Monday, July 30, 2012
Urban Cowboy
The door swung open, and
there stood a man, but this was no ordinary man. Dressed in his finest cowboy boots, blue jeans, oversized
belt buckle, tasselled shirt, and black cowboy hat, it was clear to all that he
meant business. Everyone stopped
dead in their tracks, all eyes turned in his direction, and he knew it. There was a long pause, and an eerie
silence, as us city-folk aren't used to seeing his kind around these parts. As if to say “Howdy”, he
gave a quick tip of his hat, then proceeded to enter the building. Ka-chink… ka-chink… ka-chink, his spurs
rattled with each step as he moseyed on up to the counter. “Ma’am” he said, “gimme two slices of
your finest pepperoni pizza, to go”.
Without saying a word, and seemingly trying to avoid making eye contact, she went right to work. He massaged and
shaped his moustache while he waited. Everyone
else remained quiet, frozen in place, not sure what to make of this urban
cowboy. Upon being handed the
brown paper bag containing his two slices, he nodded his head, and said “Why
thank-ya ma’am”, before turning around and making his way to the door. Ka-chink… ka-chink… ka-chink…, he
opened the door and turned around to face me and the other patrons. “Y’all have a nice day”, he said, tipping
his hat once more, before stepping through, and allowing the door to close behind him. We watched as he walked across the parking lot, opened his
car door, and drove off in his blue Ford Taurus. As the room slowly returned to normal, and people went back
to eating their lunch, I overheard others asking one another “Did that really
just happen?” I sat alone, shaking
my head, asking myself… “Why do I keep coming back to this Pizza Pizza?” I know I've said it before, but I seriously need to start packing a
lunch.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Why Dave Matthews Band?
I love Dave Matthews Band. If someone were to ask me to close my
eyes and describe my “happy place”, I’d be at the Gorge Amphitheatre in
Washington State, Leia at my side, listening to DMB play the first few chords
of the opening song, as the sun slowly sets behind the stage, and the stars
begin to light up the night sky.
I’ve had the great privilege of visiting my happy place several times
now, and look forward to going back again someday soon. There’s just something magical about
being there, the feeling you get in that very moment, that despite my best
efforts, cannot be described. If
you’ve been there, and experienced that moment I am referring to, then you
know.
I get asked all the time by family and
friends why I like DMB so much, and what it is that makes them so special. They do not understand how a band that
rarely gets their music played on the radio could have this sort of effect on
me, where I am willing to tattoo one of their logos permanently into my skin. It boggles their mind why I need to
wait until the summer tour dates are announced before I can make vacation
plans. They may have heard “Crash
Into Me” a few times, or the odd song here and there, but for the most part,
they don’t really know who DMB is.
I used to try to explain it to people, but I don’t anymore because quite
frankly, I can’t. I once bought my
brother a DMB cd (Live in Central Park), hoping that it would help him
understand. I later found out he
took it back to the store and exchanged it for Johnny Cash’s Greatest
Hits. I guess DMB isn’t for
everybody, and I’m okay with that.
I’m okay that you don’t get it.
I’m not here to recruit you, this isn’t a cult, but if you change your
mind, just know that everyone is welcome, and the door is always open for those
wanting to join us.
I’ve been fortunate enough to travel and
experience DMB in many different venues throughout the United States and Canada. Many people think this is far too extreme
or borderline obsessive to spend the kind of money I do following a group of
musicians around the Country. Some
people think I’m crazy. What they
don’t know is that amongst DMB fans, this type of behaviour is not the least
bit uncommon. Going to see DMB
eight times in eight different venues over the course of a summer is, believe
it or not, normal. There’s nothing
strange about it to a DMB fan, and trust me when I say there are many fans that
have seen far more shows than I could ever dream to. Although the cities and venues may change along the way,
there are several constants regardless of where you are that you can count on
at every DMB show.
Tailgating is a DMB tradition. The hard core fans of DMB are extremely
loyal, not just to the band, but also to the DMB family of friends they have
interacted with along the way. As
I mentioned earlier, since travelling to shows is very common, pre-show
tailgate parties are often seen as a reunion of sorts that many fans look
forward to each summer, an opportunity to not only meet old friends, but also
make new ones. Going to a DMB show
is not simply something to do, it’s an experience. The opening act takes the stage at 7:00pm, with DMB
beginning their set at 8:25pm, but the experience begins much earlier than
that. Vehicles are often customized
with DMB stickers, hand written lyrics and firedancers before the keys are even
in the ignition. As soon as the
venue parking lot gates are opened, the fans pour in with canopies, barbeques, frisbees,
footballs, an assortment of drinking games, and of course alcohol and other
herbal mind enhancers. The sounds
and smells are intoxicating, and for those few hours, nothing in the outside
world matters. It’s all about the
here and now. Canadian venues
don’t have tailgating worthy of mentioning, but our neighbours to the south
have perfected the art of it. If
you only go to a DMB show just for the actual show itself, you’ll still have an
awesome time, but that’s not the true experience. I highly recommend arriving early, and taking the time to
soak it all in.
Once inside the venue, many will take to
their seats right away, or at least find a place to stand as 7:00pm
approaches. Dave Matthews always
comes out at 7:00pm to say a few words and introduce the opening act. DMB fans cannot get enough of
“Davespeak”, which is the awkwardly hilarious way in which Dave often expresses
himself. After sharing a few
laughs and with big smiles on our faces, Dave welcomes the opening band and the
live music portion of the experience begins. By this point barely half of the attendees are in their
seats, with the remainder still walking around, listening to the opening band,
chatting with friends, etc… The
opening act generally plays for roughly 45 minutes, and during this time,
people in the pit (ie. general admission area just in front of the stage)
jockey for position, while those in the reserved seats and lawn section are able
to take a slightly more laid back approach to the evening’s festivities. Without fail, you can count on watching
a dancing girl or two bouncing around vigorously to the opening act right up front
and centre in the reserved seats, taking advantage of the extra space that is
afforded during this time, gaining the attention and acknowledgement from the
band.
Once the opening act has ended their set, the
roadies and stage crew appear from every direction in a frantic yet organized
manner to switch out the instruments, and make any final adjustments to the
lights and video screens. Many
from the crew have been with the band for years, so we recognize their faces,
and even know some of them by name.
The crowd files in to take their seats, having loaded up on their
refreshments of choice, and the traditional pre-show vacuuming of the stage
notifies all that DMB will soon be entering the building. Fans begin trading guesses about what
the opening song will be based on the guitar that has been placed upon the
stage. 6-string or 12-string, we
go through the possibilities song by song. Excitement continues to build, and the buzz within the venue
gets increasingly louder. The
lights turn off, the house music ends, and everyone takes to their feet, with absolutely
no intention of sitting back down for the next 2½ to 3 hours. Nobody sits at a DMB concert. Applause thunders down, getting even
louder the moment the first band member is spotted walking onto the darkened
stage. One after another the band
members appear, taking their usual positions. Boyd and Tim to the left, Dave and Carter in the centre,
Stefan, Rashawn and Jeff to the right.
They wave to the crowd. The
crowd roars with anticipation.
With the lights still low, the cheers of
the crowd reverberating throughout the venue, the band members all turn to face
Carter, for he is the pilot sitting in his cockpit of percussion. On his mark, the band begins, and a
wall of sound and light explodes over the crowd. All it takes is one note, the crowd immediately recognizes
the song, and begins dancing rhythmically to the music. The show is not choreographed, there
are no dancers, no set changes, no costumes, there are minimal bells and
whistles. Lip-syncing or backing
tracks? Pfft, I think not. This is truly about the music, pure
music, and nothing more. There are
only two rules when attending a DMB show:
1. Have fun; and 2. Don’t do anything that will take away from the fun of those
around you. We’d prefer that you
leave your beach balls and glow sticks at home, but if you just can’t help
yourself, please do not throw them in the direction of the stage. Everyone expresses themselves
differently, but all are there for the same purpose… the love of the music.
One song after another, the band makes
their way through the ever-changing setlist, while the crowd dances the night
away, and that distinctive herbal scent fills the air. No two setlists are ever the same, every
show is different, each containing an element of surprise, and the rarer the
songs the better. DMB fans know
all the songs, every note, and every word, even when Dave periodically
forgets. Nobody expects
perfection. Perfection isn’t real. We want what’s real. Boyd tearing up the stage with his
violin during a killer version of “Tripping Billies” is real. Stefan bouncing around with his bass at
the beginning of “Anyone Seen the Bridge” is real. Dave dancing in the way that only Dave can dance is
real. Jeff playing two saxophones
at the same time is real. Songs
just 4 minutes long on an album are enhanced into 20 minute masterpieces,
showcasing the skills of each band member along the way. Dave Matthews may be the lead singer
and namesake of the band, but this is about more than just him, and he’ll be
the first to admit it. The
musicianship within this band is second to none, with each member equally important
to the overall sound. More than
anything, DMB is real.
At around 10:40pm give or take, the band ends
their set and takes their encore break, lasting 5 minutes or so. The crowd cheers loudly the entire time,
still on their feet, but wanting to show their appreciation to the band that
has given them so much. Sore feet
will heal tomorrow, the memories will last a lifetime. Dave often returns to the stage alone,
picks up his guitar, and plays a heartfelt solo version of one of the band’s
quieter songs. The rest of the
band then joins him, and depending on the particular venue, plays one or two
more songs, frequently continuing past the 11:00pm curfew. Some songs are better closers than
others, and DMB rarely disappoints.
“Two Step” is a particular favourite of mine, especially when Carter
takes control of the stage with a masterful drum solo which gets you thinking
that maybe, just maybe, the boys will throw caution to the wind and transition
into “Halloween”. It rarely
happens, but when it does, it’s a treat.
Alas as all good things must, the show comes to an end. The house lights come on, the band
waves goodbye, and one by one they leave the stage, all except for Carter, who
remains for several more minutes to toss a seemingly endless supply of
drumsticks to appreciative members of the crowd. The applause slowly subsides as everyone makes their way to
the exits, and the countdown begins until the next time we get to do it all
over again.
DMB is best experienced live and in person,
where you can expose all five of your senses to that which is going on around
you. That is when they are at
their best. That is where the
magic happens. Why do I like DMB
so much? I don’t know, I just do. I don’t expect you to understand. And that’s okay.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Journey to Hell
We’ve all been there, we all hate it, but
somehow in spite of the overwhelming feeling of dread we get at the very
thought of it, it keeps drawing us back time and time again. I am of course talking about the
Hell-on-Earth known as Costco.
Several steps later you are
free, and an overwhelming feeling of relief overtakes your body as you breathe
in that fresh air. You pause to
take several deep inhalations. The
birds sing, and the sun gently caresses your face. The quarter mile walk back to your car albeit long, is a
pleasant one. As you walk in the
opposite direction of another wave of slouching zombies making their way
towards the entrance. You stand
tall. You stand proud. For you have been to Hell and back, and lived to tell about it.
From the moment you arrive in the jam
packed parking lot, you know the next two hours of your life are going to be completely
miserable. There is no such thing
as a “quick” trip to Costco. During
your quarter-mile hike from your car to the entrance, you scramble to find an
oversized shopping cart, before finally reaching the long line up of people
waiting to funnel into the building.
But they don’t just let anybody in, oh no, you have to be a confirmed
member, part of the exclusive club that is granted the esteemed privilege of
shopping at this store. With a
secret handshake, a knowing nod of the head, and a quick flash of your
membership card, you are herded through the doors like cattle, and handed a
flyer with today’s list of sale items.
The bumper cart derby begins immediately as
you make your way past the televisions and electronics section, just trying to
get away from the masses so that you can take a moment to strategize, figure
out where you need to go, and how best to get there. Alas, there is no relief. You look to your left, then to your right. There are people in every direction, a
sea of humanity all in search of a bargain. Adding to the ever-present congestion, some idiot executive decided
to place food sample counters at the end of each aisle, where hoards of shoppers park their shopping carts and plunk themselves down as though
waiting for their sandwich at a deli.
This isn’t lunch people!!
Take your tiny cup of yogurt, and move along!!! Images of taking a running start and ploughing
your cart through the crowd fill your head as you decide whether a single
tortellini on a toothpick is worth the wait, or whether it is best to just
continue on before you lose it on the lady that keeps stepping
in front of you.
You begin to fill the cart with your bulk
items of choice, all the while scoping out others as they do the same. You judge others based on the items
they have selected, and wonder what could possibly motivate someone to buy a
100 pack of toilet paper, until you see the food items they’ve buried beneath,
and gain the understanding you were searching for. Aisle after aisle you dodge and weave your way through the
crowds. By the time you are
halfway through the store you are so filled with rage that it takes all your
strength not to abandon your cart and just run far, far away, but then you
arrive at the baked good section, and it smells delicious. A momentary oasis in a jungle of
hate. You ask yourself whether you
can realistically get through all 84 bran muffins before the expiry date 4 days
from now. There’s no denying that
the price is right, so you and three others each grab a corner, and bending at
the knees, lift the box into your cart.
Challenge accepted.
The temporary bakery buzz quickly subsides
though, and your voice becomes hoarse from yelling “excuse me!” As much as you’d love to wet your
whistle with a shot of that peach juice they’re handing out samples of over
there, the large family that has been seemingly following you since the
moment you arrived has somehow pushed their way through and set up camp at the
front of the line. You decide to
go for it anyway, temporarily leave your cart aside, and bounce shoulder to
shoulder through the food sample mosh pit. As you get closer, your eyes focused on the single remaining
tiny paper cup, you see the hairy arm of the father reach in to grasp it,
before gulping back his third helping.
Noooooooooooo!!! You son-of-a-bitch!!!!!!!!
Defeated and juiceless, you return to your
cart, desperately just wanting to get this whole misadventure over with. Having long since lost your last
remaining ounce of patience way back in the furniture section, you use your
cart to nudge children and the elderly out of your way, clearing a path just
wide enough to squeeze your cart through.
You skip the remaining aisles, choosing instead to just head towards the
cashier section so that you can get the hell out of there. Somehow though, you end up in the
pharmaceutical area, unknowingly having taken a wrong turn somewhere along the
way. A sea of heads all around
you, you climb up onto the skid of adult diaper boxes to survey the lay of the land,
and realign yourself in the direction of the exit. When you finally arrive, a mass of people with overloaded
shopping carts surround the cashiers.
In the absence of anything resembling an orderly line, you place
yourself at the mercy of those in front of you, praying that they are in the
check-out line, and not the line to purchase an overcooked hot dog from the nearby
Costco restaurant. A wall of
granola bar and snack mix boxes behind you eliminates any thoughts of retreat. There is nothing more you can do, but
wait.
30 minutes later, your will to live nearing extinction, you empty the contents of your shopping cart onto the conveyor
belt. The extra large cashier in
the medium size Costco shirt, greets you.
“Hi, how are you today? Did
you find everything you were looking for?” she asks. Rather than demonstrate your proficient use of four-letter
words and express how you really feel, you simply reply “Yes, thank you”. We are Canadian afterall. She swipes each item along the
electronic scanner, waits for the audible “beep”, then places each item back
into the cart, each time exposing a portion of her tramp-stamp tattoo. You don’t want to look, but you can’t
help it. You try to figure out
what it says, but the combination of her too-tight shirt and muffin-top body squeezes
out just enough skin to make the distorted writing very difficult to read, at
least while she’s moving around like that. It doesn’t matter.
All that matters is that this nightmare is almost over.
Having successfully completed the
transaction, you frustratingly find yourself once again separated from the exit
by another long line of people. As
you shuffle along, you get a closer look at those over-cooked hot dogs, and the
people that enjoy them. You see
that same large family from earlier cutting back into the food service
line to argue with the counter staff over the amount of french fries that were
included in their combo, while leaving their cart directly in the way of those
trying to get out, oblivious to the dirty looks aimed in their direction. As you get closer to the exit you are
approached by part-time wannabe Customs Agents, demanding to see your
receipt. They scan through your
cart as through you’re a criminal, looking for something to nail you on. Finding that everything is in order, they
seem disappointed as they stamp your passport and allow you out of the People’s
Republic of Costco.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Splatman
I heard the stupidest thing on the radio today. Two PhD students in physics actually conducted a study, and concluded that if Batman were to jump off a 400ft building, he would die. They apparently had the calculations to prove it, so who am I to argue.
I wonder what would happen if we took both of those guys up to the top of that 400ft building, tossed a first edition Batman comic over the edge, and convinced them that whoever catches it first, gets to keep it.
I wonder what would happen if we took both of those guys up to the top of that 400ft building, tossed a first edition Batman comic over the edge, and convinced them that whoever catches it first, gets to keep it.
Monday, July 9, 2012
Twitter Dot Com
I don’t “get” Twitter. Maybe it’s my age showing, but I struggle
to see the point of it. Maybe I
haven’t been using Twitter long enough, or maybe I’m not using it correctly,
but the whole thing just kind of leaves me scratching my head in wonder. Maybe it’s only meant for people under
the age of 20, I don’t know. One
thing that I very quickly noticed though is that there are three types of
Twitter users, and they are as follows:
Type
1 – Celebrity Tweeters
Celebrities use Twitter to promote
themselves, and every inane detail of their lives, which we only find remotely
interesting because, well, they are celebrities. People have always been very fascinated with celebrities,
and Twitter seems to provide the reading public the invitation they’ve always
wanted to sneak a peek into the world of the rich and famous, as described in
their own words, in as much detail as they can muster in 140 characters or
less. If you check the “following”
list on 99.9% of the world’s Twitter users, celebrities will make up the
majority of those being followed. Comedians
on Twitter make jokes. We like
that. Musicians promote their
albums. We only follow the
musicians we like anyway, so we like that too. Actors and actresses either promote their new movie or television
show if they are fortunate enough to have one, or if not, tell us about what
type of coffee they ordered this morning, or post a photo of their pet wearing
a hat. This provides a rare
“behind the scenes” glimpse into their real world, and we can’t get enough of
that. Athletes post photos of
their swollen ankles and surgery scars.
For some reason we even like that too. Very rarely is there anything posted of any major importance,
however it allows them to say they are in touch with their fans, and we as fans
eat that stuff up. It puts a human
face on people who have been elevated in the media to super-human status. Beside the fame and fortune, it turns
out they really are not all that different than we are. And we like that.
Type
2 – Corporate / Informational / Blog Tweeters
This group submits posts about what’s going
on in their specific lives, businesses, or specific areas of interest. They post informational items, opinionated
items, and a wide variety of items of a general nature. Some of them have a small niche
following, but the majority have one major insurmountable strike against them –
they aren’t famous, which means in the Twitter world, they just aren’t that interesting. People aren’t going to go out of their
way to read what they have to say.
If people really want to hear what they have to say, most times they can
read about it elsewhere, on different and more credible websites. This isn’t what Twitter is about. At last check my Twitter account for
this blog had a whopping 6 followers.
Sure it’s lame, but it’s true.
For many people my blog isn’t that interesting. I have a small group that like it and
check back every so often, and that’s good enough for me. I’m not upset by that, or offended in
any way, that’s just reality. They
don’t need Twitter to find my latest blog post, they just go directly to the
blog website. Type 2 tweeters at
best will only ever get a moderate following. We know that.
We accept that.
Type
3 – Everybody Else
Every single person who has a Twitter
account, and who doesn’t fall within the Type 1 or 2 groups above, is a Type 3
user. These are average everyday
people. They are the nameless and
faceless masses. The vast majority
of the millions and millions of Twitter users fall within Type 3, and they are
both insignificant and significant at the same time. Even though nobody knows who they are, without them, there
is no Twitter. They maybe have a
few actual friends that they follow, but for the most part they are the ones
that follow celebrities. Twitter has
been around long enough now that most people have come to the realization that
other Twitter users really aren’t interested in reading about their lives,
because, well, they aren’t famous.
Nobody cares that you read a good book, unless you’re famous, in which
case we all want to read the same book too. Ate at a good restaurant? Don’t care, unless you’re famous, in which case we all want
to go there too for the chance of seeing a celebrity there! The power of fame is amazing, as are
the lengths ordinary people will go to in order to feel closer to it. Nowadays for the average Type 3 user,
their Twitter time is spent sending messages to celebrities, asking for
retweets or begging for some form of acknowledgement. Somehow this is satisfying for them I guess. When it eventually happens, and they are
awarded their requested retweet, I can only assume it somehow makes them feel that
for that brief moment in time they are somehow part of the club. But then what? What does that mean? What’s the point of that?
I recently tried this out for myself, just
to see if I could get a better understanding of what the attraction is. So I tweeted a little blurb to a member
of my favourite band. To my
surprise, he actually tweeted me back, not only acknowledging me, but even
responding with a little statement of his own. I have to admit, it was kind of cool at first, and provided
a brief moment of excitement, but it’s not something I feel the need to
continue to do. It’s not as though
I now feel like we’re best friends or anything. I certainly appreciate his momentary effort to acknowledge
me, but I’m sure he’s already forgotten about the whole exchange, and that’s
okay. In the scheme of things, it
really isn’t a big deal, for him or for me. Life goes on as usual.
Celebrities who use Twitter knowingly chose
to open themselves up to cyber-stalking tweets from Type 3 users, so I don’t
feel sorry for them at all for having to deal with the constant barrage of
incoming messages. No harm done I
guess, to each their own. I
suppose in today’s world of reality television, this is what people find
entertaining. I still don’t get it
though, and can’t help but ask, is this really what Twitter was created for? Really?
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Daze Of Our Lives
If you’ve ever worked in an office
environment, you’ve likely found yourself at one time or another sitting at
your desk with your head down, eyes closed and fists clenched, questioning
whether it’s all worth it.
Suppressing daily frustrations is a fact of life, and the reason lottery
corporations and alcoholic beverage distributors are as successful as they are. If you’ve never worked in an office,
consider yourself lucky. Here’s just
a small taste of what you’re missing:
Microwaved
Fish
The lunch room is often the scene of many
horrific offenses to the senses, and you can’t help but feel sorry for the poor
bastard whose desk is closest to it.
As if the daily grind wasn’t motivation enough to leave all your
possessions behind, move to a tropical island, and sell coconuts along the
beach, you’ve got to deal with the wafting odour of burnt popcorn, a cornucopia of ethnic
spices, and the overpowering stench of microwaved fish. If you routinely prepare fish or curry dishes at home, and
don’t really notice much of a smell, then I’ve got news for you… your house
stinks, and you probably do too. You might be a very nice person, but it’s important that you
know your neighbours talk about you, and wish you’d just move away. Your office-mates are no different, and
would really prefer that you not bring in your malodorous leftovers. You may have grown accustomed to the
smell at home, but believe me when I tell you that everyone in the office is offended
by the scent of what you’re eating, they’re just too polite to say anything… at least to
your face. Everyone knows certain
foods create a foul odour in the office, yet every day in every office in the
world, another moron waddles into the lunch room with their little Tupperware
container, ready to commit another nostril punishing offense.
Birthday
Celebrations
We’ve all been faced with this
dilemma. Every so often the office
“Goody-Two-Shoes” will come around and place a birthday card on your desk for
some co-worker you couldn’t care less about, asking you to sign it. Coming up with something to write in a
card for a family member you love and care about is enough of a chore, let
alone for someone you barely know.
Through the years I’ve conditioned my brain to go into autopilot every
time this happens, and have therefore written “Happy Birthday, hope it’s a good
one!” in more cards than I care to remember. Whatever requires the least amount of effort and will get
that card off my desk in the fastest time is about as far as I’m willing to go. I don’t even care that ten other people
have written the exact same thing.
It’s even worse when they include an envelope, asking you to make a
donation to the alleged gift fund.
Nothing screams “I’m only doing this because I have to” like the sound
of my change hitting the other coins at the bottom of the envelope. The only reason there are ever $5
dollar bills in there is because others before you needed coffee money, and did
a little swap-er-roo. The eventual
presentation of the birthday cake is the epitome of office awkwardness. Everyone gathers around knowing that
whatever time is wasted on this grand celebration just means they’ll have to
stay that much later at the end of the day to complete their work, while trying
to stay far enough back from the action so that people won’t recognize that
they’re not singing. With the “Goody-Two-Shoes”
ringleader standing next to the mortified birthday celebrant, the pathetic
singing of Happy Birthday begins, with about as much enthusiasm as a non-church
goer singing a hymn. Once the excruciating
pain of that moment mercifully comes to an end, they cut the cake, which is
always way too small and is never the kind you like. But you eat your two bites of cake anyway, listen to someone
try to make a joke about this imaginary sugar rush getting them through the
rest of the day, then go back to your desk dreading the thought that your
birthday is next.
Company
Christmas Party
Next to Halloween, nothing brings out the
inner slut of your female co-workers like the office Christmas party. It may be the middle of winter, and you
may question the appropriateness, but one thing that you can always count on is
a lot of exposed skin. Once the
first drunken girl with the short skirt falls over and gives everyone a great
big eyeful of vagina, the party has officially begun. Don’t worry if you missed it either, because now that
everyones cell phones have cameras, her “inbox” will very likely land in yours before the
party is even over! Office
Christmas parties have a very strange effect on people. Although you’ve just spent the last 52
weeks working side by side with these people, when you arrive at the party, the
greetings are more along the lines of what you would expect if you were
reuniting with a long lost friend.
Scenes of double cheek kisses and awkward handshakes are aplenty, and if
it wasn’t for the complimentary drinks, the phoniness of it all would be nearly
unbearable. The only reason people
stay beyond the first hour is either because their boss hasn’t left yet, they
want to see who hooks up with who, or to witness the crowning of the “Drunken
Disaster Queen”. There’s always at
least one.
I could go on and on, as the office provides an endless list of reasons to take up binge drinking, but it's almost 5 o'clock, and I'd prefer not to stay any later than absolutely necessary.
I could go on and on, as the office provides an endless list of reasons to take up binge drinking, but it's almost 5 o'clock, and I'd prefer not to stay any later than absolutely necessary.
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