And that, dear reader, is the gospel of the Gonzo Christmas Party. You don’t need mistletoe. You need a liver of steel, a sense of humor made from broken ornaments, and the willingness to wake up on December 24th wearing a lampshade, next to a stranger named Carol, with no memory of why you have a tattoo of a candy cane on your ankle.
Then he passed out face-first into a plate of ham. gonzo christmas orgy
You haven’t seen a Christmas party until you’ve seen one through the bottom of a glass that’s been laced with something that tastes like peppermint and poor decisions. It was 10 p.m. on December 23rd, and I was standing in a loft that smelled like burnt gingerbread and regret. The host—let’s call him “Nick”—had decorated his place like a North Pole brothel. Tinsel draped over a stripper pole. A Nativity scene where the Wise Men were doing lines of powdered sugar off a copy of The Economist . And that, dear reader, is the gospel of
This wasn’t a party. This was a lifestyle choice. And I was all in. Then he passed out face-first into a plate of ham
Merry Christmas. Now pass the damn punch.