Once again I was subjected to the 'Masters Of The Insurance Universe' fancy-schmancy no peasants allowed xmas party for all the head muckity mucks at my wife's employer. The good - Free drinks, lots and lots of free drinks and the food - My doG the food was a veritable whose who of the culinary world. I ate lobster, and when I say lobster I mean an actual cold water main lobster claws and and tail. The skrimps! They had a huge pile of them in some sort of ice sculpture. The had these little horsedevores that had bacon, glorious bacon wrapped around things. Oh, and of course the fishy eggs, the salty candy from the gods! So down the line there was this guy doling out cavier and when I approached he asked "How do you take your cavier, sir?" With crackers and ketchup, peasant! I had a bacon martini while eating a mini plate of back wrapped pineapple bites. Fuck my cardiologist!! The bad - Of course my wife expects me to be on my goodest boy behavior and I've already promised a dozen times on the way to the party to forget the words - "Cunt, twat, and faggot". Aside from that I also promise to pace myself with the drinking. Mrs. Motorhead is quite aware that a drunken Mr. Motorhead means a sociopath will eventually creep out and an abortion or **** joke will soon follow. So anywho, we show up and the party is just starting up. Of course I have to go palm pumping while my wife introduces me to her new secretary and her husband. Right off the bat I like the cut of this guys jib, because he was holding a Jack and Coke and handed it straight off too me because his wife had seen us walk in and told her husband to go get me a drink. So Mr. SecretaryLady and I had a brief chat, and it turns out he's another peasant just like me working for the city water works. Of course along comes Mr. HeadMuckityMuck the man himself. The big cheese, the big kahuna, the ayatollah of insurolla. He's wearing what has to be a $2000 dark blue silk suit with a tie that cost more then my entire wardrobe. He has a scotch in his hand and he's already halfway in the bag. He remembers me from last year and of course he wants to talk about my job and play 20 questions. I entertain him and play along. He invites me over for a nip of his private stock of 25 year old McCallan. Now, folks - I am not a scotch drinker. I actually hate the shit. I tell him I'm more of a bourbon man, but he insists. So he has the bartender pull out his private bottle of what I'm sure must be some pretty expensive shit and he pours me a scotch neat. I take a sip, turpentine!! This isn't scotch it's fucking poison. My mind races, is he trying to poison me? Did I give his wife a citation while operating her $100K German sports car? Why is this guy trying to kill me? So I take another sip....ODIN SAVE ME!! I'm going to have to figure out how to get what I'm sure is some sort of industrial chemical down my gullet so I can get back to Jack and Cokes to flush this foul fluid out of my system. But I was spared from a third sip, when Mr. HeadMuckityMuck excused himself to go talk to one of the other party guests. I quickly fled the bar area and took my wife what was left of the scotch. So the party goes on, nothing but light conversation while muzak pumped Christmas tunes into our collective hive mind of getting drunk and stuffing our faces with food we would normally never eat. I gorged myself. Gorged my bagger friends. Oh, and did the drinks flow. Wonderful drinks! Magical drinks! I was actually enjoying myself despite the fact that I generally loath large groups of people. But of course with all good things, especially alcohol - Old Mr. Trouble found yours truly when somebody decided to get too drunk and get smarmy with me. The Ugly Most of the people in the inner circle of bosses generally respect me and what I do. In some cases they are quite mesmerized with my tales of highway ruthlessness and are also familar that I have quite a sharp tongue when I'm tasked. Earlier that night I was invited out to the helicopter pad with all the big bosses for a cigar and a brandy. But of course not everybody respects what I do. While atop the roof we exchanged jokes, nothing rapey or involving fetuses of course. Mostly the good ol' knee slappers of old and maybe a racy joke involving fornication. One of the guys I was up there with was none too interested in one of my highway tales (The Story of Moon Roof The Rookie). He was actually rude to me after I told it. On the way down on the elevator he says "boy you sure married up, huh?". I have a laser sharp ability to read people. This fat sawed off fuck in the Brooks Brothers suit looking like Jason Alexander obviously had a problem with me. I took a deep breath, thought of my wife and didn't say a word. There was no way I was going to let George Costanza get my goat. I got out of the elevator and got myself a drink and went back to my table to be entertained by Mr. SecretaryLady. We were having a hoot. Drinking, laughing, telling awful jokes at other peoples expenses. Our wives were busy hobnobbing and palm pumping with the rest of the group. I sat back watching my wife work the room and finally much to my pleasure one of the guests embarrassed the fuck out of herself when she started dirty dancing with her boyfriend. The stunned crowd looked on in horror as she then broke from the dance and went back to her table, grabbed two lobsters off of two peoples plates and put the lobster into a sexual position exclaiming "they're humping!". I wanted to roar with laughter, not of course at the humping lobsters, but at the career ending spectacle it was. Yep, come Monday when she shows up for work, two burly security guards will be handing her a box with all her shit in it and escorting her out the fucking door. Back to the bar I went for another libation when who do I see? Well it's George Costanza and man is he smashed! I order my drink and he stares at me for a moment. I'm trying to ignore him, but of course now he has something to say. George - Boy, you hit the jackpot huh? She's up on the 13th floor, making a helluva lot more money then you. I stood there silent. Thought about it for a second, then simply answered "Go fuck yourself, pal". I turned and walked away while the bartender tried to defuse the situation. I went back to my table and watched pudgy go stumble back to his table. One of the wives was also at the bar and of course she ran off to her husband and told him all about the exchange. Her husband came over and apologized for the other man's behavior telling me that George was drunk and had recently gotten his 2nd DUI. I just sat back and told him there was no need to apologize and that I had said my peace. The rest of the night went off without anymore drama. It was actually a little boring, but after all I'm at an INSURANCE COMPANY CHRISTMAS PARTY. I was a good boy. I didn't call anybody a cunt, only used the F word in anger once and my proud wife drove my sloppy drunk ass home.