November 6, 2014
Halloween is over which means the most important time of year is here: ugly sweater party season. Usually betches would frown upon any party that promotes looking less than your best self, but don’t let the title fool you. USP’s are the party of the year.
First of all, you don’t look ugly. USP's give us a chance to exhibit our inner Mary-Kate Olsen and go ugly chic. Your sweater should be oversized and fugly for sure, but in a hilarious ironic way. If you don’t get it, you’re probably fat.
Secondly, even though your outfit is technically heinous, the rest of you is on point. USP’s are not a time to just throw up a bitch bun and retrace over last night’s eyeliner. Get your shit together. Acceptable accessories include, but are not limited to: bows pinned into your hair, ribbon used as headbands, christmas light jewelry, you get the point. Be creative, I’m not making your fucking costume for you.
Do not be the girl who shows up in a spandex skirt with a bow tied around her boobs and then calls herself a gift. You’re not a gift, you’re trying way to hard and probably a freshman. Make no mistake, we’re all going to laugh at you from the comfort of our sweaters when some bro inevitably unties your “top.”
Perhaps the best part of an ugly sweater party is that we can deviate from our strict menu of vodka sodas, because the theme practically demands it. At real USP’s all alcohol is either peppermint or cinnamon flavored, and no one gets to complain because it’s in the Christmas fucking spirit. Peppermint Patty’s, pulls of peppermint schnapps followed by someone squirting chocolate syrup into your mouth, are a must. Anyone who tries to turn one down gets peer pressured into doing it anyways and then has chocolate syrup shot into her hair for being such a bitch in the first place. I don’t care if you just got it blown out Jessica, maybe you shouldn’t have tried to ruin everyone's night.
Ugly sweater parties are NOT an excuse to drink eggnog. I don’t care if you put alcohol in it. I don’t care if it’s your grandma’s secret recipe passed down from one clearly obese relative to the next. Don’t fucking do it. It tastes like pepto bismol, looks like jizz, and you might as well be chasing your shots with half and half.
So betches, start collecting sweaters now and get your playlists ready. If “All I Want for Christmas is You” doesn’t play at least once then you might as well fucking cancel now. This is a season for blacking out to Mariah Carey classics in oversized wool, and don’t let anyone tell you any differently.