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.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. gonzo christmas orgy
And indeed, Santa—the real one, or a very committed hallucination—was wrestling the thermostat. "It’s too hot for the reindeer!" he screamed. The reindeer, for the record, were three dachshunds wearing felt antlers and looking deeply disappointed in humanity. The entertainment was the first sign of the apocalypse
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. One of them hit a lawyer in the face
"Best party ever?" I asked.
You haven’t seen a Christmas party until you’ve seen one through the bottom of a glass that’s been laced with something that tastes like peppermint and poor decisions. It was 10 p.m. on December 23rd, and I was standing in a loft that smelled like burnt gingerbread and regret. The host—let’s call him “Nick”—had decorated his place like a North Pole brothel. Tinsel draped over a stripper pole. A Nativity scene where the Wise Men were doing lines of powdered sugar off a copy of The Economist .
"Gonzo," he whispered. "It’s the only way to celebrate the birth of a revolutionary socialist in a borrowed stable."