if this thread reaches 600 a portal to the eighties Christmas party will open. I've been studying The Eyes Have It in preparation.

I'm the attractively packaged gift set of English Leather that you bought at your local drugstore. Your dad will be unsure why there are two bottles in this set and use most of just one. The other will meet its demise when it hits the tile floor in the bathroom. The box, though. The box will live on for years as a great receptacle for tie tacks, cuff links, breath mints and spare change.

Donna Mills you were already 60 years old in the 70's! You do look amazing!

I'm the ultra cool teen who never watches Midnight Special, In Concert or Don Kirschner because none of the great rock acts ever appear on them. The groups that do appear on them will be studio musicians and country music musicians in twenty years, railing about liberals and big government .

WHY, WHYYYYY has this thread died?

I'm the men's underwear section of the Sears Christmas catalog. I am the fodder for many a gayling's wet dreams.

[post redacted because independent.co.uk thinks that links to their ridiculous rag are a bad thing. Somebody might want to tell them how the internet works. Or not. We don't really care. They do suck though. Our advice is that you should not click on the link and whatever you do, don't read their truly terrible articles.]

I was the kindergarten-aged utter cunt of a future DL'er who offered a sullen "thank you" after being given a large hollow Santa by one of the guests. Next, I dramatically crushed its stomach in front of the gift-giver and walked over to the trash with it, dropped it in and even-more-dramatically brushed my hands off and flounced out of the room to await The Talk and the apology I'd be forced to give in front of the whole party.

The apology went something like, "I'm sorry that I crushed your Santa. I know that I was very rude and bad, but hollow chocolate tastes cheap. It isn't the same. It just isn't."

Years later, my mother would tell me that my performance at the trash can was when she first suspected I was gay....and an utter cunt.

I am the mushroom vol-au-vent. Without me, there is no party.

I'll bring the enema bag!

I'm the "str8" gym teacher who would love to have r457 use his enema bag on me.

I'm 20yr old Candy. I've been waiting 3 days for my parent's party to start. I don't care about the party but I need the house to be loud and my parents busy, so when I call my boyfriend from the den no one will be able to overhear my phone call or pick up the extension. Three days ago I worked out I was pregnant and I'm going to have to marry that dumb bag of rocks I'm dating. Sure he's hot, but I don't want to be his wife! There may be protests about women's right to abortion all over the country, but this is suburbia. Who do I ask? I don't know if I can trust our family doctor with this information or where I can go to get one or if it's too late. If anyone finds out about this I'll be considered the family shame and used goods, then no one will ever marry me. Meanwhile my boyfriend will dump me and go on to marry some boring virgin. Shit, shit, shit, Im going to have to drop out of college and marry that moron before I start to show. I can't be a single mother, Ill be ostracised. I better lock the door before Aunt Elsie opens the door and asks why I'm crying.

I'm the tupperware waiting for all the leftovers.

I'm Phil,hostess Marie's bored husband, furtively eyeing the friends of our daughter Monica and vicariously riding along with my brother-in-law Jerry, the Pan Am pilot and his copilot Frank and their colleague at R157. Jerry flew the new jet fighters in Korea--well, the were new then. Got a Distinguished Service medal and some other nice ribbons from thr Navy. He has a bachelor nest in the hills above San Diego, got a wet bar, pool, hot tub. Not a frilly curtain or feminine touch in the place. It's Poon Central for him and Frank between flights. None of those guys are married, well, What's his name is divorced. Marie and me visited once and I was pea green with envy and she could see it. We had a big fight later. Shit, I love the woman and all, but man I wish I'd met her ten years later, got a chance to see the world and sow some oats. All I ever saw was Fort Sill OK--woo hoo! Sometimes I wonder if Jerry is a fruit. Not seriously though. The man is pushing fifty and I've never seen him with the same gal twice. But come on. He was a war hero. Still, him and Frank sure are tight....nah. Later tonight long after Marie and the kids are in bed I'll sit in the living room and look at the tree and finish the Blue Nun, filled with melancholy that life has passed me by. Ten years from now, when Jerrys dead and leaves Frank everything, I'll be crushed about not getting that house in San Diego. I'll refer to Jerry as a fruit and Marie and me will have one of the worst fights of ou r marriage. I wanted her to contest the will, we're FAMILY, dammit. Frank is just some guy he worked with. Marie wont see her brother's name dragged through the mud so that's the end of it. We could never have afforded the taxes anyway.

R461 = thread killer

I'm Captain Gerald Harrison, the hostess's brother. I only see Marie and the kids every other year or so. I hate affairs like this, even more since Ed Strong, who's divorced and working Christmas attached himself like glue to Frank and me and I felt like I couldn't say no. Now he's three sheets to the wind so i'll have to pour coffee down his throat and get him to the airport for the Chicago flight. Old Ed sure fucked up his life for that girl in Honolulu, Jennifer or whatever her name is. Frank and I would never be that stupid. We dont have that luxury. Still, I've known Ed since Okinawa, so what can you do? This is going to cause major stress with Frank. I'm careful not to look at him too long when we're out in public, give something away. Major service and repair later, though, I don't need to look at him to know that. We're going to argue and I hate when this thing spoils the times when we're alone together. I don't want to have this argument again. I know the world is changing but not our world. We're pilots, not hairdressers. All I want to do is make my retirement and we can be together all the time, get a house on the Big Island, plenty of space, no neighbors to mind what's not their business. Whatever he wants. Ten more years. That's all.

[quote] protests about women's right to abortion all over the country, but this is suburbia. Who do I ask?

Every suburban teen girl knew she could ask Planned Parenthood. Only girls who wanted a baby pulled that "I didn't know how to!" crap

I'm First Mate Frank Tobin. That used to be a joke with Jerry and me in the early days. Still is, sometimes, but those times are getting further and fewer in between. Back in '63, I was fresh out of the Air Force and I remember like it was last week when I was assigned to work with Captain Harrison. I was like a goony- eyed schoolboy around him. I couldn't believe the dashing war hero could be like me...or like me. It was easy to hide in plain sight back then, pretend we had a girl in every port. But Mr and Mrs Joe Schmo got a lot more perceptive, and we started to have to engage in diversionary tactics. Like this party--I sure as hell hope Marie's drunk neighbor doesn't get more aggressive and I ll have to drive her home and fend off her advances politely enough she doesnt get pissed off. Not that it probably matters, Jerrys old war buddy glommed on to him on the flight over and he'll probably be wrangling him for the next 3 hours. There's a room at the airport Holiday Inn waiting for us---never thought it would come to that, dreaming of a few hours in a sterile motel on Christmas Eve. This can't go on like this. It's not 1964 anymore. There are places we can go where we dont have to sneak around like secret agents. The money's not worth it. He's always resisted this conversation but I can see how it's wearing him out. He just opened a fresh pack of Camels. Second one today. Or is it the third.

I'm Jerry, named for my uncle the pilot, the only glamorous relative in a family of TV repairmen and math teachers. I can't wait to graduate and join the the Navy so I can be just like Uncle Jerry. I've only met him about a dozen times but something about him makes me want to impress him. My dad and me barely manage 2 sentences before we run out of stuff to talk about. I only met Frank once before this when I was about 5, but I can definitely sense ...something between them. My nascent gaydar is already strong. I never get a chance to get closer to my uncle. He'll be diagnosed with lung cancer about when I'm starting ROTC. Only my mom visits him out there and she's the only one who goes to his funeral. When I bring up the subject she's surprised and says she never thought I'd care as I was never close to Uncle Jerry and I wouldn't have wanted to see him like that. Same thing that killed her older brother and father. She became a fanatical antismoker after Jerry died. Years later I asked about Frank and she said she had no idea what happened to him. He got the house in the will but when she went to California to visit Jerry's grave, she drove by and it had been sold, the yard full of plastic kids' playground stuff. She wasn't even sure where Frank was from, somewhere in the Midwest. Or was it the South? Yes , the South. Georgia. Or maybe Alabama. Years later, after the folks were gone, I'll spend hours online filling in the blanks, and track down Frank to the Big Island of Hawaii. He was 26 in 1963, so he would have been born in 1937, putting him in his late 70s. Average life expectancy for a man is 80s, so I'll be crushed to find Frank Tobin is long dead, died just before Christmas true in 2001, having outlived my Uncle Jerry by less than 15 years. He was only 64 when he died of a stroke. I'm surprised at how grief stricken I am by this, antd how it haunts me for the better part of a year.

True story, names and locations and some identifying details altered.

Merry Christmas, Uncle Jerry and Uncle Frank.

r459, r461, et al --

tl;dr

Back on topic:

I am the dip made from Kraft cheese out of a glass jar. I am made only at holiday time, when it is the only time I am available in the supermarket. To the suburban masses in Flyovia, I seem so....elegant and sophisticated.

I am the sweet and sour meatballs. I have been cooking all day in the crock pot. I will be served next to the Lipton's onion soup mix dip and Ritz crackers. The crackers will accompany that cheese spread mentioned in the previous response.

[quote] WHY, WHYYYYY has this thread died?

It was overwhelmed by the combined smell of polyester, lead fumes, and malaise.

R470, let's not forget the food additives and all that sugar. Cigarette smoke, too, played a role. And who can forget all that damn avocado and burnt orange. And the wood paneling. And the faux Mediterranean furniture and decor. And the terrible Asian-inspired decor, only back then they called it Oriental. And all those casseroles made with canned soup.

I am the demented, over-the-top, largely unloved 1978 couture outfit worn by Janis, the rich old dude's wife, who believed she would be attending a far more formal and exciting party.

Janis is 40-something, at least 15 years younger than her hubby. She's from "the city" (ie, NYC) where she was a model/actress/also ran. Janis is actually pretty smart. And so tall! And profoundly disappointed that hubby has settled here in Dogpatch, and not the UES, as she had hoped.

Doesn't she seem a little bit... bitchy? Other wives are a bit... tut-tut.

Her outfit is off-putting to most partygoers: not explicitly sexy, not disco, not beaded, sequined, or skin-tight; however, within minutes, she is holding court among a group of local "bachelors": the grammar school music teacher, the ballet school instructor, and that funny,;loud, fat florist and his "good friend."

"Stewart" at r334 went on to host "Press Your Luck."

I'm the old Kelvinator on the back porch. I'm the beer fridge now but the red dot in my knight's helmet still burns brightly.

A lot of things have happened on that back porch. A lot of slap and tickle, by both sexes.

I'm the elegant Bicentennial themed wallpaper awaiting my melted popcorn plastic wreath decoration! Maybe tonight after the nightcap!

R475

If I WW year-old posts, will the recipients know?

R477 I hope so. When those with first hand experience of 70's fondue pots die out, it will be loss.

Wow, this thread brings up so many memories of my parents entertaining at Christmas. The cheese ball with nuts, ribbon candy, poinsettia napkins. No key parties however.

R472, I see you knew my Aunt Glenda. She was a soloist with a city ballet for 20 years.

[quote]It was overwhelmed by the combined smell of polyester, lead fumes, and malaise.

And the drugs. Mustn't forget the drugs.

[quote]I'm the bookcase proudly displaying the Betamax collection of Time-Life distributed Ed Sullivan Shows and Perry Como Christmas Specials.

No, hon -- that didn't happen until the '80s.

I'm the 99¢ bottles of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill Wine hidden in the basement by the teenage son for the special party in the basement for the children of the party attendees.

[quote]I'm Jim Jones, I just opened a new Church in an abandoned storefront intown. I wonder if any of these bozos want to go to Uganda? We'll have some killer punch.

UGANDA?

I'm your ugly 14 year old cousin Jacqui who wears so much blue eye shadow, you can see my eyelids from 10 feet away.

I have a big crush on my older cousin Pete---who is a husky blond and is drinking a beer, staring moodily at everyone. Such a rebel!

I am wearing my Eau de Love that my mom gave me for Christmas. I put some on ---not only on my wrists but also my cleavage! Oh Pete! Can you smell me now! I will make everything all right!

I'm the green (not recycled but literally green) toilet paper, as close as Mom could find to a festive Christmas color for seasonal ass-wiping.

I am the novelization of Paddy Chayefsky's screenplay for "Network", placed, along with several water-damaged issues of Reader's Digest, in a wicker floor basket across from the toilet as optional bathroom reading.

Bumping one of the funniest Christmas threads of all time!

"You're All I Want For Christmas" and "The Little Drummer Boy" by the Salsoul Orchestra are on the December 1998 Gap In-Store Playlist!

#GiveGap

#EveryGiftOnlyGap

We're Bing Crosby and Guy Lombardo. We both died in 1977, taking old-fashioned notions of Christmas and New Year's Eve celebrations with us. It was fun while it lasted.

I'm Swedish Meatballs.