Let's be an elite cocktail party

I'm rumaki.

I'm the elite DC cocktail party in the year 2000. Guest list includes:

John Edwards

Harry Reid

Gregory Peck

Condoleezza Rice

Van Cliburn

Vernon Jordan

I'm the showtunes being sung around the piano after dinner

I'm Alan Greenspan and Andrea Mitchell

I'm pretending I actually know what goes on at an elite cocktail party.

I'm the Dynasty dvd that taught me all about elite cocktail parties.

I am the air of superiority.

I'm John Kerry

I am the initialed paper hand towels in the powder room. I’m here in hopes guests won’t use the also-initialed real towels hanging around just for decoration.

I'm the idea monogrammed towels are anything other than manufactured for climbers and hotels.

I'm Molly Shannon

I'm Christopher Plummer

I'm smoked fish.

I'm the cocktail weenies, simmering in my mini crock pot, made with genuine Welch's Grape Jelly.

I'm the trophy wife getting fingered under the table by the host, her ambitious husband's boss. Husband told her not to wear any panties.

😝 I'm the large Waterford Crystal bowl of premium Squirrel Nut Mix, just waiting for the unwashed hands to dive right in.

Shh, don’t tell, but I’m the smoking. Yes, the elite like their cigarettes too.

I'm the fur coats flung over the bed

I'm the backed-up shitter

I’m the cocktail napkins with the host’s preferred candidate + 2024 printed on them. They’re telling you now so they don’t have to tell you later.

I’m the relief at finding out we won’t have to remove our shoes and leave them in the foyer. Major relief.

I’m the tisane!

I’m the male couple in coordinating opera pumps.

I’m mingling.

I am the cater-waiter who was briefly famous for a sex tape. Those who know are titillated.

I'm the farts the beleaguered wait staff supply to the appetizers in retaliation for being treated like shite

I’m the uncouth guest using the tidy buffet as my own personal trough

I’m the kelp in the caviar tableau.

I'm the social climbing. I'm rampant.

I'm the voice of Callas/Flagstad/Nilsson/Sutherland/Cabelle/Price on in the background despite me not knowing anything about opera.

That damn Condoleezza Rice won't leave me along about opera recordings.

I’m Patrick McMullan. Say cheese!

I'm the downtrodden waitress, crop-dusting these posh prats

I’m a little smokie. I am impaled on a red cellophane ruffled toothpick with a cube of cheddar cheese!

I’m the nicotine stained veneers exposed from the flashbulbs on the phony smile captured by the paparazzi!

I'm the social climber who thinks that "elite" needs to be used to describe a social situation to differentiate from trashy ones.

I'm the blow residue left on the toilet tank lid.

It’s the PEOPLE who make a cocktail party elite, not the canapés.

I'm the beautiful Gardenia floating in the toilet bowl because nothing says "Elite" more than pissing on a beautiful flower and then flushing it away.

I’m Somers Farkas’s clavicles on full display.

I’m the blowjob one of the cater-waiters receives in the bathroom from the hostess’s husband.

Molly Shannon?

I'm the persnickety gay. Sometimes there are more than one of us at the party, but I'm the most persnickety of them all. Which one am I? How can you tell? If you know, you know.

I’m the Poo-Pourri. The hostess hopes people make use of me.

I’m the black wait staff in a frilly apron and cap. You should see what the women are wearing!

I'm the gay co-host thanking goodness neither of the 2 other (straight) co-hosts invited any flaming, inappropriately dressed toots that would be an embarrassment to everyone else. I don't care how many homos show up, just no fucking circus clowns, please. Everyone knows this is effectively as much of a business event as it is social.

Later on that afternoon I'm also stuck needing to help remove a gate-crasher and handing them over to the police without anyone noticing, thanks to the extraordinary talents of the guy in charge of the shall we say 'perimeter'.

I’m the absence of Bill Cunningham

R46 wins. Hands down.

"I told you not to serve them two jiggers!"

I'm the girlfriends fake boobs