Fiscal year 2010 is in full swing, kind of. We just returned to the office from the New Year weekend and a two-day offsite to talk 20-10 planning. After two eight hour days of executive presentations and break-out sessions with pompous sales and marketing guys, “we’re going hard on penetration in 20-10.” That’s the running theme I keyed on anyway. Not to mention, it was on a title slide in one of the exec presentations. Along with the day long ass cramp sessions, the execs shut it down with a dinner and an open bar. This year’s conference was held in the center of Hollywood. Like any other Hollywood tourists, the out-of-towners became overwhelmed by the surroundings. This, then, became their ticket to exercise the “hey-look-at-me-I’m-in-Hollywood” fucktard license. The debauchery began…

The first night wasn’t too bad with dinner and top shelf limitless cocktails at Geisha House and a night cap in the hotel lobby. I had been pacing myself all night because I didn’t want to make the same mistake I made last year. Reporting into the grand ballroom at eight the following morning to sit through another series of mind numbing presentations for another eight hours is bad enough. Add a massive hangover to that? Brutal! I did good this year. Day two’s evening event is where things got a bit hazy.

I got my morning wake-up call at seven; head spinning and eyes bloodshot. I got the shower going. I took a quick glimpse in the mirror and noticed I had glitter in my tangled hair. Whatever. I stepped into the shower and noticed about a five inch long scratch along the front of my left thigh. It looked fresh and burned as soon as the water hit it. I had no idea where it came from. I showered with caution. I got dressed and began packing up all my things and noticed a pair of men’s slacks in a corner chair of my room. (Thought Bubble: Who’s are these? Am I in the right room? These aren’t mine. Oh shit. The fuck?) I picked up the slacks and held them up for size; DKNY label, medium build. I was somewhat relieved in knowing the owner had decent taste and wasn’t a fat ass. I threw them in a plastic laundry bag to toss them out. I was done packing.

I sat in the corner chair to put my shoes on. I felt a bruise on my ass. (Thought Bubble: Ok, now I’m scared. What the fuck happened last night?) I checked the bathroom for a tiger, just in case. No tiger but was hoping for a unicorn. At least then with a unicorn, I would know I was still sleeping and this was all just a dream influenced from The Hangover movie. I did watch it about three times over the weekend. But no such luck. I then got a phone call from Rico to tell me there were a few waiting for me in the lobby. I also noticed over a dozen missed calls and voicemails time stamped in the three a.m. hour. No time, I’ll check them later. I headed downstairs and saw [Armond], [Tanya], and [Rico] in uniform: dark sunglasses, Starbucks venti cups, and numb facial expressions. We had to get back to the office for an 8:30 conference call. There were still a few missing but we decided not to wait any longer. We left.

We made it in just in time for the conference call. I got an IM from [Armond] asking if I could facilitate because he lost his voice. I still hadn’t uttered a word this morning myself. No energy, dehydrated, and my ass hurt. Turned out, I had no voice either. We cancelled the conference call. Instead, I used that time to check all my missed calls and voicemail messages. It was from the same unknown number. I listened to two voicemails from some chick name [Caitlyn]. (Thought Bubble: Who the fuck is [Caitlyn]?) Her message: “Hey, it’s [Caitlyn], we just met at the Roosevelt. Just calling to make sure my girls and I aren’t intruding on your territory. Give me a call, thanks.” (Fuck the thought bubble.) HOLY FUCKING SHIT! Was that a hooker? Why does a hooker have my number?

By 11:00 a.m., all the stragglers were back in the office. And each straggler came by my office and had their own story to share. This, in turn, allowed me to make sense of last night’s events:

Hair Glitter – There were balloons all over the place. Some balloons had prize cards in them. Those same balloons also had silver glitter in them. [Karina] came over to give me a Flip video cam. She said I asked her to hold my prize last night since she had a bigger purse.

Five Inch Mystery Scratch – I got an IM from [Tanya] apologizing for spilling her drink on me. Then she asked how my thigh was. Apparently, she followed me into the ladies room after the drink spill to help clean me up. She said I yelled very loudly when my belt buckle cut my thigh as I was in a hurry to pull my pants down to piss. (Tiny fucking bladder.)

DKNY Man – I made a mid-day Starbucks run. On my way in, I ran into [Sean] on his way out. We were swapping a few stories and then he asked if I remembered to bring his pants. He sent me a text message this morning telling me he left his pants in my room. When I asked him how they got in there, he said I handed him one of my card keys so he can run up and change since he didn’t stay in the hotel last night.  Whew!

Bruised Ass – This was pretty simple. I slipped and fell on my ass while dance battling [Tyler], former break-dancer. Guess it’s safe to assume “I got served.”

Missing Voice – I received another IM from [Armond] asking which flavor I liked the best. I didn’t know where he was going with this. Then he mentioned his favorite was the cinnamon flavored hookah. That was followed up by his disbelief in me continuing to proceed to The Roosevelt for more drinks even after a couple of hours in a hookah bar nearby. I’ve been sucking on cherry flavored Halls all day.

The Hooker – I got to The Roosevelt pretty late but there were still a ton of people there from our conference. The first person I saw was [Rico] sitting with two chicks heavily immersed in a serious conversation. I didn’t want to interrupt but [Rico] called me over anyway. He intro’d me to [Caitlyn] and went to the bar to get me another cocktail or five. We started chatting, she seemed really cool, and three drinks in, we exchanged numbers. [Rico] likes to play this game with hookers. He doesn’t fuck them but he likes testing his negotiating skills with them. Last night was no different.

Good news is, I wasn't roofed by a pack of rainbow enthusiasts and ass raped in a hooker infested Hollywood back street. Bad news is, I'm still hungover.

Each year, my company holiday party manages to unveil the “Jackass of the Year” award. The recipient of this award goes to a single jackass, who creates a scene or incident at the annual holiday party that ruins the festivities for holiday parties to come.  

Two years ago, the “Jackass of the Year” award went to “Santa.” That’s right—Santa. The company used to raffle off door prizes to the holiday party goers. And what better person to hand out the prizes than a person dressed like Santa? Point. These were no cheap door prizes either. Rather than Hickory Farms smoked sausage and cheese gift baskets or gallons of assorted flavored popcorn tins that filled Santa’s sack, the door prizes included Xbox’s, iPod Touches, forty-two inch flat panels, and Blu Ray disc players, aka, Sony PS3’s. Everyone was gunning for them! Unfortunately, so was Santa. They picked [Oscar] from facilities to dress up like Santa since he already had the body type. [Oscar’s] cleaning crew cleaned out the gift closet before the DJ could finish off reading the series of numbers on the first winning ticket. As a result for the coming years, no more door prizes. Worst of all, no more Santa. (Bonafide Jackass!)

Last year, the “Jackass of the Year” award went to a temp from the HR department named [Scott]. The company used to splurge on top shelf alcohol and great food. Best of all, it was open bar. Employees were told not to tip the bartenders as they were already being taken care of. Well, [Scott] never left the bar. As a matter of fact, he jumped behind the bar himself, put a glass out for tips to capitalize on the free booze. Good booze! Later on that night, [Scott] was asked to leave. As he stumbled across the dance floor, he managed to trip over an extension cord, falling down a flight of stairs and spraining his wrist. To make matters worse, he puked out the shrimp cocktail he had been scarfing down all night when he landed at the bottom of the steps. The result? Two drinks maximum per employee, controlled by issuing drink tickets upon entry, beer and wine only, and an on-site ambulance. And by the way, temps are no longer allowed to participate unless given written authorization by their placement agency. (Good going [Scott]. Jackass!)

This year was no different, with a slight exception. The “Jackass of the Year” award went to an entire department—IT!

[Rewind to 24 hours ago…]

The last major systems release of the 2009 fiscal year was a massive disaster. All production systems were down for twelve hours straight. All levels of management were on day and night long emergency conference calls, I, included. The decision was made to roll back code to get the systems up and running again. We got this situated by 10:00 a.m. the next morning—the day of the annual holiday party.

[Back to present…]

Based on the events of the previous day, the holiday party was a bit tired. No one was in the mood for mopping up the dance floor. Even still, employees were making the most of their two drink maximum and average finger foods. Meanwhile, the entire IT department was Jai-Ho-Ho-Ho’ing on the dance-floor,without a care in the world, when just a few hours ago, a company memo was issued explaining the potential consequences of the system outage. The twelve hour system outage on the day prior cost the company a significant loss in revenue. A loss in revenue equates to a loss in annual earnings. A loss in annual earnings equates to an impact in annual bonuses. You don’t fuck with someone’s money!  The rest of the company glared at them. At that point, it was very clear who the recipient of this year’s award was.

I gotta’ hand it to them though. They had balls. Big balls. So naturally, I had to join them. 

Thanksgiving Eve in the office is absofuckinglutely pointless. Everyone physically checks in merely to mentally check out. I, on the other hand, had a total of six meetings scheduled before the eleven o’clock hour. Each meeting ended about ten minutes in, on average. Guess it helps when your opening liner is “Why the fuck are we here today?” Everyone chuckles and “The End;” meeting over.

After a disappointing troll around the office for Thanksgiving treats, I decided to play email catch-up. That lasted a whole five minutes. I wasted the next hour sending ‘NSFW’ You Tube vids using encrypted instant messaging software, of course. (Shit, maybe that Corporate Ethics training I took the other day actually stuck.) [Onto Twitter]

One o’clock rolls around and Rico came over to bring me a venti-quad PSL. (That’s a Pumpkin Spice Latte for those of you who don’t speak Starbucks.) I think he’s securing his secret with me, even though I already know the entire office knows about it. But I’m going to ride this one out as long as I can.

One thirty, one thirty five, thirty seven, forty one…

[Thought Bubble: Goddammit!! Where the fuck is that early dismissal email?]

Two o’clock, two fifteen, two thirty…

About ten voices, mine included, rang throughout the office: “FINALLY!” Everyone was anxiously and restlessly waiting for that email. The elevators were packing up quick, so I waited another fifteen minutes. I figured I’d book my next spa facial while I waited. Done.

Just like this post, Thanksgiving Eve in the office is pointless, but I think I got my point across here. 

On that note, have some cock, take a nap, and have some more.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!