Surviving Your Company Holiday Party: Uncle Bobby's Irreverent Guide to Forced Fun
Uncle Bobby
My company holiday party is mandatory, and it’s always painfully boring and awkward. It’s basically a night of lukewarm appetizers, forced small talk, and pretending to care about Karen’s cat photos. Should I just suffer through it or fake sick and stay home?
Ah, the company holiday party — the pinnacle of seasonal misery masquerading as "mandatory fun." Miserable, you’re caught in the age-old dilemma: endure an evening of awkward conversations and questionable karaoke, or risk your boss side-eyeing you for mysteriously coming down with “flu-like symptoms” every December. Tough call.
Now, let’s start with the obvious: faking sick. It’s the classic move, but let me tell you, you’ve got to sell it. Start coughing dramatically around the office a few days beforehand, throw in some sniffles, and maybe Google “how to look pale fast.” When party day rolls around, send an overly apologetic email about how you “don’t want to risk spreading anything” — because nothing screams “good employee” like pretending to be selfless while binge-watching Netflix in your pajamas.
But if you’re worried they won’t buy it, here’s an alternative: show up, but make it interesting. Turn the party into your own personal game. Award yourself points for every awkward moment. Someone tells you the same story twice? Five points. Someone asks, “What do you actually do here?” Ten points. Someone tries to start a conga line? Jackpot. By the end of the night, you’ll at least feel like a winner.
Or, if you’re feeling bold, embrace the chaos. Show up in the most ridiculous holiday outfit you can find. I’m talking reindeer onesie or light-up sweater that could guide Santa’s sleigh. Every awkward interaction becomes infinitely more entertaining when you’re dressed like a human Christmas tree. Plus, it gives you an excuse to cut conversations short with, “Sorry, my ornaments are jingling — gotta go!”
And let’s not forget about the food and drinks. Sure, the appetizers are lukewarm, and the punch tastes suspiciously like dish soap, but free is free. Camp out by the buffet, load up on snacks, and treat yourself to a game of “How many meatballs can I balance on one plate?” At least you’ll have something to talk about besides Karen’s cats.
In the end, Miserable, the choice is yours: fake an illness with Oscar-worthy dedication or lean into the awkwardness and create your own fun. Either way, remember: it’s not a holiday party; it’s a survival challenge. May the odds — and the eggnog — be ever in your favor.
— Uncle Bobby