A harmless invitation, hastily composed on Paperless Post with a stock photograph and some flippant words. A ticket to a laid-back day of fun with friends. All are welcome. The more the merrier! Right?

Not on your fucking life.

Welcome, children, to the calculating mind of a neurotic psychopath. Feel free to browse around. I’ve laid bare the blueprints to my mind. Study the mechanisms, the cogs, the bits and screws that hum and whir in perpetual motion. Never stopping, never resting, overanalyzing every decision, response, and interaction. Seeking advantages, leveraging relationships, and forever angling for personal gain.

This is selection process behind which of my coworkers I chose to invite to my birthday party.

If I’m the sorting hat, and my coworkers are the Hogwarts students, these are the houses:

A. Equity Holder/Power Player

B. Friend

C. Critical Mass/Seat Filler

D. Potential Sexual Partner

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We’ll start at the top: the equity holders/power players. These are the pillars of Barstool, the people whom I invited because to stand beside them in photos means you’ll pick up some of their followers; or to be on their good side might result in a larger year-end bonus. Conversely, the consequences of not inviting them could prove detrimental to my ascension at the company. It’s no coincidence that all of these people hold equity in Barstool.

Erika, Dave, Keith, Big Cat, KFC, PFT.

Erika is my CEO. She determines how much money I’m paid. Not only was she invited, she was the first person I put on the list. I almost wrote her a hand-written invitation because my handwriting is superb. I backed off because I felt that by showing preferential invitations, I would be revealing my cards. Sending the generic email invitation to my CEO puts us on the same playing field, which increases the likelihood that she will consider me a peer. Peers make similar salaries. As Erika pores over the salary list this year, she’ll notice the substantial wage gap between her income and mine. With a flick of her magic raise wand, she will correct this. Such was my thinking.

Dave could fit in the friend hat as well. Parties are something we frequently enjoy together (see: Miami, Saratoga, New York City, train). But first and foremost, he is my other boss and a massive force on the internet. A single tweet mention by Dave can lead to hundreds, if not thousands, of gained followers. Look at what he’s done for Tommy Smokes (not invited) and Frankie (potential sexual partner). Those two should be asking hearing-impaired women for their bag preference at King Kullen, not riding jets and speaking out loud. But because the kingmaker put them at his table, they’ve been tasting the finest meats and wines this side of whatever fucking tunnel they biked through to get here. Granted, those tastes come filtered through Dave’s digestive system. They’re the bottom two links of the human centipede he had stitched to his anus, following him through life like a Nokia snake, murmuring their approval of each joke in the hope that he’ll slide a pizza crust down their way. Why else do you think Dave barely chews those slices?

Keith, Big Cat, KFC, PFT: equity holders all. If Barstool is a chessboard, these are your rooks and bishops. All my best blogs have been spruced up and rushed to press by Keith. All my rundown invitations have come from KFC. Any time I work with Big Cat or PFT, I’m lauded as a massively-talented individual with a bright future in comedy. These are your Golden State Warriors. I am Festus Ezeli.

Friends

In life, it is important to have friends. Friends will do anything for you. Need help carrying a coffee table from the trunk to the river, or something of similar mass with arms and legs that isn’t necessarily heavy as much as she is awkward, you call a friend. “That’s what friends are for.”

My Barstool Breakfast crew, Kate, Rone, my producer John… basically anyone who hasn’t sent me to the gym at noon to kick my anger into a heavy bag with entirely incorrect technique. These are the good, kind people of Barstool. They know who they are.

Critical Mass/Seat Filler

With any party, you have to account for dropouts. It’s a fine line between “intimate and exclusive” and “there is nobody fucking here.” We need bodies. People need to wait a few minutes to get their drinks or use the bathroom. Impatience leads to anxiety and out come the drugs. Xanax, weed, pills… I want to risk serious jail time in the event the police respond to a noise complaint. Speaking of, I already alerted my neighbors. It’s the classy thing to do. Most party hosts will say “I’m having a party! Feel free to swing on by.” I, on the other hand, just told them I was having a party. No invitation. Fuck my neighbors. They have kids and pets and shit. I can’t have kids at the party, with all the drugs flying around. You can’t trust a kid in a deposition. Look at how easily that moron Brendan Dassey folded.

If you were surprised that I invited you, and you have no ability to advance my career, you’re in this category. Just know that it doesn’t matter if you come. We can achieve the same result by pulling the furniture out from the wall a few inches to decrease the space.

Potential Sexual Partner

Up to you. You’re either here or you’re a seat filler. Your call.

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I will make sure to take hundreds of photos of the party. We will create some punny hashtag like you see at weddings. #FranInvitedMe or something fun that really captures the point. Given the collective social media power of my invitees, the party may end up trending. Wouldn’t that be grand? In the ensuing years, it will be referenced in conversation and a lucky few will assert “I was there!” while the excluded slink back to their stale burritos and reruns of Big Bang Theory.

Good luck.