The Alphabet Party
by Jace Daniel (b. 1969)
Once upon a time there was the letter A. Abiding alone in an apartment ample enough to accommodate his abundant arrays of attractive artifacts, he aspired to arrange an assembly for amusement and sent out an abbreviated email of acronyms to allure all his acquaintances:
Party at my place tomorrow night. TGIF.
BTW, RSVP ASAP. KIT.
GTG, BRB, TTYL, TTFN.
Awaking in the A.M., A arose in anticipation to adjust his appealing abode for the affair. As an accomplished afficionado of asparagus and artichoke appetizers, he artfully adorned his activity area with ambrosial aliments after attacking an army of ants. At about dusk, his guests began to arrive.
The first guest to show up was B, A’s best buddy and bona fide bouncer from Brooklyn. “Aloha,” addressed A.
“Backatcha, bro,” bellowed B, boasting a six pack of beer and a bottle of champagne. “Brought brew and bubbly.”
“Appreciate it,” A acknowledged.
In came C, A’s Cambodian Catholic cousin and croquet coach. Clever, content, and conspicuously chipper, C was comparable to a cheery cherub cloaked in camouflage. A chef and connossieur of cuisine, he carried a crate of chocolate chip cookies, Chinese chicken, and a curried clam concoction, complemented by cans of cinnamon citrus cider and cocktails.
“Contributions for the celebration,” claimed C, casting his Chevron cap in the corner.
“Awesome,” answered A. “All good?”
“Can’t complain,” chimed C.
A delightfully democratic developer of delicious donuts dove through the door. “Dudes!” he declared directly.
“All,” dictated A, “This is D. He lives down the drive.”
“Cool,” claimed C, cross-examining. “Career copasetic?”
“Day by day,” disclosed D. “Do disregard that I’ve been dabbling in Danish distractions for decades. Now I’m delving into dispicably dishonest deeds done dirtier than the devil.”
“Bastard,” blubbered B as another guest emerged.
“At last,” articulated A expressively. “Everyone, enter E. The evening’s entertainment.”
After the ensuing exchanges, E, an emotionally eradicated engineer from Ethiopia, eventually exited to the kitchen, escaping everyone to experience the enjoyment of eating every entree else evade energetic euphoria.
In flew F, a freeloading frog-legged Filipino fisherman from Florida. With a funky forehead and fat forearms, he frankly flaunted a fondness for full-blown festivities.
“There’s F,” announced A, almost affectionately. “Actually arrived!”
“Fuckin’ A!” flourished F.
Then the oddest of couples came through the door: G, a gullible German geographer gone giddy with glee, with his girlfriend, H, a hot hula hoedowner from Hawaii.
“Howdy!” H hailed, offering handshakes and high fives. “Hello!”
“Aloha,” acclaimed A.
“Howzit!” heralded H honestly.
“Buenos noches,” beckoned B.
“Hola!” howled H.
“Cheers,” chanted C.
“Ha!,” hollered H. “Hip, hip, hooray!”
“Great,” guffawed G gregariously, greeting the guys and girls.
In walked I, an Icelander illustrating an interesting and inspiring imitation of an irritatingly irate Irishman. “Idiots!” he insulted.
A jubilant jive-speaking Japanese Jehovah’s Witness jacked back. “Jerk.”
“Ignorant imbecile!” invoked I.
“Jo mama,” J justified in jest. “I be a jolly judo instructor from Jerusalem. And all that jazz. No joke.”
E walked up with a platter of snacks, attempting to cool the situation off. “Eggplant?” E offered enthusiastically.
“Colossally considerate!” chatted C, consuming eleven expeditiously.
“Easy!” exhorted E, eating equally enough.
I immediately interfered, incriminating, “Incompetent individual! I before E.”
“Except after C,” countered C cockily.
Chewing conditionally, C carried the chow to I.
“Ick!” insulted I. “Inadequate.”
J jumped in joyfully. “Jalapeños!”
In walked K, an know-it-all keeper of kaleidoscopes from Kuwait, with his landlady L, a luciously loud lollipop-licking liaison from Lithuania.
“Little late, love,” leaked L.
“Keep it kind-hearted, kid,” laughed K.
In walk M, N, O, P, and Q, five middle-aged single letters on the prowl for action.
“Mama mia!” marveled M, the mature mistress of metaphysical musings. “What a monsterly massive mob! My moment to mingle!”
“Nonsense,” negated N nymphomaniacally, nearly nicking her nail on a nice Nagel. “Nearly not ’nuff.”
“Objection,” opposed O, an obese oceanographer and overly-ordinary optimist. “Opportunities. Options.”
P, a pompously provocative Polynesian pixie in permed pigtails and a purple pullover, praised in parallel. “Phenomenal possibilities.”
Q quaked in a quiet quandary. No quarrel, no quibble, no quip.
“Righteous!” roared R, recklessly rumbling into the room like a random runaway railroad rig, reaching P. “Rendezvous?”
“Preposterous plan,” perceived P purposefully.
“Rejected!” rooted R.
His sidekick S, a sassy snakelike Swiss swinger from the South sporting sixty-seven Sterling silver stickpins in his Stetson, smirked. “Shunned,” he snickered, smiling. “So sad.”
Then and there trekked a tall and talkative theologian from Tibet toting tremendously tactless things of taboo. Tools of the trade.
“Illegal intentions!” invoked I. “Inform the inspectors!”
“Chill,” consented C. “Calm down and condone.”
“Flex your freedom,” fortified F.
“Granted,” giggled G. “Give the guy grace.”
“Tattletale!”, taunted T truthfully, turning to the tyrant. “Try tolerance. Tell that to thy trooper, twit!”
“Absolve,” advised A, admirably amending the altercation, adding, “Accept, admit, approve, and authorize. Admonish abominable abuse at most.”
“Hear hear,” harked H happily.
“Everybody endure,” echoed E.
“Oh, oodles,” observed O. “Are those Oreos?”
K and G each remained silent, which is something they’d do from time to time.
U, an understandably upbeat umpire from the unit upstairs, entered the party unpunctually with his two lady friends, V and W.
Q, on a quest, quoted quirkily, “I need you.”
“Unlikely,” uttered U uncertainly, veering to V and winking at W, “Unlimited underminings.”
“Vodka?” voiced V vivaciously.
“Wine?” wailed W.
“Unsure,” undertoned U.
In walked X, an extravagant xylophone-playing Xerox expert from Xanadu, and his ex-wife Y, a young yodeler from Yugoslavia.
“This is the spot,” exclaimed X.
“Yep,” yelped Y.
“Y, you’re here!” applauded A, appropriately astonished. “Accompanied by?”
“X,” explained X, extending his hand excitedly.
“Exactly,” yelled Y. “My extroverted ex-husband. The exploiter of Xanax.”
“Aha,” apologized A, attentively aware. “And where’s your new boyfriend, if I may ask? The zealot of zebras I met at the zoo?”
“You mean Z, the zesty zoologist from Zimbabwe,” yodeled Y.
“Affirmative,” asserted A.
Y yawned. “He’s sleeping.”