2002-12-18

Today�is the Directorate�s Christmas party. Oh, the unquenchable, delirious, intoxicating joy that infuses my very sinews at the sound of those words. And as much as I�d love to regale you all with an acerbic play-by-play of every teeth-gritting moment of the festivities, alas, I�m not going. Why not, you ask? Two words: �casino� and �karaoke�. Three more words: �Yeah FUCKING right.�

My Directorate, even with all seventy-five heads huddled together in a firestorm of intense concentration, can�t seem to grasp the concept of the office Christmas party. Which is strange, because the formula is exceedingly simple. First of all, the party should take place AFTER WORKING HOURS, so it feels like a party and not a �team building session� or similar test of one�s gag reflex. Secondly, it should take place at a BAR like all civilized fun events; which leads nicely into the third requisite element, namely, LIQUOR. And lots of it. Applied freely. Follow these basic guidelines, and you get the traditional soir�e of, you know, making a complete asshole of yourself in front of the cute guy from Service Delivery and puking up shrimp cocktail in the cab on the way home. If it ain�t broke, I say, don�t fix it.

But no. NOOOO. These simple pleasures are not to be found at my Directorate�s Christmas parties. Instead we get a strange m�lange of dorky speeches, agonizing �games� that feel more like forced labour, and horrible, horrible food. Highlights of years past include the following activity: �Draw a name for your Secret Santa. Purchase a gift for this person that particularly suits their personality. Write a song, poem or skit about WHY this gift is appropriate for the person you picked.� Uh�WHA? Christ on a stick, the last sixteen years of my life have all been a dream, and I�m back in grade three!

As if that kind of horrifying spectacle weren�t enough, the Social Committee, may they burn in the everlasting flames of Hell while maggots devour their eyes, always elect to have the party at, like, a steakhouse (last year), the Legion (year before last), or at the goddamn CASINO. Ah, the Hull Casino. Hull is basically a suburb of Ottawa, except that it�s across the Ottawa river and therefore in Qu�bec. The casino is therefore imbued with all the glory of the Qu�becois �taste� for interior �decorating�, above and beyond the tackiness ordinarily associated with casinos. There�s enough brass and fake plants in there to make your eyes fucking bleed, in other words.

And for the pleasure of hanging out in this gare-fest, we get to fork over twenty bucks for a meal at the Bifteque, the casino�s in-house restaurant. The similarity between the words �beef� and �bifteque� is not a coincidence. Those of us who do not choose to partake of dead flesh get to pay twenty bucks for a veggie stir-fry. Talk about value for your dollar. Free drink? Not included.

The �happy fun time� activity for this year, as snitted earlier, is karaoke. Now, karaoke CAN be fun, like Christmas parties, if it�s done in a BAR with lots of people consuming ALCOHOL. Take notes, Social Committee fucks! In fact, a friend of mine�s brother-in-law does a karaoke rendition of Black Sabbath�s �Iron Man�, sung in the style of Devo, that would bring a tear to your eye and urine unbidden to your pants. So I�m not against the karaoke on general principle. But cold sober karaoke? In a casino restaurant? In the middle of the fucking afternoon?! Um, I�ll take door number NOT, please.

So I�ve elected to pass on this one, despite the shock and horror exhibited by my colleagues at the announcement of my non-attendance. I seem to be gaining a reputation around the office for being antisocial. But really I'm all for socialization, as long as it�s done like fully functioning adults, and not like Meet and Greet Day at Special Ed camp, fuck.