The most dangerous party in the world is no longer the Communist Party which enslaved vast populations before it crumbled. The second most dangerous party, the office party, continues to promote chaos, organizational upheaval, dyspepsia, fisticuffs and unemploymnet.
The recent holiday bash of the Whimsey Widget Company for its loyal staff contained two volatile ingredients. First was the pretense of a spirit of camaraderie in a group which is used to the stringent rules of a chain gang. When the second ingredient, alcohol, is mixed in, the results can be staggering.
The festivities begin with a merry speech by Vice President Cuthbert Mainchance, an infrequent visitor to the office. He usually cuts everyone dead, but today he’s a jolly elf with inaccurate first name greetings and feeble handshakes.
Underlings smile politely, reflecting on Mr. Mainchance’s rise to the top owing to his courage to marry President Whimsey’s middle-aged daughter. Every employee has a warm feeling in his breast for V.P. Mainchance. It’s very similar to heartburn.
Mr. Mainchance does not dwell on boring company performance details. This is a party, after all, and he knows very little about these details. In fact, he’s not sure what the company makes, but he knows, to the penny, what he makes.
Checking his notes, he praises the acheivements of key employees like Office Manager Simon Hartless who “treats the staff like his own family.” Everyone nods in agreement, knowing Mr. Hartless’ real family ran away years ago.
There’s an expression of appreciation for veteran switchboard operator Mrs. Smirf (who often takes calls from a giggly female named “Boopsy” who leaves messages for a certain V.P.) And special praise for old Mr. Coot in accounting who’s been with the company longer than anyone can remember, including Mr. Coot.
New employees must be embraced into the bosom of the company, V.P. Mainchance says as he introduces steno clerk Zelda Zowie. A slight disturbance occurs as two mailroom boys attempt to obey the order.
He expresses pride in the elegant buffet table which is “loaded with the traditional delectable dishes and mouth-watering desserts.” There is whispered disagreement by some who claim last year’s fare was much better. Others say it is actually the thawed out leftovers from last year.
But the drinks are fresh and, according to Ms. Zowie, so are the mailroom boys. She has locked herself in the ladies room and they are pounding on the door. Mr.Hartless has just opened his present from the staff, a wooden plaque with the burned-in message, “To a Swill Guy.” He will have it checked for fingerprints.
Old Mr. Coot, under the influence and also under the table, is mumbling something about his upcoming trip to South America just before the next audit.
Ms. Zowie has accidentally tripped the burglar alarm as she escaped through the ladies room window and a dozen policemen have burst into the building, slipping and falling on discarded hors d’ouevres. Well-oiled V.P. Mainchance ignores the commotion and turns to his bleary-eyed audience to announce, “In contusion….”
Imagine That 