It's that hap- hap- happiest time of the year again. Time for calendar-closing budget crunches, shitty bonuses (jelly of the month club, anyone?) and, oh yes, holiday office parties — those awkward soirees where upper management and the beleaguered cubicle monkeys are forced to commingle. It's the optional event you simply must attend.
Pent-up rage, free booze and loathsome co-workers around every corner make the celebration a recipe for disaster on par with bringing Zionist Jews and militant Muslims together for a game of dodge ball. The holiday office party is the ideal opportunity to show your ass, drop a turd in the punch bowl and end up being gossiped about around the office like a knocked-up high-schooler from now to Easter. Or get fired. In this most piss poor economy.
It's been said many times, many ways, don't fuck up at the holiday office party. Here are a few fresh pointers and timeworn reminders to make the next morning a little less painful — and ensure you still have that soul-sucking job come Monday.
Don't have more than three, OK, four drinks. You might be able to drink George Clooney and Johnny Depp under the table, but the holiday office party is not the place to show off your chugging chops. You might be capable of downing a dozen martinis without so much as slurring, but have that six or seventh cocktail and people — including your non-drinking boss — will look down their pointy noses at you. The consumption limit is most important if you're one of those poor, unfortunate souls who rarely drinks and loses his or her wits, inhibitions and speaking ability at the three or four mark.
Don't tell the truth. You wander away from the same clique of colleagues you share cubicle space with everyday at the office to take a piss. On your way out, just as you pass the cheese platter, you feel a small, yet firm, tap on your shoulder. Damn! It's your manager. And she wants to make small talk. Or so you might think. Really, she's interrogating you. Wants to get the lowdown on office morale. You only have one option: Lie. Lie. Lie! Tell her everything is hunky dory. Everyone is happy as a clam. No, no, you have no idea who made that voodoo doll of her and stuck it with about three dozen staples!
Don't dress like a slut or a slacker. You've traded in your pantsuit for a form-fitting gown that makes you look like sex on a stick. Your ass appears like you could bounce a quarter off it and your tits are protruding like a pair of primo store-boughts. You go, girl. But save the outfit for your next Ultra Lounge outing. Unless you want every other woman in the office to talk shit about you the entire night — and every guy, even the tech nerds, to try and take you home. Fellas, I know you find it very fashionable to spend an hour every morning trying to look like you just threw the ensemble together. That's cute. Really. But for the holiday office party, check out an episode of Mad Men and wear something smart. That hipster look might impress the Goth girls, but to anyone in the company over 40 with any real clout, the neo-beatnik thing you have going on makes you look like a total clown.
Don't tell the one about the priest, the rabbi and the little boy. Off-color jokes and foul language are the lifeblood of male bonding. Cool chicks dig it, too. Unfortunately, a certain fun-hating branch of feminism and political correctness has brought the ritual underground. So be careful what you say. The PC police are always on alert. Even at office Christmas parties. Oops. I mean holiday parties.
Don't confront the office asshole. The fourth whiskey on the rocks has gone down the hatch, and people are beginning to file out. You decide to also call it a night. You say goodbye. You grab your coat. And then you see him: the Office Asshole. A rush of adrenaline and fury shoots through your veins. It's the first time you have ever seen the bastard outside the office. It's the perfect time to corner the prick, get in his face and tell him what a pitiful, ass-kissing, fist-fucking loser he is. Stop! Take a deep breath. Count to 10. Wink at him in a way that will utterly confuse the slimy creep and calmly walk out the door.
Don't leave with anyone you didn't arrive with. He's the young quiet one who has been your office hubby for the past year. Strictly platonic. But now that fourth cosmo has hit and turned you into a crazed cougar in need of a fresh cub. You arrived with your office gal pals but want him to take you home. Probably not a good idea. Unless, of course, you want to spend the entirety of the next day at work fielding questions about the incident and feeling schoolgirl embarrassed every time he walks by.
This article appears in Dec 10-16, 2008.