Ronald, a well to do, high end of town, epic penthouse apartment owner, with a trendy haircut, designer clothes, and currently holding glass of expensive champagne, suddenly said 'you know what, I'm no longer throwing shindigs, from now on I'm only throwing shinburys, maybe fill the holes in all those shins, you know what I mean?'
The last six of his guests, still there from what seemed to now be his last shindig, currently rolling around on the floor, drenched in blood, collecting up chunks of shin, were screaming 'we told you, we TOLD YOU! It's just a word, you weren't supposed to literally dig into all of our shins you psychopath!'
But there was no deterring him, he went on to throw the best damn shinbury the town had ever seen!
Some people left with more shin than they'd had even at the START of the shindig season!
Where did this extra shin came from?
Well no body dared to ask.
No, the townsfolk were now too busy screaming in terror at what he meant when he said next he'd be throwing a 'regular party'. For this was positively petrifying prospect. An UNIMAGINABLY horrible possibility. An unquestionably AWFUL pronouncement.
There was no WAY he could misinterpret 'regular party'.
And who could turn down a party in a sweet pad like this?
Party season sure was stretching on an exhaustingly long time this year.