Party Marty is a true friend, and a true American hero. I used to call his old roommate Sterl the Pearl “the all-American badass,” but looking back, I see that it is Marty who was the all-American badass.
Party Marty was born in Virginia somewhere, to some people I don’t really know. When Marty was about 20 or 21, he had a little kid named Mikey. The line goes on, congratulations Marty. Mikey, by the way, became one of the roundest people I have ever met. A man named Jerm the Worm once said, “Wow, he’s beautiful, like a whale,” while watching Mikey swim. Mikey could swim pretty good, considering how big and worthless he was.
Party Marty was in his mid-30’s when I moved in next door to him, in the garden of delight known as Lawson Apartments. Marty had lived there for 10 years. At first, I didn’t like him at all, because he was uncouth and rough. I had not yet fully developed as a young savage, and his raw power was kind of scary. OR, should I say, the raw power of the mongoloid retard known as Sky who used to hang with Marty. Marty was somewhat of a scraggler, and his apartment became a refuse of refuse, a melting pot of scum and degeneracy, and any other fuckwit who needed to bum a 5 spot of some buddha. Marty was there for you.
As time went on, Marty and I became close friends, and our two parties melded into one, huge ridiculous ball of retarded savagery, which led to many bad, bad things. Book burns, binges, fucking crazy shit, we all got down.
This post is not a tale; it is merely a placard, a notification of savagery.
Party Marty will probably never read this post, but I dedicate it solely to him and in his honor. His great-great grandfather fought on the Confederate side of the Civil War (just like mine did), and he painted a picture of a battle he had fought in, complete with chopped-off limbs, blood, people riding around on horses, and guys in blue and grey with beards and swords.
Marty hung that picture up in his living room, and would always point to it and say, “My great grandpappy was a baaaad motherfucker!” or some other shit, and then try to get us to play guitar, or pack a bowl.
Party Marty, I salute you, and thank you for the badass shit you taught me how to do. If more Americans were like you, we would be a more badass country in a lot of different ways.