Gonzo Christmas Orgy -

By 3 a.m., the party had become a philosophy. The tree was upside down. The snow machine had been refilled with flour. Half the guests were building a fort out of pizza boxes, and the other half were crying into a karaoke microphone singing "Fairytale of New York" like their lives depended on it.

And that, dear reader, is the gospel of the Gonzo Christmas Party. You don’t need mistletoe. You need a liver of steel, a sense of humor made from broken ornaments, and the willingness to wake up on December 24th wearing a lampshade, next to a stranger named Carol, with no memory of why you have a tattoo of a candy cane on your ankle. gonzo christmas orgy

The entertainment was the first sign of the apocalypse. A man in a half-unzipped Santa suit—beard askew, eyes the color of bloodshot sin—was playing a thereamín while singing "Silent Night" in the key of existential dread. Next to him, a woman dressed as a sexy fruitcake was juggling actual fruitcakes. One of them hit a lawyer in the face. The lawyer thanked her. That’s the kind of night it was. By 3 a

This wasn’t a party. This was a lifestyle choice. And I was all in. Half the guests were building a fort out

"Gonzo," he whispered. "It’s the only way to celebrate the birth of a revolutionary socialist in a borrowed stable."

The punch bowl was a cauldron of chaos. It started as mulled wine. Then someone added Everclear. Then someone else threw in a candy cane, a melatonin gummy, and a goldfish cracker for protein. By midnight, the punch had achieved sentience. It whispered my name. It asked me if I believed in Santa. I said yes, and it replied, “Good. Because he’s currently trying to fight the thermostat.”