Walking The Plank
Do you remember playing musical chairs at parties as a kid? We have a similar game at the Monkeytech Christmas party.
I had three things planned for Satuday, work 4-5 hours in the morning, go to the Gilbert house to finish the never ending moving and cleaning project, and attend the company Christmas party.
Step one did not go as planned. It took much longer than expected to set up a particular smokin' hot job. I worked an 8 hours shift. I was determined to get my Gilbert business done but it would jeopardize my getting to the party on time. I texted the Bossman to let him know I might miss the annual party. He replied, "You can show up any time."
I know I can. The party is open bar, we dine late and it goes all night because some monkeys reserve rooms at the Scottsdale Hilton. There is one major problem showing up late. The last persons seated must walk the plank ..... sit with the pedophile pirate wannabe.
Nearly every monkey has lost the pirate seating lottery at one point in his tenure at MT. In the days leading up to the Xmas party we ponder who will be the next victim, their holiday cheer raped & pillaged by Captain Sods creepiness. The wives dread this possibility as much as us monkeys.
There would be no going to the party late for me. I've sat at the pirate table twice in the past, never again! We're like mean children not wanting to sit next to the kid with cooties. It's really quite silly and immature. It is what it is.
As cocktail hour winds down nervious anticipation takes over the 30 or so attendees. The stampede into the dining room will soon begin. No one .... not one fretful soul .... wants to be the kid stuck without a chair when the music stops. You can see the angst in the eyes as partiers jockey for position. I believe the Bossman is oblivious to this hidden game.
One year Hermanos pulled two extra chairs to a table of six, creating a crowded table of eight, just to avoid consecutive seasons dining in the pirate's galley. His actions were obvious to all.
Two years ago our office manager, Sarge, was stuck at a table of three .... she, her husband and the swashbuckling exhibitionist. She was furious at us monkeys for leaving her out in the cold, walking the plank alone. She shot poisonous glares at snickering simians. It's one thing to be at the pirate table .... but a table of three? Shear horror.
Primates tell tales of terror after an evening on the plank. Every beer the buccaneer consumes multiplies his creep factor. The man knows no boundaries in conversation. Wives have scolded husbands on the long driive home for exposing them to the swashbuckling stalker.
Last night I did not return from Gilbert until 7pm. The party was well underway. By the time I showered, dressed and made it Scottsdale there would have only been one table with available seating. I chose to abandon ship.
The Bossman and Sarge may be a little disappointed in me for not showing up. I can explain to Sarge, she'll understand. I wonder who's Christmas was raided by Captain Sod. There will be tales told on Monday.
I had three things planned for Satuday, work 4-5 hours in the morning, go to the Gilbert house to finish the never ending moving and cleaning project, and attend the company Christmas party.
Step one did not go as planned. It took much longer than expected to set up a particular smokin' hot job. I worked an 8 hours shift. I was determined to get my Gilbert business done but it would jeopardize my getting to the party on time. I texted the Bossman to let him know I might miss the annual party. He replied, "You can show up any time."
I know I can. The party is open bar, we dine late and it goes all night because some monkeys reserve rooms at the Scottsdale Hilton. There is one major problem showing up late. The last persons seated must walk the plank ..... sit with the pedophile pirate wannabe.
Nearly every monkey has lost the pirate seating lottery at one point in his tenure at MT. In the days leading up to the Xmas party we ponder who will be the next victim, their holiday cheer raped & pillaged by Captain Sods creepiness. The wives dread this possibility as much as us monkeys.
There would be no going to the party late for me. I've sat at the pirate table twice in the past, never again! We're like mean children not wanting to sit next to the kid with cooties. It's really quite silly and immature. It is what it is.
As cocktail hour winds down nervious anticipation takes over the 30 or so attendees. The stampede into the dining room will soon begin. No one .... not one fretful soul .... wants to be the kid stuck without a chair when the music stops. You can see the angst in the eyes as partiers jockey for position. I believe the Bossman is oblivious to this hidden game.
One year Hermanos pulled two extra chairs to a table of six, creating a crowded table of eight, just to avoid consecutive seasons dining in the pirate's galley. His actions were obvious to all.
Two years ago our office manager, Sarge, was stuck at a table of three .... she, her husband and the swashbuckling exhibitionist. She was furious at us monkeys for leaving her out in the cold, walking the plank alone. She shot poisonous glares at snickering simians. It's one thing to be at the pirate table .... but a table of three? Shear horror.
Primates tell tales of terror after an evening on the plank. Every beer the buccaneer consumes multiplies his creep factor. The man knows no boundaries in conversation. Wives have scolded husbands on the long driive home for exposing them to the swashbuckling stalker.
Last night I did not return from Gilbert until 7pm. The party was well underway. By the time I showered, dressed and made it Scottsdale there would have only been one table with available seating. I chose to abandon ship.
The Bossman and Sarge may be a little disappointed in me for not showing up. I can explain to Sarge, she'll understand. I wonder who's Christmas was raided by Captain Sod. There will be tales told on Monday.