Well, that was the office Christmas party from Hell

Last night my company had its annual office Christmas -- excuse me, "holiday" -- party in Boston. Why hold a "holiday" party after the holidays on a meaningless Friday night in January, I don't know. I wasn't originally going to go because I've been feeling moody and antisocial lately, but I figured since I'm down to eating bologna sandwiches and Ramen for the next two weeks I would at least show up for the free food, have a couple drinks, and catch the late train home to Salem. Little did I know...

The thing was held at this Dave & Buster's rip-off right next to Fenway Park complete with open bar, buffet, and six bowling lanes reserved for our company. It started out decently: a couple of cold beverages, some food, awkward conversation with co-workers. And then what will be known as the "Splenectomy" happened. Most people were more intested in the bar than the bowling and somewhere during the night, the management decided to sell our unused private lanes to the bowling public. However, we had booked and paid for the lanes for the night, whether we were putting them to use or not. Upon discovering this in attempting to start a game, several people took issue with the management, including a spouse of an office employee. This guy, who could easily pass for Tim Burton and whose name was -- no kidding here -- Spleen Ect, in a fit of rage, threw down a full drink and wound up in his best Bronson Arroyo impression, slamming his bowling shoes to the floor one by one. Needless to say, he was promptly escorted off the premises by a couple of hulking gorillas. As a result of this our open bar was prematurely shut down a full 30 minutes before our original time.

So now a large group of people want to hit up another bar in a different part of town to rectify the lacking alcohol situation. We end up at this most clubbiest of all clubs located on the basement level on a Marriott hotel. Strobe lights, dance music, pulsating bodies in the dark -- not my kind of place. What makes the experience somewhat enjoyable is that one of the members of our party is an absolute baller who spends a lot of money there and knows everyone. We arrive to find we have an entire VIP room sectioned off for us, complete with the requisite cordon and private security guard. It was like something out of Entourage. Not something I'd like to make a habit of, but a definite experience.

Now the place is closing down for the night, it's past two in the morning, I've missed my scheduled midnight "talk" with my ex-girlfriend, and HOW THE HELL AM I GOING TO GET HOME TONIGHT!? The problem does become resolved but not before a trip to Malden, a party full of rowdy Kenyans, a brief encounter with local law enforcement, some very aggravating and bleary-eyed designated driving, and a long, cold walk over the Essex Bridge from Beverly to Salem. I got home at approximately a quarter to six this morning. Yippee.