As every socially-dysfunctional Sea Monkey enthusiast knows, Christmas time is a veritable minefield of potentially awkward incidents throughout the workplace. Every year, I manage to navigate these situations with the competence of the Titanic tip-toeing it’s way through an iceberg-based obstacle course. Essentially, the final two weeks of December involve me pinballing from one restraining-order-inducing situation to another. Personally, I blame Jesus – if he hadn’t had his birthday on Christmas day, I wouldn’t have to endure this ritual humiliation every year.
The first dilema is always whether or not to make inappropriate sexual advances towards my boss at the Christmas party, as I believe that that is what you are supposed to do at this time of year. Despite the visual failings of my boss and the fact that my winky woo probably doesn’t work anyway; I persist with making erotic advances, ignoring the fact that neither of us are in favour of the idea. Generally, I begin preparations for the big event around a week beforehand. In order to ensure that my boss notices me, I spend a few days covering my work-wear in sensual pictures made from glitter and pasta shapes. I like to wear this to work a couple of days prior to the party, so that I send out subliminal messages that I am both sophisticated and not a danger to women.
Next, I will usually follow this up with some subtle hints, some might say warnings, of my impending intentions. I find that sending a couple of full body shots of myself, with some strategically-placed tinsel about my person; both to her work and personal email addresses, is usually sufficient. If the personal email is not readily available, a few hours of investigation by a reasonably-priced private investigator should generally provide this. Definitely worth the extra cost.
Once this ground-work has been laid, I like to brush up on my conversation skills by gathering as much information as possible about ironing boards, diets and something called a TOWIE; so that I have a couple of conversation topics lined up. Having disguised myself as a vending machine in the staff room for around 4 months, I can confirm that this is probably what women like to talk about. Unfortunately, I couldn’t actually hear anything through the metallic casing of my brilliant disguise, so I’m really none-the-wiser.
Prior to the office party, I have to survive the emotional rollercoaster that is Secret Santa. Because of my overwhelming fear of social interactions, coupled with my tendency to disguise myself as a snack food distribution mechanism; I generally make a point of not speaking to anyone in the office. This makes Secret Santa a difficult experience for me, as I’m forced to buy a present for a perfect stranger; whilst also trying to appear excited when I receive a non-Sea Mokey-based present from another stranger.
What is for sure, is that I’ll be adhering to the recommended Secret Santa spending limit; unlike last year, when I bought the most beautiful girl in the office a new car. This was more than I had initially intended to spend, but girls like romantic gestures from total strangers. In order to add a personal touch to the gift, I stole some red emulsion from my father’s shed, and decorated the car with romantic messages like “I’ve been watching you” and “I like your pretty face”. Unfortunately, the red paint ran a little, making it look like the demented scribblings of a mad person. I had hoped that, on receipt of the gift, she would feel obliged to be my wife and live with me in my parents’ basement (without the need for kidnapping). However, despite the fact that she must have really liked the gift (as she was crying with happiness and even enlisted the help of the police to try and find who had given her such a brilliant and not creepy gift), due to the fact that it was secret santa, I had to remain annonymous; thus ensurig that I remained single for another Christmas. I just don’t know what I do wrong…