Thursday, December 20, 2007

Tis the season for Office Holiday Parties!

Wednesday was my holiday party. Sadly there is nothing humorous to report. I think everyone toned it down after last year’s wild evening.

Thursday night was a holiday party for another company. I accidentally went as the date for another electrical engineer. Yeah I know, how do you do that accidentally, but it is too complicated to explain. I handled it quite nicely by boozing him up and then fleeing the immediate area.

Okay many people don’t associate fun with engineers. Frankly they are right unless you add a lot of alcohol to the equation. Late in the evening, a dance circle formed and token engineers would showcase their “moves” in the center. Yeah, engineers dancing….I almost peed my pants. At one point, two electrical engineers broke out their choreographed dance to the rap song ‘superman’ (or at least that is what I think it is called). Anyway, watching a tall Asian and geeky white guy bust out synchronized dance moves (finishing off with a superman pose every time the rapper would say it) was definitely the highlight of the evening.

After the official party ended, the crowd moved down the block to an Irish pub. There I chatted with a real live Irish man (complete with accent and drinking problem). He is from Blarney and his advice is: “don’t kiss the blarney stone, the tourists all kiss it, but all the locals piss on it”.

Friday night was Jordan’s holiday party. Yes count-em, three in a row. Actually I had a fourth on Saturday in Chicago, but decided not to fly out for it. Jordan also works for an engineering company, so you can imagine the scene. Well a bleached blonde girl with a tight body and HUGE boobs that were trying to escape from her dress walked in and caused quite the stir. Seriously, her dress was super short, tight, and full of eye-popping cleavage. I’m thinking she is obviously not an engineer. I’m not doubting that she could have some brains, it is just that she would not look like that if she spent her college years at the library....instead of the strip joint. Immediately, all the male engineers (married and single) flock to her. Turns out she was a friend of the sister of the receptionist or something. Basically, her friend probably said “hey I’m going to a party with a whole bunch of rich, available, dorky men, want to go fishing?”

Around 9pm, I headed down to the ladies room and was serenaded by the sound of alternate puking and crying. Yeah it was like “bllllllaaaaahhhh, boo hoo hoo, bllllllackkkkk, sniff boo hoo hoo”. I looked at the bathroom attendant and pointed at the closed stall making the commotion as to ask “who is in there?” She shrugged and made a gesture to signify big boobs. Ah ha! I knocked on the door and offered to get some help, but her friend said she was almost done. Ummmm, okay.

At 10pm, the party was over and the club was adamant about getting us out of there. The club, The Spare Room in Gramercy, was I guess a real swanky place and it was afraid that being associated with a bunch of engineers would down its cool/hip factor. Anyway, they had to drag the drunk blonde bombshell out from the bathroom. Unfortunately (or fortunately if you think with the penis), her skirt got hiked up in the process, so we all saw her un-sexy panties. Her boobs were as ever, struggling to keep covered. They flopped her up against the side of the building and she basically wobbled there like a jellyfish. Obviously, this girl needed to get home, so the owner of the company offered up his car service (limo). They called the driver and he outright refused to pick up the girl because she would as I quote “fuck up his car”. The owner threatened to take his company’s business elsewhere if he didn’t stop by. He also assured him that the girl was done puking because she spent the last hour by the toilet and could not possibly have anything left to expel! Well about ten minutes before the car was supposed to show, the blonde jerked forward and projectile vomited all over the sidewalk! Whoops, okay I hope THAT was the last of it.


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