Face it: we all want our events to be their best, but we don’t always know how. The Art of Hosting is the guide to hosting you have been craving. It’s warm, candid, and full of practical advice for making your dinner party, barbecue, mixer, or wedding the best it can be. We hope you enjoy it!
One is enough, motherfucker. If they say they’re coming, they’re coming. Don’t ask them again. Don’t double-check. Don’t evite the fuck out of them. Be an adult. Don’t be some needy fucking worm.
Don’t tell people to bring food to your fucking party. It’s your fucking party. People drove an hour to get there. They’ve gotten a babysitter. Babysitters are twenty dollars an hour, motherfucker. Your guests are spending $100 to come to your stupid fucking party. Now they have to bring the food, too? The party was your idea. Your stupid fucking notion. You know how many miles all your guests traveled altogether? Think about it. Hundreds of miles. Thousands of dollars cumulatively to pay all those babysitters. So buy your own fucking food, you fucking douche. Then serve it. Make sure it’s good food. Give your guests some good fucking food that you paid for and cooked. Otherwise what? Are you some fucking all-powerful tyrant? Some despot who summons people to your castle and commands them to bring you food and drink? Are you? Are you a fucking medieval warlord? Don’t make your guests buy your fucking food and bring it you. They don’t work for you. And fuck you with your fucking potluck. If I hear you say potluck I will fucking murder you with a crate.
Cooking can be a delight. So do your fucking cooking ahead of time, you fuckstick. Don’t do it when your guests arrive. And don’t ask your guests to bring dessert, and then have to watch you cook. Think of it. Think of it. Think of it, you motherfucker. You told your guests to bring dessert, “homemade appreciated.” You really fucking wrote that. So your guests had to get started yesterday. They had to start baking yesterday, to make dessert for your fucking party. Then they had to get their fucking babysitter. Then they had to drive or subway their way to your fucking house. In all, they have spent two fucking days and hundreds of dollars getting ready for your fucking party, then what? They show up and have to watch you fucking cook for the next two hours? What kind of world-ending maniac are you? You make your guests get a two-day running start to your fucking party and you start cooking when they arrive? Are you some fucking monarch who can issue directives to all your loyal subjects? Begin preparing for my party yesterday! I will begin preparing once you arrive! No. No. No fucking way. Do your fucking cooking ahead of time. Don’t say it’s fresher this way. Keep the food hot somehow. No one wants to watch you cook. Figure it the fuck out.