Balloons, Cake, and...Insults?

Last weekend, I attended back-to-back birthday parties. Normally, that's my idea of a perfect weekend: cake, games, cake, laughs, cake, presents, cake...well, you get the idea.
This time, however, there was something unsettling about the experience. The two birthday celebrations were very different, and I still feel faintly disoriented. 


One birthday (for the year-old daughter of friends) was fairly traditional. The kids ran around the room, chattering, dancing, playing with toys, etc. The adults kept a careful eye on the toddlers, ate cake, took pictures, and chatted quietly. 


The birthday girl was socially gracious. She exhibited a keen interest in each guest, shared her toys, and gave the occasional high-five, which I deduced is her polite (and effective) way of warding off those who would try to pick her up.

There was a flannel story board.  Balloons. Guests danced the Limbo.  No babies cried, and fun was had by all.

The other birthday celebration took the form of a roast for 50-year-old Ray, a man with a huge extended family and a large circle of friends, co-workers, and acquaintances. 
Ray is  a person who could be politely described as a "character," although other epithets were employed during the evening's festivities.
The roast was emceed by Ray's brother, Kelly, a local radio personality, who began by welcoming the approximately 75 guests and then questioning the parentage of the birthday honoree: 
"Today is Ray's birthday, and he just found out he's adopted. He's actually the love child of Gene Simmons and Richard Simmons."
Here, I attach a photo of the birthday boy, who does, indeed, resemble these two putative fathers.

Ray's ethnicity was disparaged (he is half Danish, half Mexican): "Ray thinks he's Mexican, but he's really a white boy. In fact, Ray's so white, they had to come up with a new name for his color: Rayonnaise." 

Then came a long and horrifying account of the childhood tortures Ray allegedly inflicted on his two younger brothers. Each story was topped in grotesquerie by the one that followed it. 

No sooner did one roaster abandon the microphone than another jumped up to take his/her place, a procession that included Ray's girlfriend, bandmate, boss, workout buddy, uncles, cousins, and perhaps even a couple of passers-by who decided to jump in just for the heck of it. No aspect of Ray's life was off limits. 

Even his mother joined in, claiming that Danish gnomes had exchanged Ray at birth. 






As Ray's former mother-in-law, I regret to say that I joined the chorus, presenting him with this card...

...which was inscribed, inside: "ONE OF US IS AN ASSHOLE." 
But, I did apologize for plotting to shoot Ray many years ago, and I thanked him for helping create my beloved grandson, Kelly.  

When the guests were finally exhausted, Ray took the stage, and he gave as good as he had received. 
The one shred of political correctness I have left from that evening prevents me from repeating most of his retorts. I can tell you that Ray claimed his mother needed "14 cigarettes and 40 cups of coffee" each morning before she would feed her children. "She had cigarettes in every orifice of her body," he said. 
The kindest jab was aimed at Ray's brother, Darrin. Ray claimed that Darrin was "sneaky," so sneaky that, for years, the family didn't even know if he was a boy or a girl, due to his long, blond hair.

To my amazement, no one got angry, punched someone, or stormed out of the room.  Quite the reverse.  People clapped, cheered, and laughed until the tears came.  Upon leaving, everyone hugged everyone and affirmed that it was the best evening they'd shared in years. 

No babies cried, and fun was had by all.