The Xmas Drunk

Last holiday season I had a great part-time job being invited to office parties as the Christmas Drunk. $500 an appearance and all I could drink. Bad behavior was a must. Insulting the boss was a showstopper. Punching out the hated brother-in-law was most requested extra. $100/punch. Insulting a wife’s obesity was a secret request of many husbands. I refused this boon. Punching a jerk was one thing. Hurting a fat woman’s feelings was bad taste.

It was a good deal and the only downside was that I had to be drunker than anyone else at the party, so the family members and guests and co-workers could say the next morning, “At least I wasn’t as drunk as the Christmas drunk.”

Big Dave from the diamond exchange served as my back-up in case a situation spun out of hand, but I knew the limits and Big Dave never had to save my ass.

None of my clients knew my real name. Most guests asked at the end of a successful performance. “Who was that drunk guy?”

“The Xmas Drunk,” the host would answered with pride and my popularity increased as the shopping days shrunk to single digits. I couldn’t handle the demand. I boosted my rate to $200/hour. No one complained about my performance and by December 21st I was at the top of my game.

At a Hedge Fund soiree atop a skyscraper I ambushed the ruling CEO in the bathroom. I pointed a gun at him. Actually my weapon was a finger in my suit pocket. The capitalist fool was drunk enough to not question me.

Either that of very guilty.

I accused this czar of finance of impoverishing the world. He swore that he was simply doing his job and pleaded for mercy.

“I’ll give you a check for a million if you let me go.”

“Money means nothing to the Christmas Drunk.” I grabbed him by his tie and dragged him into the main office, where his fellow execs ridiculed his surrender to a besotted revolutionary. I bowed to their applause and Big Dave escorted me out of the office.

“I was just getting started.”

“That CEO was calling 911.”

“Fuck him.

And I superglued shut the doors of the office. They didn’t get out until 3am.

The next morning I received a complaint from the banker who had hired me.

“What do you expect from the Christmas Drunk? Emily Post manners. Fuck off.” I had a wicked hang-over. I probably should have apologized, but he had paid me in cash. Everyone did, because there’s only one person worst than the Christmas Drunk and that the guy seeking revenge by stiffing me, so I’m a strictly cash enterprise dedicated to being naughty and not nice and nothing says asshole better than the Christmas drunk.

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