It's that mother-lovin' time of year again.  Christmas?  No.  Kwanza?  No. Chanukah?  No.  All that stuff is coming soon, which means now is office holiday party time.  You know what I hate more than office holiday parties?  Not-a-damn-thing.  In fact, my idea of hell is an office holiday party where a mime is entertaining and amusement park midway music plays in the background for all eternity.  Why am I such a loathesome creature at this sacred event? Quite plainly because the idea of being trapped in any room with my coworkers is less appealing than being in jail.  I mean, at least in jail you have a chance at making some friends.  But these people are about as interesting as household chores.

And come on, company-sponsored parties?  Doesn't that thought have all the flair of "government authorized fun?"  If they're big affairs with expensive gifts, you sit there wondering how they can toss so much friggin' money into one night but they have a coronary when you want more than a 3% raise. [Which brings up a side point: Hey Liz, 3% of shit...is still shit.  You could give me a 100% raise and I'd still be scraping the poverty line.  So just can the high-and-mighty act the next time review time comes around.  If I wanted attitude to go with my shitty pay, I'd go back to Burger King. At least my meals were free there.] If they're small shindigs, you get pissed 'cause, hey, you bust your ass for these jagoffs all year, why can't they at least throw you a decent party?

So anyway, our company did the lunch at a nice restaurant thing for a couple years ('cause I want to freeze my ass off walking across the city for a free lunch).  This year they decided to keep it all in the building ('cause I really want to be forced to stay in this hell hole over my only free time of the day), which I guess is cool.  So I walk downstairs, and look around for the drinks.  Coffee, tea, soda/pop, wine – that's it.  No beer.  No whiskey.  Screw this!  I make my move for the coffee.

"There's wine you know!" I hear from some Vickie-cruise-director-voiced bitch behind me.
"Oh, I saw it." Like I could miss the four jugs of wine beside the coffee pot.
"Well the wine cups are here if you want some!"
"No thanks," I say and fill my Styrofoam cup.  "I haven't really had the taste for it since my mom killed herself with wine and sleeping pills two weeks ago."  I think I heard Vicki's jaw hit the floor, but I didn't look, I just let her watch my ass as I left the room.

I go and grab some appetizers (also known as some cut vegetables and ranch dressing) and find a nice place to lean against a wall as I settle in for the two-hour purgatory.

"Nerraux, you want a chair?"
"No, thanks.  I'm fine like this."
"'Cause I think there's a chair in the other room."
"No, really, I've been sitting all day, I kinda like this."
"No, here take my chair, I'll get the other one."
"How 'bout you get off my ass about the chair, sit there and talk to the other simps, and let me be before I crack the leg off that chair and pound you in the gut until your spleen is a fine mousse, eh, fuckface?"

Okay, I didn't really say that last bit, but it seethed it's way through my brain as I sat in the guy's chair and he retrieved another from the adjoining room.  I probably won't get a chance to kill him before the end of the work day, but hey, every day's a new day and full of promise.  Let this be a lesson to you, Susy Sunshine: the guy you give the "Hey, funnyface!  Turn that frown upside down and come join the party" speech today may be the same guy who strips you to your underwear, ties you up, coats you in butter and leaves you on the roof in the freezing cold before going home for the weekend next Friday.  [NOTE TO SELF: Remember to get extra butter at the grocery store this weekend.]

Now I'm sitting here, trying to remember the names of all the Snorks or some other lame thing just to keep from getting sucked into the inane chatter swimming around my head.  I don't care about your stupid kids.  I don't want to her about your bowling score.  And if you bring up Survivor one more time in my presence, this three feet of welfare-particle-board table between us isn't going to be enough to keep me from finding out just how many of your organs I can remove with this plastic spoon before the cops come and drag me out.

Three hours later, I startle awake and realize I've been zoning out and nobody's around.  Correct that: Nobody's alive around.  I'm breathing heavy, there's sweat beading down my forehead, and I'm covered in blood and clutching an erasable pen.  I didn't even know they still made those things.  I stare at it for a minute, and then the full weight of the situation hits me.  I get a curious little grin and begin dancing around the room singing "It's the most, won-der-ful time, of the year..." and I'm spinning and occasionally leaping over bodies and I'm...

Waking up again, only this time in the real world.  Only fifteen minutes has passed, and the old lady in charge of accounting is talking about the cruise she recently took with her husband and how she loved being able to walk through the buffet line wearing nothing more than her bathing suit. I'm about to wretch, and before I plunge into the darkness again, the last thought that goes through my head is: "I should have thought ahead and choked down some Chinese tofu before this whole gig started.  One good bean-curd fart would end it all right-quick..."

Another hour and a half.  Please, God, let me live through it!

- Nerraux