Three French Hens, Two Plastic Wangs

I don't understand office Christmas parties. It seems to me that a large percentage of the population consider it the adult equivalent of the bubblers during a game of tips -- a 'bars' zone where the real rules don't apply. Half hearted office romances are brought to a Jägermeister fuelled head and every man and their dog goes gang-busters to be the first idiot to remove their pants. Hilarity: I knew thee well.

The thing that confuses me is that they wait this long. The rest of us have been trying all year to develop a definitive rat bag model, then these jokers come in lagered to the hilt and think they can pull off a one night coup without even considering the collateral damage to the industry. It's bringing the craft of yahooism into disrepute, and that makes me sad.

Furthermore, on the subject of office romance, who in their right mind would think that an office Christmas party is the adequate stage for the making for pre-marital whoopee? Seriously, would you really want to be having this conversation in your not so distant fuuuuuture:




Friend:
Didn't you guys get TOGETHER at the last Christmas party?

You:
Betcha nuts we did. Me and that cute filly you see over there were one minute fetching a glass of Midori Lemonade, next minute WHAM BAM - photocopier room gettin' in ooonnnnn.

Friend:
High five!

You:
That's how I roll.

Friend:
That's a story to keep for the kids alright.

You:
(leans in conspiratorially) Speaking of keeping, I even managed to grab the accidental Xerox we took of her arse, you know, for prosperity.

Friend:
You're a die hard romantic, Stan.

You:
(winks) Takes one to know one, Gary Glitter.




no no NO. I'd much rather the conversation I had with my friend Sluggo after I cunningly escaped my own Christmas party ("Holy shit! Is that one of the Ronnies from that show with the two Ronnies? You know what's it called... the Ronnie brothers?") after things started to get a bit out of hand:





Sluggo:
Hey dude. How's the party going?

Me:
Secret Santa was a bit unnerving. My boss was disappointed with the fake buttocks he received, that is, until he discovered that they could instead be worn under his shirt as fake boobs. This was later deemed inappropriate, so he drew some nipples onto each buttock with a magic marker and then added about a hundred toothpicks into the front which I can only assume were supposed to resemble chest hair. I left him at the point where he began beating his chest repeatedly where the toothpicks were and shouting "I love the pain!" to anyone who dared look at him.

Sluggo:
So.. well then?

Me:
As well as can be expected. I got a beanie that was shaped like a big penis.

Sluggo:
I see what they did there. Clever.




Perhaps I should just grow up and accept that strapping a big plastic knob to my forehead is all part of social networking in the real world. It's funny you know, they never tend to mention this stuff on Oprah.