Besides watching the evening news and pretending I’m a celebrity, there are few things I enjoy more than a good party. While some people need wealth, love and all of that other crap to feel at peace with themselves and the world, all I require is some dark liquor and a disco ball.

So when my friend invited me to a party at her parents’ house in Baton Rouge next weekend, I accepted the invitation with the same enthusiasm Flavor Flav has for wide-derriered women.

As I began to polish my portable stripper pole for the party, my friend informed me that there would be no amateur stripping at this engagement, which was going to be more Chuck E. Cheese than Bourbon Street – a 12-year-old’s birthday party.

For the first time in my life, I began to search for an excuse not to attend: “There’s a great documentary on PBS that I can’t miss,” or “I’ve given up parties altogether so that I may devote my life to teaching the Bible to malnourished, uneducated children” – alibis that now readily come as I type this column. With no other option, I agreed to go.

Although I have a week until the party, it’s the only thing I can think about.

While I think I’m a swell guy, my biggest trepidation is meeting my friend’s parents, because honestly, I’m not the kind of guy you take home. After all, my own parents disapprove of me. How would I respond to questions like, “Where are you from” and “What are your life ambitions?”

“Well Mr. and Mrs. Chapman, I’m from Downdaroad and I aspire to be the male version of Barbarella.”

What should I bring as a party favor? I can’t bring a bottle of alcohol because I’m pretty sure that serving tequila to a bunch of suburban pre-teens is frowned upon and illegal, and while I typically bring the music, I doubt that 12-year-olds will recognize or appreciate 2 Live Crew’s 90s hit “Hoochie Mama.”

Lastly, I have no idea what to get my friend’s sister as a present or how much to spend on it. My traditional birthday gift, a $10 bill and a condom crammed into a Hallmark card, seems slightly inappropriate.

I was hoping that writing this column would provide me with some clarity. It hasn’t. My only idea is to do the same thing that I did when I went to parties in middle school: sit in a corner and quietly sing, “You ain’t nothing but a hoochie mama. Hood rat. Hood rat. Hoochie mama.”