This 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 by 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. I knew the limits. Big Dave never had to save my ass.
None of my clients knew my real name. I was always James Steele.
"Who was that drunk guy?" Most guests asked at the end of a successful performance.
"The Xmas Drunk," the host would answered with pride. I made everyone feel good about getting drunk.
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. 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 it was only 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.
"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. At most parties people were people. Here these investment bankers consider themselves better than anyone else. I left to applause and 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 trying to seek revenge by stiffing me, so I'm a strictly cash enterprise and the Christmas Drunk knows where these jerks live.
Being naughty and not nice all part of the Christmas Drunk's job and noohing says asshole better than the Christmas drunk.