The Origins of Party Pooping
October 01, 2008
While sitting at work the other day, I overheard a coworker say, “Don’t be a party pooper,” to another coworker. It’s a common phrase that most people hear every now and again, mostly in the context of describing someone who spoils the social enjoyment of others, typically by being gloomy. That may not be the Webster’s definition of it, but most people should understand what a “party pooper” is and what they can mean for a party.
Although it’s common, it’s still a strange title to give to someone. Hearing it is enough to evoke some strange mental images (as well as a few giggles because, c’mon… it has the word poop in it). Other strange sayings and phrases came from somewhere. Like pulling an “upset”, or being “saved by the bell” (which is surprisingly not related to the awesome show from the early 90’s). How did “party pooper” become so common? There must be an origin story. Lucky for you, I think I have found it…
In the late 18th century, a decade or so before America declared independence from England, French aristocrats seemed to be living the high life. The rich, French men who dressed just as flamboyantly as they acted, loved a good party almost as much as Bluto in animal house. One such Frenchman named René Depardieu (who may or not be related to one of the greatest actors of our time, Gérard) couldn’t party hard enough. Much to the dismay of his relatives and guests, while throwing parties he would become epically intoxicated, and in true sitcom fashion, hilarity ensued. It wasn’t long before his shenanigans went from fun and cheeky to pathetic and cruel, and he was deported for pinching King Louis XVI’s wife’s butt at a shin dig at the palace (ahem... Marie Antoinette). René soon found himself in the American colonies continuing his gonzo lifestyle.
Skipping ahead a couple years, René found his way into Raleigh, North Carolina high society. While he was still considered strange, many people chalked it up to him being French and a little eccentric, and nothing more. That is until one night at a gathering at a rich man’s plantation just outside of Raleigh…
Wealthy people from all over North Carolina had gathered for a night of socializing. It was even rumored that Ben Franklin was there. René, exhilarated at the prospect of a full on, decked out party, couldn’t express his excitement through any other means than by drinking, what some people claim, was a half a barrel of wine. Since he drank it so fast, he was able to socialize for a couple of minutes making his way to the middle of the party with everyone being none-the-wiser of the ticking time bomb within his stomach. Then, it hit him… and moments later it hit everyone else. Not only was René spouting French obscenities at the top of his lungs, but he had shit himself and the middle of the floor. The crowd dispersed faster than a high school party being busted by the cops.
The details are very sparse, but the story grew and became a legend. At social gatherings, if someone was ruining a good time, they were called a René Depardieu and a “party pooper.” Shortly after, the story and the name faded, but the saying stuck. It is even believed that the famous, cartoon skunk, Pepé Le Pew was based off René (sounds pretty similar, right?), and that the term “doo-doo” was derived from Depardieu in some fashion. He also didn’t help quell the stereotype of the rude, smelly frenchman either.
Sounds crazy right? If you don’t believe me, you can look it up here. Just Remember, the next time someone tries to call you a “party pooper,” they really are comparing you to a loud, fat, drunk, obnoxious French guy that shat himself in the late 18th Century.
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Back to the Present
September 09, 2008
I was sitting at my desk at work today starting to write an email, when all of a sudden I felt my phone vibrate. As I am use to this feeling, I decided to wait a couple seconds to see if the phone vibrations were caused by a text or by a phone call. Since, the vibration lasted longer than the typical, short, pulsing vibrations reserved for phone calls, I knew it was a text. What I didn’t know, nor would I be able to guess, was who the text would be from…
I swiftly picked up my phone, anxious to find out who the text could be from. As I opened my phone, my excitement quickly faded into disappointment. There was no name, appearing instead was phone number. New numbers are never a good sign. Upon closer inspection however, it wasn’t a new number at all. In fact, it was a number I was only too familiar with… for it was my phone number. Disappointment soon turned into discombobulation.
“How could I text myself?” I wondered. I didn’t remember sending myself a text earlier in the day. And to my knowledge, only one person has that phone number (myself).
My mind started racing. I could be sending myself a message from the future. What kind of message though? Could it be a warning of impending danger, or could it be guiding me to richest beyond my wildest dreams.
Wait a minute… maybe someone in the future grabbed my phone and is trying to get to me in the past. They could be leading me into a trap by giving me the wrong information. Also, if it is me, how can I be sure I trust myself? Of course I trust myself now, but I don’t know who I’ll become in the future. But why would I want to hurt myself in the past? Wouldn’t that just hurt me in the future as well?
There was only one way to find out. I took a deep breath, exhaled, and was ready to accept any fate that befelled me by opening the message....
“FREE VZW Message: Your Pix Place account has been inactive for 170 days...”
Dammit, Verizon.
Guess I’ll go ahead and finish up that email.
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A Dozen Little Pieces
August 29, 2008
I started feeling emphatic.
My thoughts then were erratic.
Six cups of coffee or more
Down my mouth did I pour?
I realize now I’m an addict.
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Curse of the Round Lace
July 30, 2008
I have an arch-nemesis, and its name is the round lace. Like the Joker, it has no origin story, it just always was, and its sole purpose is to antagonize the hero (that being me of course). I walk to my office everyday from my parking spot, which is like four or five blocks, and it never fails… my shoes will always become untied. Not just once, but sometimes three times in a one way trip.
Growing up, I don’t ever remember having this problem. In fact, I never took the time to think about what was on my feet as long as I could get to one place from another without any hindrances. That is until I got my first round laces. Suddenly I become aware of my foot apparel. The flat lace, the linguini of the shoe lace world whose functionality was often overlooked had somehow become replaced. Sure, the round lace looks inviting. I mean, look how easily and seamlessly it fits in between the holes of your shoes. Don’t let the beautiful physic of the round lace fool you though. Like the hot girl in your business 101 group project, she’ll fail to perform her function and you’ll be stuck doing extra work.
Please bring back the flat laces. Pretty soon the day will come when I’ll trip on my laces as I’m being chased by the monsters in the basement that only come out as you turn off the lights and are running up the stairs (as we all know). And then, my friends will be left standing over my grave, in agreement stating, “If only flat laces were still the standard for shoes, Dave might still be with us today.”
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