Quote of the Day:
“Unbelievable. I do the nicest thing that anyone’s ever done for these people and they freak-out. Well happy birthday Jesus, sorry your party’s so lame.” –Michael Scott (The Office)
SIX Christmas Parties.
Doesn’t anyone have better things to do? “Hi, GREAT to see you. Yes, things are GREAT. Sure, business is GREAT…..uh huh, family’s GREAT….you too I hope? GREAT. See you next year.”
“Oh, hi. GREAT to see you too….etc, etc.”
Except it’s not GREAT to see any of ’em and they sure as hell didn’t score a point in the game of life as a result of the forced chance encounter with TB. Why must we do these things? The spouse’s office party, the next door office’s office party, the neighbor, school, church, the office-you-hate-but-you-still-have-to-go-because-they-are-a-client-office party….enough is enough! We don’t want ’em, we don’t need ’em, GO AWAY!
Oh, sure, as with anything a Christmas Party can occasionally have its moments, like back in the late 90’s when TB’s ass (allegedly) got photocopied right before–yada yada yada–but you can’t recapture that magic, especially after you get married. If you must have a party, do it ONCE, blow it out, make errors in judgement that can be collectively “forgotten” by acclimation but if you try to make it an annual event it gets harder and harder each year for everyone to forget the vile acts of revelry committed by others, even harder to forget one’s own. Memory leads to fear. Fear leads to hate. Hate leads to….a miserable month of annual Christmas parties.
Hell yes I need a drink! But I need it on my on schedule, at my own pace, among my chosen company. I don’t want to be standing next to an artificial tree loaded down with meaningless trinkets purchased on deep discount at Walmart some long ago December 28, discussing “how business is” and the price of gold with Phil from down the hall, holding a miniature plate in one hand overloaded with cold chicken wings and faux crab dip and some rotel that can’t be scooped by the six chips–whoops five, one fell off–and a watered down punch in the other while trying to hold my elbows in close so they don’t bump in to drunk, old-ass, prowlin’ Barb’s enormous breasts as she trolls through the throng, all the while averting eye contact with Sally Slutes who dresses in Christmas sweaters with lambs and has a “keep the Christ in Christmas” bumper sticker on her used Land Rover but after a couple of punches starts thinking she’s still single and its still 1997 and she still looks like she did then and that havin’ a big time in the copier room is the true meaning of Christmas parties.
Nah, skip it and just give us a $20.00 bonus in lieu of the fellowship. It might not mean much to you boss-man but it sure as hell would take a bit of the sting out of getting screwed over by the Acme Slutty Toy Corp and their crack customer service guy–Ahmed, or Bill or Sue; if nothing else I could go sit in a dark lounge somewhere and have a drink–a real drink–in peace. Ahhh, peace on Earth, goodwill toward men. Yep, I’m a lot more likely to find it in there….
…FIVE. GOLD. ADS. FOUR freakin’ stitches, THREE triple aaa’s, TWO billing errors and a Lounge in a Mall ain’t no Lounge.