If you are invited to a dinner party — specifically a living-dead upper-middle-class opinion-fest — you should first of all spike the evening’s cocktails with the strongest LSD or San Pedro you can get your hands on. When everyone is confronting their repressed demons, made sickeningly manifest, you should stand upon the table and tear off your clothes to reveal the phosphorescent body suit you prepared earlier. Through powerful portable speakers — which are also fitted with an octave-lowering phase-effect — you should now declare yourself to be Valve, the secret controller of their entire lives up to this point. As they quake in terror before you, ratchet up the death-vibes in whatever manner you deem most appropriate (dwarves in animal-suits, huge inflatable eyeballs, telharmonium brown-notes, etc) before blinding everyone with an explosion of raw light and noise which fades to ambient blue and the gentlest aural serenity. You may then get down from the table and embrace all. Nothing withheld.
In their own minds this event will be experienced as a beyond-words penetration by their own isolated demon-self, a hideous fight with a false external Demiurge (or alien-lord), and a stunning, spastic-spangled jellyfishgod cataclysm in which all is as clouds are, resolved in the warm precious benevolence of nothing more than being in the room, together.
As the dinner party participants slowly come down, they will go on to lead genuinely useful lives as Vietnamese raft captains, dedicated circus freaks and gently giggling bums.
Before everyone leaves you should empty their bank accounts — for they will now freely give everything away — and use the money to purchase thousands of tiny latex air balloons shaped into the exact replicas of the heads and faces of everyone in town, filled with enough helium to make them float (but not rise) and embedded with microscopic speakers in which each ‘head’s’ verbal tics and tired stuck-record routines are played on a loop.
Release all balloons at will, and let them drift across town.