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It was my 4th daytime "Holiday" party with these idiots. A stupid white-elephant gift exchange which I DETEST by the way, because I always bring something really cool and I always get ripped off and end up with something heinous. This year I brought a stylin' martini set. OK, it was slightly gay but it was a thousand times better than the K-mart bullshit I'm going to take home and accidentally throw away tonight!
We'd already enjoyed our lunch of sweating cheese and bone-dry tandori chicken skewers covered in congealed sweet-n-sour sauce that tasted more like the sticks peirced through them than meat and it was finally time to pick numbers for the gift exchange/rip off. Or what I like to think of as the one chance a year to say naughty shit to your bosses and get away with it. (Which I did when my boss eyed something in front of me and I sneared "bring it on, bitch").
I was hoping for something in the middle of the pack. That way I might be ensured a coveted prize that hadn't been stolen enough times to be owned, or maybe, just maybe I'd open something that I actually wanted.
The hat went around the entire room and I was one of the last ones to choose. I reached in and shuffled the folded papers. Picked the one that felt right and took a look. Number 17. Not too darn bad! Right there in the middle. Woot.
Then it came time to start the game. The first gift was unwrapped showing a pile of pine cones, or pine "corns" my obnoxious foreign co-worker said, and a bunch of lottery tickets. YES! That's exactly what I was going for. Please Jebus, let me get those tickets and win enough money to escape from this corporate hell.
Gift after gift, some enviable like booze, and some complete klinkers like a used Mr. Potato Head with a mystery sheen covering his bald noggin. It was coming close to my turn and even though I could have taken one of a few different bottles of spirits, I ran to those lottery tickets and snatched them away like a tiger taking down a gazelle. Ah ha! Take that!
And then, the bitch who hasn't said 2 words to me since she joined our office 6 months ago promptly stole them.
But. BUT! There was some rum available. Ah ha! Take that again! I ran to the Coconut Bicardi Holiday Gift Package with the Roll-y Glasses and sprinted back to my seat, giving a hearty warning to all who dare take my prize away. There are a few who are either brave to my warnings or too dumb to realize my ability to curse you like a zombie master, but alas, my alcohol spent about 2 more seconds in my possession before it was again stolen for the final time and out of my reach forever. Damn. It.
I had to choose again and the pickin's were slim. A giant 40 pound 2 foot substandard chocolate Santa, um, yea, no. A CD of William Hung singing your Christmas favorites. Not on a bet. A soda can organizer for your fridge, ha, enjoy that sucker. All the good alcohol was formally owned and I had no interest in the animatronic dog that sang fucking Barry White.
I cruised the table. There were only a few packages left. I furrowed my brow and scanned the gifts, hoping for something slightly better than a home-made oven mit. I picked the biggest bag left, it's shiny red paper calling my name.
I was buzzing with anticipation. Please Santa, let it not be complete and utter useless shit. Please let it be something I can pour down my throat and make the bad people go away. Please let it not reak like Anna Nicole Smith's crotch on a Saturday night.
I reached in the bag to find a box of considerable weight. Hmm, what could it be what could it be? Paused for a moment of anticipatory joy, unwrapped the paper and with a huge smile of hope on my face, saw this...
Behold, my gift of TOTAL CRAP.
Fucking. Robbed. Again.
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